Double Take

by Laura Kennedy

  Double Take

  by Laura Kennedy

  Published by

  Melange Books, LLC

  White Bear Lake, MN 55110

  www.melange-books.com

  Double Take, Copyright 2014 Laura Kennedy

  ISBN: 978-1-61235-797-3

  Names, characters, and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Published in the United States of America.

  Cover Design by Becca Barnes

  DOUBLE TAKE

  by Laura Kennedy

  When sixteen-year-old Brooke Bentley’s green convertible and cell phone conk out during a tropical rainstorm, she believes it’s just bad luck. But when she darts through the dark to a dilapidated Victorian she thinks is the home of a friend and is invited in by a butler in a faded black tux, Brooke knows it must be karma. Because how often do you meet a reclusive 1950’s movie star who thinks she’s actress Terry Moore? And how often does someone as charming as eighty-year-old Laura de France insist on transforming you into a movie star, too?

  How can something as simple as a dress control your life? It can if it’s the famous green toga worn by actress Elizabeth Taylor in Cleopatra and you’ll do anything to wear it.

  “Reading ‘Double Take’ reminded me of my teen years at MGM studios where I had the good fortune to go to the Little Red School House with such young talent as Judy Garland and Mickey Rooney.”

  – Sharon Randall, formerly Janice Chambers,

  ninety-year-old singer/actress.

  Dedication

  To my mother, Marguerite McClain, who taught me how to write and is now giving writing classes in heaven.

  Table of Contents

  "Double Take"

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Previews

  Chapter One

  When I think back to how the Green Lady broke down in front of 1950’s movie star Laura de France’s creepy old Victorian, I can’t decide whether it was just bad luck or karma. Maybe it doesn’t matter, because either way, the undeniable fact remains that somehow the reclusive actress ended up controlling my sixteen-year-old life.

  It was a Saturday night and I was driving home from my job at Surf’s Up surf shop on the sponge docks when the rain came out of nowhere. Not just the little pitter-pat kind of drops like those that we sometimes get in Coral Cove, but a raging Florida storm.

  Squinting through the windshield of my convertible, I crept down Dodocanese Boulevard toward home. By the time I’d crawled six blocks to Spring Bayou, streets were flooded and my brakes were gone. So was my power steering.

  I rolled curbside, stopping at a jaunty angle.

  “Damn!”

  Okay, Brooke, don’t panic. Just call Dad.

  I rummaged through my Andy Warhol Marilyn purse for my cell. But instead of connecting with a warm, fuzzy parent, it did nothing. You didn’t have to be MENSA to size up the situation—dead car, dead cell, tropical storm and total dark. I needed a plan.

  Through the dark, towering Victorians lined Spring Bayou looming against the sky like a row of white wedding cakes left out in the rain. It was simple. Unless I wanted to be held hostage in a soon to be leaking convertible, I’d have to make a run for it. Didn’t Mom’s friend Elaine live in one of those old monstrosities?

  I pulled my jacket around me and tore out of the Green Lady into the torrent, landing on the porch of the nearest relic. Shaking droplets like a stray Water Spaniel, I peered up at the neglected house. A grey shutter hung precariously from its hinges, strips of peeling paint fluttering in the wind, waiting to fly like tiny bats.

  Please God, let this be Elaine’s. Please! I peeked through the cracked, oval-glassed front door and pushed the doorbell. It rang a simple little ring. No fancy ding-dong, ding-dong, no “Yellow Rose of Texas,” or Beethoven’s Fifth like at my house. Just Ring! Ring!

  Maybe Elaine’s not home. Or maybe it’s not Elaine’s at all, but some crazy axe murderer’s digs! An image of the guy in Psycho flashed through my mind. New plan—sprint for 7-Eleven. But it was too late, because at that exact moment the humungous door creaked open.

  Chapter Two

  I looked up. Peering out was a really old African-American man in a faded black tux. He was a dead ringer for the guy on the box of Uncle Ben’s, except he wasn’t smiling.

  “Yes?” he answered in a voice as cold as my wet feet. The look on his face said Get lost.

  “Hi,” I said, waving a dripping hand. “I’m looking for Elaine. I can’t remember her last name, but it’s Greek.”

  “One moment. I’ll see if Madame is receiving guests. Please step in.”

  Guests? Elaine has a butler? “You see, my car won’t start, and I was wondering if I could...”

  Before I could manage another syllable, he was gone. Hesitantly, I dripped through the open door into a creepy, dark foyer. I looked around at the black and white tiled floor, cobwebby chandelier, and mammoth staircase where a tin bucket on the landing caught rain that dripped monotonously from the leaking ceiling. Afraid to move, I stood frozen, listening to the plip-plops until the grandfather clock in the entry let out a major gong. Six-thirty. It felt like midnight.

  As though on cue, I heard a tapping against the tile. I looked up to see an old lady in a black, lacey dress inching toward me with a gold-tipped cane. With bright blue eyes and white hair piled high on her head, she was about as tall as a sixth grader. Her tiny bow-like mouth turned up in a smile. Delicately, she pushed a wayward curl from pale skin stretched over high cheekbones like leather on a tom-tom. She was definitely not Elaine.

  “I’m so glad you’re finally here, my dear,” she said in a voice fragile as a teacup. She motioned at the Uncle Ben look-a-like with her cane.

  “James, please take the young lady’s outer garment and dry it in the kitchen. And bring tea for two into the drawing room.”

  I handed my soggy jacket to James, and, mesmerized, followed the mysterious lady through open French doors into a room with sagging red-flocked wallpaper, high ceilings, and musty blue drapes. Against the wall, a real fire blazed in a fireplace, its flames reflecting upon a platoon of dusty, silver-framed photos marching across a black grand piano. Strangely familiar faces, imprisoned under the glass, looked out at me, as though waiting to be introduced.

  Embarrassed, I stood in the center of the room, hands folded like I wa
s going to recite a poem, while the tiny lady lowered herself onto a shabby gold chaise. She kicked off her high heeled fur slippers and looked at me.

  “Ma’am,” I began politely, “the reason I knocked at your door is that my car broke down, and I was wondering if I could—”

  “Do you play?” she interrupted. She motioned toward the grand piano. Either she couldn’t hear well, or she was lonesome.

  “No, I’m afraid I’m not very musical.”

  “A pity, but never mind, darling. Your hair looks divine, and in the final analysis, that’s all that really counts.” She gave me a piercing look, apparently surveying the wet curls plastered against my head. “No one, but no one, has a marcel anymore.”

  “A marcel?” I said, momentarily forgetting my eagerness to find a phone.

  “Those adorable little waves in your hair.”

  “Well, actually,” I began, going into my usual blabbermouth mode, “I chopped it all off a couple of months ago, like a boy. I was in a really bad mood.”

  “Astounding!”

  “But now, as you can see, it’s growing out.”

  “That’s absolutely marvelous. Oh, forgive me, I haven’t introduced myself. My name is Laura de France. I’m afraid I’ve forgotten yours.”

  “It’s Brooke,” I answered, wondering how someone could forget a name she never knew. “Brooke Bentley. I live on Porpoise Drive, and I’d really like to use your cell to call my father so I can get home.”

  “Cell? Cell, as in penitentiary?”

  I bit my lip to keep from laughing. “No, cell as in telephone.”

  “Of course. How silly of me. Well, it’s just a fad, I’m sure. Isn’t it, James?” she asked the butler who, ghostlike, had glided in with a tray bearing a silver teapot, sugar bowl, creamer and flowered teacups.

  “Yes, Madame,” he answered.

  “James, please escort, ummm. Now give me a minute and I’ll think of it.”

  “Brooke,” I answered, helpfully.

  “Yes, escort Brooke to the library to use the phone.”

  “Certainly, Madame, but first, may I remind you, it is time for your pills.” He pointed to three small tablets on the tray.

  “Oh, yes,” she said. She picked up a pill and placed it into her mouth, washing it down with a sip of tea.

  While she gulped down the others, I followed James to the library. It was a dark, afterthought of a room with another fireplace, more sagging wallpaper, and floor-to-ceiling shelves with honest-to-god leather covered books. I reached for the black telephone. Shaped like a girl with no head, a tiny waist, and a full skirt, it served as home to a small spider napping on circle number three. Gently blowing the creature away, I picked up the receiver and twirled the dial. After much dialing, I heard the reassuring voice of my mother.

  When I was through convincing her of my desperate situation, I drifted back to the drawing room. Miss de France lay on her chaise, drinking tea.

  “My father’s coming for me,” I said. My voice sounded too happy to be polite.

  “Splendid. Now do have a cup of Earl Grey and help me with my plans for the Valentine Ball.”

  “Valentine Ball?” I answered. I walked to the tea table. “You’re having a party?”

  “It’s one of my traditions. Of course, you’ll be coming.”

  “But, Tyler and I are going to Paige’s and —”

  “If it’s a costume that’s bothering you, I have tons left over from my years at MGM.”

  “MGM?”

  “The movie studio, my sweet. Certainly, you remember me?” She turned her head so I could admire her profile.

  “Well, you do look kind of familiar.” I poured myself a cup of tea and headed to a delicate, green velvet loveseat where a cloud of dust poofed up when my rear hit the cushion.

  “You’re forgiven. It was eons ago. I was no older than you when Mr. Mayer signed me for a seven-year contract. Went to school on the lot with Elizabeth, Roddy and Margaret, you know. We had loads of fun and actually learned a bit, too. You’re taller than I was, and your hair isn’t quite as blonde, but you’re certainly every bit as pretty.”

  Embarrassed by the compliment, I stared at the orange and blue flames from the fireplace casting shadows against the walls. “Well, I guess you won’t have to do much to this room for your party.”

  “You mean the red wallpaper!” She laughed. “I find it extremely serendipitous that Valentine’s Day falls on Saturday this year, don’t you?” She smiled. Not waiting for an answer, she added, “Now, about your costume...”

  “Well, I could always wear my cat costume from last year. But I think Maria’s going to wear hers, and I wouldn’t want to be the same.” What am I saying? I’m not going to her party!

  “Frankly, darling, felines are extremely passé.”

  “They are?”

  She nodded. “One must always strive to be original. When you make your entrance, jaws must drop.”

  “You’re right. They must totally drop.” I thought of Paige Barton, my former best friend, and the way she’d stolen Tyler from me the year before.

  Miss de France clapped her tiny hands. “I have it! I have something no one else in the entire universe will be wearing!”

  “What?” I asked. Excitement shot through my rain-chilled body.

  “A gown Elizabeth wore in Cleopatra.”

  “Who?” I parroted.

  “My friend Elizabeth Taylor. You know, the gorgeous actress with the lavender eyes.”

  My heart was going crazy. Even I knew who Elizabeth Taylor was from her perfume ads.

  “There’s a photo of her on the grand piano.”

  I wandered over to the piano where I found a small black-and-white photo of a beautiful young girl dressed in riding clothes. “Is this her?” I walked back to Miss de France and handed her the picture.

  “Ah, yes. It was taken during the filming of National Velvet. She was truly lovely, wasn’t she? She died not long ago. I do miss her so.”

  I returned the photo to its place, picturing myself wearing the Cleopatra toga to Paige’s Valentine party. It would be a killer way to pay her back for stealing Tyler.

  “Now, of course, you’re quite a bit taller than Elizabeth, but she wore heels. So if you can just find a little pair of Roman sandals, it will be perfect!”

  “May I try the dress on?”

  “Of course. I’ll call James.”

  A horn honked and I ran to the window. “Oh, gad, it’s my father. I have to go.”

  “Don’t worry. You can change here the night of the party. That will build the drama.” Her cheeks flushed.

  “Oh, thank you, Miss de France,” I said. I sprang across the room to give her a kiss on the check.

  “You are more than welcome, darling. And don’t forget, festivities will commence at eight. And, you must bring guests.”

  I thought of trying to convince my BFFs, the Surf Shop Sisters, and grimaced.

  “Now, give me your word you’ll come.” She stood up, taking my hands in hers.

  “I...” Speechless, I pulled away, backing toward the French doors until I remembered the Cleopatra dress. “I promise,” I said, greed getting the best of me.

  Miss de France smiled a Technicolor smile. “Splendid! Until two weeks from tonight, then. Perhaps James will set up the projector and we’ll watch Beneath the 12-Mile Reef. I co-starred in it with R.J, you know. Such a darling boy.”

  “That would be fun,” I answered, inching closer to my escape. “Well, thanks again for everything.”

  “Remember one thing,” Miss de France called, her words floating after me. “Movies are better than ever!” Her acting school laugh followed me as I ran through the foyer.

  I was met by James at the front door who handed me my jacket, then watched me spring through the entrance as if I’d been ejected from a ski lift.

  The thought of having to endure an evening partying with Miss de France gave me a new appreciation of the word dread. But I had to go. It was
a small price to pay to wear the infamous Cleopatra dress. I smiled, remembering her remark about cell phones just being a fad.

  The rain had stopped. I skipped down to the sidewalk, avoiding the puddles, imagining myself making my entrance at Paige’s party. But how was I going to get Tyler and the Sisters to go to a party thrown by an eighty year old?

  Chapter Three

  I opened the door of my dad’s Mustang convertible and hopped in.

  “So, who lives in that old wreck?” my dad asked, pulling away. “The foundation looks like it’s going to collapse any second.”

  “Well, I thought it was Elaine’s, but it wasn’t.”

  My father’s voice was not happy. “My God, Brooke, it could have been Freddy Krueger’s house.”

  “The address wasn’t Elm Street, and besides I was desperate.”

  “Well, whose house was it then?”

  “A movie star named Laura de France. And she’s really lonely, and invited me to her Valentine’s Day Ball.”

  “Is she good looking?”

  “Well, I guess sort of, for someone old.”

  “How old is old?”

  “Like eighty.”

  “Eighty? Well, I’m afraid sixty is my absolute limit.”

  I punched him in the arm. “You know, Dad, your humor is seriously lame.”

  We rode the rest of the way home in silence, me wondering about how I was going to tell Tyler our plans had changed and we were going to a party with old people before we went to Paige Barton’s bash. But the Cleopatra dress made it all worth it.

  My mother was in the kitchen standing over a pot of boiling water into which she was drowning a bunch of spaghetti. While the pasta cooked, I proceeded to tell about the previous hour. Everything except the Cleopatra dress.