Love So Tender: Taking Care of BusinessPlay It Again, ElvisGood Luck Charm

by Stephanie Bond

  “I’ve been undercover,” he said quickly. “I came here as soon as I wrapped up the case. I decided it was time for me to take care of business and get my life in order. I love you, Gracie. I can’t stop thinking about you. Please…marry me.”

  Her toes curled, but she pursed her mouth. “And what if I say no?”

  “I’ll come back after every assignment and ask again until you say yes.” He looked stricken. “Is that a ‘no’?”

  “No,” she said.

  His shoulders fell. “No?”

  “No,” she said with a grin, “that’s not a ‘no.’”

  He looked confused. “So that’s a ‘yes’?”

  She opened the sliding glass window. “That’s a ‘yes.’”

  Steve leaned out, capturing her mouth in a hungry, happy kiss. “I’ve missed you.”

  “I’ve missed you.” Her heart swelled with emotion and her eyes grew moist. This man was her home…they would start their own family. “My four-leaf clover finally kicked in,” she murmured.

  “So did mine,” he said, his eyes shining with love. Then he looked up. “And somewhere, I think the King is smiling down on us.”

  In the background, someone put “Can’t Help Falling in Love” over the speaker.

  Gracie pressed her forehead to Steve’s. “I love you,” she whispered.

  “I love you, too, Gracie.”

  Some things, she thought happily, really were meant to be.

  PLAY IT AGAIN, ELVIS

  Jo Leigh

  CHAPTER ONE

  THREE ELVISES—or was that Elvi?—came into the Five and Diner and sat at the table directly across from Charlie Webster’s. They had all chosen the white suit, the one with the sequins and the big belt. Not bad on the hair. The boyish wave over the forehead, even though none of them was exactly a boy, and the sideburns, which weren’t just mutton chops but entire sheep, were all disturbingly black. He watched, fascinated, as they chatted. Even here, off the Strip, with no audience except himself, a couple of other early birds and the waitress, they kept up the Elvis-speak. Thankyouverymuch.

  He tried the move himself. The insouciant curl of the upper lip, the left brow arch, the southern drawl. He sounded like a dork.

  He shouldn’t be watching them, he should be working. Molly needed some new material, especially since the whole talk show thing was picking up steam.

  She’d be great as a talk show host. Charming, hysterical, personable. She listened in a way most people—especially entertainers—didn’t. It was exceptional for a comic. Comics, in his humble opinion, were supremely self-obsessed, and he should know, he’d been a comedy writer for almost ten years. Which didn’t seem possible.

  How was it that he’d managed to get to the ripe old age of thirty-one when he was still so incredibly immature? It was an enigma, but it was also a good concept to pursue for Molly’s routine.

  He sipped some more coffee, wincing at how cold it had become, and stared at his yellow legal pad. He’d managed to do a fair amount of doodling—mostly eyes, one palm tree, something faintly pornographic, but when it came to actually writing comedy, he’d drunk a lot of coffee.

  The ugly truth was that his output had been lousy lately. Not funny. Which wasn’t good because being funny was his thing. The reason he got paid. Not generically funny, but Molly Canada funny.

  Her show at the Hilton had been running for two years. In addition, there were her television appearances, her voice-over work, her charity benefits and her occasional trip to New York comedy clubs to try out routines. Which kept them all damn busy. Her manager Estelle, her director Bobby Tripp, Marley, who did her makeup and hair and of course, him. A fine group of assorted nuts who normally got along ridiculously well. But since he’d fallen completely, deliriously, stupidly in love with Molly, things had been a bit…dicey.

  Since he’d never been in love before, he hadn’t realized the ugly side effects. That his sappiness level would rise to untold heights while his sense of humor would be reduced to knock-knock jokes.

  The Elvi laughed. He’d never realized there was an Elvis laugh. His gaze went to their table, wondering if they’d all ordered fried banana and peanut butter sandwiches. If there was an Elvis convention in town, which would mean a person couldn’t spit without hitting an Elvis, and if Molly’s audiences would be filled with lots of dark-haired, white-suited impersonators. What did one call a group of Elvises? A gaggle? A flock? Perhaps an entourage of Elvises. He liked that.

  Okay, enough. To work. He put pen to pad and wrote down “Age, immaturity??? Molly’s personal Elvis obsession? Why love sucks the big one?”

  He sighed, disgusted with his own ineptitude. Where was the waitress? Turning, he saw the door open, and he nearly choked when he saw Molly Canada walk into the diner. Oh, crap, she looked great.

  She wasn’t the kind of beautiful that made men walk into light poles (well, he had that one time, but that was different). Her beauty was more subtle. Her hair color changed with her moods, her wardrobe was, okay, weird yet somehow chic and the woman couldn’t stop biting her nails for the life of her. And her smile lit him up like a lightbulb.

  “Yo, Charlie,” she said, slipping into the booth across from him. She flipped her hair behind her shoulder as she took his coffee cup from the saucer and sipped. She winced. “Ugh, cold.”

  “What are you doing here?” He looked again for the waitress, caught her attention and waved her over. Molly wasn’t an early riser. Perhaps she hadn’t been to bed yet.

  “Looking for you.” Molly spread out on the plastic seat. She had on a tank top, purple, that sort of clashed with the vivid red of her hair, and low-riding jeans. Low enough to show off the tattoo at the small of her back. He loved that tattoo. He wanted to lick that tattoo.

  “Why?”

  She narrowed her eyes at him. Such a look. As if she could see right through him. Only, she couldn’t because she had no idea. Not one. She saw him as good old Charlie. Buddy. Nerd. Eunuch.

  “I’m obsessing,” she said. “What if someone comes on the show and I hate them. Or they’re morons. Or I forget how to be funny.”

  “First, the show’s not a done deal. Second, when it does happen, you’re going to be brilliant. You’ve never had a difficult time talking to anyone in your whole life. I’ve seen you with morons, remember? Every time we go to L.A. You’re still funny, you’re still charming, and besides, no one’s going to be looking at your guests. They’re going to be looking at you. So stop it.”

  “Stop it?” She gasped dramatically. “Oh, okay. I will. Gee, thanks. If only I’d thought of that.”

  The waitress came over to the table with coffee and a menu. Molly turned over the second cup on the table but didn’t look at the menu. “I’ll have a waffle. And bacon. And two eggs, scrambled.”

  The waitress, who either didn’t recognize Molly or didn’t care, turned to him. “You want something to eat?”

  “No thanks.” He’d have plenty. Molly ordered like a football player and ate like a ballerina. He pretty much subsisted on her leftovers.

  Once they were alone again, she leaned over the table. “What’s with the Elvis contingent?”

  He shrugged. “Even Elvi have to eat.”

  She nodded. “So, I see from the enormous blank space on your yellow pad that this hasn’t been a morning filled with inspiration.”

  “I think my doodling has improved.”

  “Great. I’ll do a slide show on stage. Charlie’s Doodles, we’ll call it.”

  “Hey. I’m trying.”

  “I know. So what gives? You’ve never had trouble. You’re the rock. The man. The dude.”

  He doctored his fresh coffee, not knowing what the hell to say. “Writer’s block?”

  “Oh, no. You’re not allowed to have any neuroses. I’ve got that covered for the both of us.”

  “Sorry, kiddo. I’m trying to get it in gear, but…”

  “Okay, I’ve been thinking,” she said, sitting up straighter,
getting that fabulous determined look on her face. The one that made him want to slay dragons. “Let’s do something on talk shows. What makes them weird. Why people watch them. Like that.”

  “Good. That’s good. We can do that. There’s everything from Charlie Rose to Montel to Oprah to Springer. Lots to mine.”

  “Exactly.” She grinned.

  It made his heart hurt. And yet, he said nothing. He sat there, smiling lamely, wanting desperately to tell her. To declare himself, to make her see that they were supposed to be more than co-workers. That they were, in fact, destined to be lovers. World-famous lovers. Bogie and Bacall. Napoleon and Josephine. Yeah, like that.

  Which would, of course, elicit gales of hysterical laughter and perhaps a look of disgust that frankly, he wouldn’t survive. So he remained quiet. Dying inside, but quiet.

  “Let’s eat, then put our heads together. That always works.”

  He nodded. Drank coffee. Wished he was someone else. Anyone else.

  MOLLY SAT in her dressing room, staring at her reflection in the mirror. She should be getting ready. Her show started in forty minutes, and she needed some time after she was dressed to get herself into the groove. She had to shake this…

  Charlie.

  Something weird was going on with him. She couldn’t exactly put her finger on it. He simply wasn’t Charlie. Adorable, dopey, odd Charlie. Her best friend. The most wonderful partner ever. Actually, she’d only had one other, but eek, that had been a nightmare.

  Rand had been a terrific comedy writer. Not as good as Charlie, no, but he’d had his moments. And he was sexy as hell. Tall, gorgeous, with a body to salivate over. They’d gotten together in Wichita, and at first it had been incredible. Slowly, things had gone south. She should have gotten a clue when she caught him with one of the other comics in a Podunk town outside of Michigan, but it was a guy, and they were both dressed, and well, she was pretty stupid. The really bad part was that it had almost destroyed her. Not that he’d been with a guy. What killed her was that he’d been with so many guys. Always promising to stop. Declaring his love. Claiming she was the most important thing in his life.

  Ha.

  She’d lost her timing. Almost lost her sanity. Until she’d had enough.

  She couldn’t lose Charlie. God, what would she do without him? He was the one thing in her life that totally worked.

  She’d always been able to depend on him. To write the goods, to make her laugh, to keep her grounded. He was the big brother she’d never had. He was Charlie.

  But lately he’d been distracted and nervous. The work wasn’t up to par. No, something was going on with him. A woman? Hmm. Maybe. She hoped so. He should have someone. Of course, that someone would have to be special, because underneath his sad wardrobe and his lame haircut, he was a gem. He deserved the best.

  She sighed as she opened her makeup bag and started plastering it on. It really wasn’t good for her complexion, but the lights were so severe they made her look dead if she didn’t slather it generously. Heavy on the eyeliner and mascara. Dark lipstick. And then forget about the face, forget about wardrobe, just do the gig. Connect with the audience. Listen. Let it be the first time, the only time. And stop worrying about Charlie.

  TWO O’CLOCK in the morning and he was still at the Hilton. In the showroom, sitting way the hell back in the sound booth, staring at his yellow pad. The rest of the room was dark and quiet. It was hours after the last show and he was alone.

  Outside the doors were the tourists and the gamblers. Pushing the buttons, throwing the dice, cursing Lady Luck. He didn’t indulge. It was too seductive for his simple tastes. There was this guy he knew who’d come to Vegas on a business trip, won eighty grand at the craps tables. Called his wife to pack up the house and move, ’cause he was a winner! Of course, a year later they were living in a trailer park on Sahara. It was just so easy.

  People got crazy in Vegas. At least in that respect he fit right in.

  He kept staring at his notes. He’d gotten it together enough to do a little riff. It needed some finesse, but there was something there. Probably all he was going to get for tonight. So why was he still here? Sitting with his watered-down soda, in the dark of the Hilton showroom, with all the empty seats and the big, blank stage.

  He’d tried it, years ago. Getting up there…Well, not there. He’d done some comedy clubs in L.A. God, he’d stunk. Flop sweat, stammering, forgetting everything. He could write it but he couldn’t do it. Which was fine with him. Watching Molly was enough. Knowing it was his material. Their material. They blended like milk and Ovaltine. A perfect pair.

  His head dropped to his hands. This was not good. He’d go to the gym. Open twenty-four hours a day, it was a blessing to all the shift workers in town. Of course the whole town was open night and day. Supermarkets, dry cleaners, restaurants. There wasn’t a thing around here that couldn’t be had whenever the mood struck.

  So he’d go. Work out. Run. Punch things. Yeah. Hitting was always good, especially when no one punched back.

  He sat up, reached for his pen and that’s when the lights went on. Not lights. Light. One light. On the stage. In the middle. A spotlight. On Elvis.

  Yeah. That Elvis.

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHARLIE LOOKED at his soda. It hadn’t tasted funky, but someone must have spiked it. At least he hoped someone had because if not, he’d just dived headfirst into the crazy pool.

  “Hello, little brother.”

  It spoke. His hallucination spoke. And sounded like the best Elvis impersonation Charlie’d ever heard. “A joke. This is—” He spun around, expecting the camera crew. “Is this Punk’d? Or Candid whatsit? Ha ha. Very amusing. Now cut it out.”

  Only, there was no camera crew. Nothing he could see at least. But it was a big theater, and there had to be plenty of room to set stuff up. So he’d go along with it. Never let it be said Charlie Webster wasn’t a good sport. “Hey there, Elvis,” he said as he turned back to the stage. He sounded casual. As if this was just your usual wee hour of the morning visitation from a deceased celebrity.

  Elvis laughed. Charlie realized that there was an Elvis laugh but the boys at the diner had it wrong. This felt completely genuine. A laugh that matched his memories of all those movies he’d seen. Blue Hawaii. Girls! Girls! Girls! Kissin’ Cousins. Yep, this guy sounded like the real thing.

  “It’s me, little brother. Cross my heart and hope to die.”

  “Too late. You look damn good. Considering.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Come here often?”

  Again, the laugh. And the voice was spot on, too. Now that he looked carefully, there wasn’t a mistake anywhere. Not the hair, the outfit, the posture, the smile. Not that Charlie was an aficionado. Not like Molly. Man, if she could see this, she’d flip. She loved the King. Had every record and every film. If he wasn’t absolutely sure she’d have him committed, he’d call her right now and have her come down.

  “I hear tell Good Time Charlie’s got the blues,” Elvis said, stepping a little closer to the mike.

  “Huh?” And that mike hadn’t been there earlier. Had it?

  “I can help.”

  “Help? With what? And why am I asking a hallucination?”

  Elvis brought his hand to the stand mike, which is when Charlie saw that the mike itself wasn’t what the Hilton used. It was older, boxier. Weird that he’d come up with a suitable mike for his dead friend.

  “Well, son, you’ve got a burnin’ love for that gal of yours, but you’ve got some work to do.”

  “Huh?” he said again, glad that he was a writer and could so readily come up with such witty bons mots.

  “She’s not gettin’ the picture. You need to make some changes.”

  Blinking, Charlie wondered if his health plan would cover his therapy. He’d recognized a few song titles in that little speech, which was fine, except that he’d also found himself listening intently, hoping that Elvis, who was incontrovertibly dead, was g
oing to help him with Molly. Uh-huh.

  He leaned over the desk, starting to get a little annoyed at whatever the hell was going on. “Fine. Okay. All righty then. Tell me, Elvis. What kind of changes?”

  The man on stage smiled. And if it wasn’t Elvis, it was his clone, because, damn, that was friggin’ Elvis Presley. No impersonator could be that good. That accurate. Right down to the dimples. Not the Elvis in the last years of his life, but in his prime. Jeez, he got it now. No wonder the ladies threw him their panties. Which was beside the point. “Well?”

  “First things first. That hair. It looks like a raccoon up and died on top of your head.”

  Charlie blinked. “There’s nothing wrong with my hair.” Only, Elvis wasn’t there anymore. The spotlight was still on and the mike was there—

  “Son, you can listen to me and get your hard-headed woman to see you’re her true love, or you can keep on bein’ so square, baby, she won’t care.”

  Charlie gasped. Elvis hadn’t left the building. He was standing next to him. Right there. Close enough to touch.

  Someone was doing this. Yanking his chain, big time. Who knew about Molly? He hadn’t told a living soul. And how could…? Who could…? “Who are you?”

  Elvis smiled. “You just follow my lead, son. Follow my lead.”

  Everything went dark. Totally black. Charlie was pretty sure he must be dead, but why would his last thoughts be of Elvis? John Lennon, maybe, but Elvis Presley?

  The lights came back on. Not all of them, and there was no spotlight on the stage. That was dark. No mike, no guitar. No Elvis. It was just empty and big and Elvis-free.

  “Oh, crap,” he whispered as he fell back in his chair. “Seriously weird. Twilight Zone weird. I’ve been in Vegas too long.”

  He took in a deep, slow breath, and let it out in a sigh that didn’t make him feel one bit better. “Least you could have said something helpful,” he called out. “And there’s nothing wrong with my hair!”

  “I’M NOT KIDDING,” Molly said, walking back to the lone tall stool in the middle of the stage. The audience was behind her, but she felt them. So good. They were digging her, ready for more, wanting to laugh, and it didn’t get any better than this.