by Lori Wilde
“No.” What the hell? He wasn’t kidding anyone. She’d caught him red-handed.
“No?” She sank her hands on her hips, and the movement caused her breasts to lift.
“Yeah, okay. I was spying on you. Would it be crude to say ‘nice ass’?”
“Very crude.” She stepped closer, narrowed her eyes. “But thanks.”
Sam didn’t know what to say. Every nerve ending in his body throbbed. The caveman in him—the one that had made the nice-ass comment—wanted to rip down the fence with his bare hands to get to her.
They stood looking at each other, Sam peering down over the fence, Emma with her head tilted upward. The moment seemed to stretch into forever—hot and full of yearning.
“Was there something else you wanted to say besides the nice-ass thing?”
“Um…” He couldn’t think with her standing there, water dripping off her. Even though she had the towel wrapped around her now, the way she’d looked bending over that lounge chair was permanently embedded in his brain. “No.”
“Okay then, I’m just gonna go on into the Merry Cherub.” She turned to go.
“Wait.”
She stopped beside a naked cherub birdbath, her bare toes curling into the St. Augustine grass. “Yes?”
Great, now say something brilliant. But what? He stared at her, his throat muscles paralyzed.
She stared right back, all saucy and bold. Scrappy little thing. She reminded him of a Jack Russell terrier, impulsive, determined, and intense. He’d always had a fondness for Jack Russell terriers even though they could be quite challenging to handle. Emma’s green eyes glimmered in the fading sunlight, compelling as the ocean on a storm-tossed day.
Something inside Sam shifted. A level of awareness he’d never quite felt before. If he’d been on her side of the fence, there was not a doubt in his mind that he would have kissed her. He noticed every detail of her face. The faint dusting of freckles sprinkled across the bridge of her nose. How her eyelashes were almost the same color as her hair. How her hairline dipped down into a pretty little V shape in the middle of her forehead. Widow’s peak, he thought it was called.
Silence spun out between them.
Her cheeks flushed, enhancing her peaches and cream complexion. She looked like one of Jenny’s cherubs—pink and soft and sweet. Still, she did not look away. She had a vulnerable, innocent air about her, but Emma knew how to take care of herself. She wasn’t aggressive. (In the same situation, Valerie might have just climbed the fence and kissed him.) But neither was she skittish. She didn’t turn, she didn’t run, she just stood there, looking, waiting, unabashedly curious. She wouldn’t make the first move, but she wouldn’t mind a bit if he did.
And how he wanted to make that move.
But Sam knew he couldn’t act on his desires. Emma was in town for only a short while, and he had Charlie to think about. Not to mention his own well-being. He knew he had the potential to fall so deep in love with her he could never climb out of it. But Emma wasn’t the kind of woman you could spend your life with. He’d always known that about her. She had big dreams, and he was a small-town guy who loved his small-town life. She was blazing a path to stardom, and he wouldn’t stand in her way.
“You know what I was thinking?” Sam asked.
Emma stroked the bald head of the naked cherub. “That Jenny really should rethink the whole angel theme?”
“Besides that.” He grinned.
“What?”
“That it’s good to have you home.”
“That’s very sweet of you, Sam.”
Sweet.
The damn word that had haunted him all his life. He didn’t want Emma thinking of him as sweet. Kittens were sweet. Cotton candy was sweet. Watering your dead wife’s vegetable garden was sweet. He gritted his teeth. Was that how she saw him? Completely harmless?
He had an impulse to push his hair back off his forehead and show his scar. It was a move of the ego, designed to let her know that he’d done dangerous things and that he wasn’t as sweet as she might think. It was vain, it was cheesy machismo, and he did it anyway.
Her gaze went to his forehead just as he’d known it would. Her lashes lowered for a moment, and then she looked him straight in the eyes. He tried to figure out what she was thinking, but the woman was an actress, and the slight smile on her face hid whatever might be going on inside her head.
“Cool scar,” she said, then turned and walked into the house, leaving him feeling foolishly puffed up with pride. No one had ever told him his scar was cool before.
After a hearty breakfast of steel-cut oatmeal topped with brown sugar, walnuts, and sliced bananas served in a bowl patterned with frolicking angels, Emma arrived at the Twilight Playhouse the following morning at eight-thirty. She stepped into the darkened lobby, but saw a light on at the end of the hall. The door stood open, and Emma walked over.
“Good morning.” Nina smiled in greeting from behind an antique rolltop desk that looked like it could have been built at the same time as the theater. “How did you sleep?”
“Great.”
“Jenny put you in the pink room?”
“She did. It’s…um…very pink and angelic.”
“Part of the charm of small-town life.” Nina’s eyes danced. “Twilight is very different from Manhattan.”
“You can say that a hundred times and never be wrong.”
“How long have you lived in the city?”
“Twelve years.” Emma shook her head, unable to believe it.
“You lasted a lot longer than I did.”
“With none of your success.”
“You underestimate yourself,” Nina said. “You might not have yet managed a Broadway debut, but I did my research. I read reviews of your off-Broadway work. The critics were highly complimentary.”
“Yeah, that and five bucks will get you a Venti Mocha Latte at Starbucks.”
“The entertainment industry functions primarily on luck and timing, true, but you’ve got talent. You care about craft. You’re a true artist. I can tell.”
Emma had never been all that comfortable with praise. “Throw in another five bucks and you can get a croissant with that latte,” she quipped.
“You’ve kept your sense of humor. That’s positive.”
“It’s either that or take a header off the Brooklyn Bridge.”
“They appreciate you here. I have no doubt you’re going to blow their socks off.”
Emma grinned. “And with that I can treat a friend to a latte and croissant as well.”
“I understand the feelings of desperation that go on in your head when you’re faced with such stiff competition. When I was a struggling actress,” she murmured, “I did a lot of things I’m not proud of.”
Emma wanted to ask her what those things were, but she restrained herself. It was none of her business. “I’ve seen some crazy things,” she admitted. “My roommate Cara slept with a guy who was a janitor at the Ed Sullivan Theater. She got him to sneak her onto the set and they taped a segment of her as if she was being interviewed on Letterman. She sent the demo around, and believe it or not, she got a couple of auditions out of the deal. Oftentimes it doesn’t have to really be celebrity, it just has to look like it. Another actress I know stole her best friend’s union card to get a part.”
“You never did anything like that?”
Emma notched up her chin. “I might be desperate, but I’m not a cheater. Besides, you always get found out in the end.”
Nina stared at a spot on the wall above Emma’s head, a wistful look on her face. “Yes, you do,” she whispered, “yes, you do.”
The temptation to pry was great, but Emma restrained herself. If Nina had something to tell her, she’d do it in her own time.
“Before we start rehearsal,” Nina said, “I need to tell you something about the man who’s going to be playing your love interest.”
“Okay.” Emma sat down in the chair across from Nina’s desk.
“I believe in giving people second chances.”
“Which explains why I’m here?”
“It does, but I also derive pleasure in proving the naysayers wrong. I don’t like the way the media has treated you. Turning Scott Miller into the victim and you into the villain.”
“How do you know the reports aren’t right? That I assaulted Miller because he refused to give me the part?”
That enigmatic look crossed Nina’s face again. “Anyone who really knows Miller understands that’s utter crap.”
“Hmm.” Emma slid to the edge of the plush leather chair so her feet would touch the floor. “Hiring me has almost as much to do with getting even with Miller for something as giving me a second chance?”
Nina canted her head, held up both hands. “It would please me immensely if this role led to revitalizing your career. Both because you deserve it and because Miller needs to be shown up for the tyrant he is.”
Emma laughed. “How on earth is a role in a small-town play going to do all that?”
“Now you’re underestimating me, Emma. We’re going to have to work on your pessimism. Anyway, let’s get back to your leading man and the fact that I believe in second chances.” Nina drummed her fingers on the desk. “Beau Trainer will be playing Colonel Jon Grant and all the other leading male roles in the skit.”
“I remember Beau. He was the most popular guy in high school. I didn’t know he was an actor.”
“He’s not, but he’s got natural acting chops. He put on an act for his entire life. Pretending to be something he wasn’t in order to please other people.”
“Okay.”
“The reason I’m telling you all this is because some people don’t believe Beau deserves a second chance. I happen to think they’re wrong, but you might hear some grumbling or be expected to take sides. I’d prefer if you remained neutral on this issue.”
“Why is he on everyone’s shit list?”
“Beau used to be our interim sheriff. He was appointed after his father had a stroke. But then he did some bad things and he was forced to resign his post.”
“What kind of bad things?” Fascinated, she leaned forward, instantly intrigued.
“He blew up the old Twilight Bridge and burned down that building on the other side of the courthouse. Perhaps you noticed? It used to house a motorcycle shop and yarn store, but the fire was accidental.”
Emma remembered that bridge. She and Sam used to swan dive off it into the Brazos just upriver from Lake Twilight. “No kidding.”
“In his defense, the bridge was falling in.”
“He didn’t want to go through the proper channels of having the bridge condemned?”
“It was a little more complicated than that.”
“Why did he do it?”
“Why does any man act like a fool? For the love of a woman.”
“I take it she wasn’t impressed.”
Nina shook her head. “Flynn MacGregor was in love with her high school sweetheart, Jesse Calloway, who’d recently got released from prison. Flynn was engaged to Beau, but then found out he’d framed Jesse because he was jealous. Long story.”
“Jesse is Patsy Cross’s nephew?”
“That’s right.”
“And you think Beau is worth taking a chance on?”
“Beau is a complicated guy. He earned a Purple Heart in Iraq. His act of bravery saved the lives of his platoon, and he acted with no concern for his own safety. He was gravely wounded in the incident. And now he’s very contrite about what he did, but some people aren’t quick to forgive, and understandably so. He did betray public trust and lost his job. He plea bargained and got probation. But he’s a good man at heart and he’s really struggling with how he damaged his life. He needs help rebuilding his reputation, and Sam and I are about the only people in town who didn’t turn their backs on him.”
“Wow.” It didn’t surprise her to hear that Sam hadn’t forsaken Beau. The Sam she remembered was nonjudgmental, diplomatic, open-minded, and empathic.
“I just thought you should know right up front.”
“Thanks for telling me.”
So everything wasn’t all merry cherubs and comfy quilts and town square “howdies” in Twilight. Good to know some people had dark, torturous secrets. It made Emma feel more normal, and very curious about what other mysteries and secrets might skulk in this town.
“Here he is now,” Nina said as the outer door to the theater creaked open.
The Beau Trainer she vaguely remembered had grown into a tall, straight-shouldered man who said very little to her beyond hello. She wondered what it was like to have messed up so badly that the majority of the town turned against you, and she decided that if he was truly contrite, he had a pretty big cross to bear. She imagined how tough it must be to walk down the street with your head held high when you knew people were mumbling about you behind your back.
Beau was a particular kind of rugged-Texas good-looking, of the Dennis Quaid, Patrick Swayze, Tommy Lee Jones ilk, but he was nowhere near as handsome as Sam—who, if it weren’t for the scar pitted deep into his forehead, was drop-dead gorgeous. Beau had a nose that was slightly too big for his face and a hard, unyielding chin. In that chin, Emma saw the things that had orchestrated his downfall—stubbornness, anger, pride. But his dark, soulful eyes belied the chin. In those eyes lurked a man tormented by the demons who’d driven him to violate his moral code. She felt at once sympathy and wariness.
“Well then,” Nina said with forced cheeriness. “Let’s get started.”
She led Emma and Beau into the main part of the playhouse, flipping on switches as they went. Replicas of period chandeliers and wall sconces lighted the auditorium. One look around told Emma little had changed in the five-hundred-seat theater since it was first built in 1886. The white stone walls were exposed. The white-painted doors, molding, and balcony rails were original, and the authentic needlepoint seats evoked a bygone era.
There was a plaque on the wall at the entrance proclaiming that, along with the whole town square, the Twilight Playhouse was listed in the National Register of Historic Places. A second plaque declared it a charter member of the League of Historic American Theatres.
And then there was the legend.
Rumor had it that John Wilkes Booth was not hunted down and killed for assassinating President Lincoln. There was even evidence to suggest that he came to Twilight under the alias John St. Helen, and if that was true, he’d performed Shakespeare at the Twilight Playhouse. Emma cast a glance at Beau, who was standing beside her, staring at the stage. Perhaps Nina was continuing the theater’s reputation of providing redemption for bad boys.
Along with the John Wilkes Booth legend came a ghost. Several people swore there was a resident ghost who could be heard at odd times, pacing the balcony. Those who claimed to have seen him said he wore a long-sleeved white shirt, dark pants, and tall, heavy boots.
The musty smell of history transported Emma back in time. Not to the nineteenth century, but to her childhood. She was fourteen again, sneaking in through the side exit with Sam, climbing up the stage steps, kissing in the overhead loft. The memory sent a sweet shiver running through her. This was where she’d first whispered to Sam her aspirations of becoming an actress, of being a star. This place was where he first kissed her; where she’d first fallen in love with both a boy and a dream.
Nina climbed the stage steps, her heels echoing smartly against the old wood. She disappeared from sight for a few minutes. Emma slid a look over at Beau and discovered him staring at her. Tension filled the space between them.
“She tell you about the bridge and the motorcycle shop?” he asked in a deep, rumbly voice.
“She tell you about the guy I half castrated?”
His grin was unexpected. “She did.”
And with that, the awkwardness between Emma and her leading man vanished.
The curtains opened and Nina reappeared, carrying three scripts. They joined her onstage
. She passed scripts to Beau and Emma, and kept one. “You two are going to carry the play. Most of the extras will be played by acting students from Tarleton State University in Stephenville. We have some locals, but the bulk of it rests on your shoulders. Let’s run lines.”
Before they could get started, a quick knock sounded on the side door and it opened to reveal Sam’s housekeeper, Maddie, with Patches trotting beside her.
“Come on in.” Nina waved Maddie up onstage.
Sam’s housekeeper climbed the steps.
Patches bounded ahead of her, headed straight for Emma, his head lowered, his eyes trained on her feet, his lips curled back, revealing a flash of deadly white teeth.
A high keening sound escaped Emma’s lips and she stumbled backward, desperate to get away from the dog, terrified she was going to trip and fall and he’d be on her, ripping her throat out before anyone could stop him.
“Stand your ground,” Maddie said.
But fear had a strong hold on her. Emma spun around, heading for the stairs that led to the loft, but it was as if the Border collie read her mind. Faster than she could breathe, he whipped around in front of her and seemed to give her a wicked, doggy smirk that said, Go ahead, make my day.
He slunk toward her, his intense blue eyes never looking away, never blinking.
Dread built a dam in her throat. She took an uneasy step backward, raised her palms in a defensive gesture. Every muscle in her body tensed, on alert. All she could think about was how much it was going to hurt when he sank his teeth into her tender flesh. Fear cleaved through her, axe-sharp as all her concentration narrowed on that black and white dog.
Snap out of it. This is important. Think tough-minded thoughts. You’re Joan of Arc, Madam Curie, Maria von Trapp. Nothing stands in your way. She tried to convince herself, but her usual mantras weren’t working.
“Patches,” Maddie said sharply. “Leave it.”
The dog looked from Emma to Maddie and back again. He took another step toward Emma.
“Leave it!” Maddie commanded. “Come.”
Reluctantly, Patches turned away from her and sidled over to Sam’s housekeeper, but he never took his stare off Emma.