“What do you think? Should I take it? I mean, where are we with the other options you were working on?”
“Other options?” A pause. “Oh, yes. Well, my contact in LA hasn’t gotten back to me, but New York looks like a no-go for this fall. I mean, that’s the word right now. Marty Strohmeyer really liked what he saw of your performance in The Glass Menagerie—I sent him that clip from the production in St. Louis. He said you were a ‘haunting Laura.’ Those were his exact words! But he’s playing it safe this fall with people he already knows. You know what it’s like in this economy. People aren’t spending as much money on things like the theater. So companies—directors—aren’t taking as many risks on new talent.”
Ellie liked the sounds of a “haunting Laura.” Tennessee Williams would be proud.
“Do you think I should take this gig in Branson then?”
“Yeah, I do. I think it’s your best option right now. That’s just this business, Ellie. And you never know what one thing may lead to—what you may find or who may find you in Branson. That Will Howard is bound to have some connections. You know what I mean, sweetie?”
Ellie could hear papers rustling. She thought she knew what René meant. “Okay. I guess we can be in touch about things as they develop?”
“You bet. And there’s no fee on this one for me, Ellie. It’s practically in your backyard, isn’t it? I mean, you got the part all on your own. I wouldn’t feel right about taking any money for it.”
That was something at least.
* * * * *
By the time Ellie dried her hair and dressed, returning downstairs, her mother had left the kitchen. It was spotless again, as usual. All remnants of coffee were gone from the white granite counter. A pyramid of flaky biscuits adorned an antique blue plate, loosely covered by a napkin of white Battenberg lace. Softened butter and wildflower honey in a crock were neatly set beside the biscuits, and Ellie lathered a biscuit with both before heading out the back door.
She found her Opa in the tool shed, where he was gathering his hoe and shovel. “Headed to the garden?”
“Hello, Sunshine.” Extra wrinkles formed around the outer edges of his blue eyes, which were the same color as her mother’s. He reached out to hug her. “I’m waging war on some weeds today. Care to join me?”
“There’s already a weed problem? It seems like you just put in the garden.”
“I did. In fact, I’m still putting it in. But the weeds are already trying to take over. One must be vigilant.” He winked.
Ellie considered her grandfather with amusement and suddenly felt twelve years old. The worn overalls, the brown boots, the straw hat, the leather gloves—like the cover of a favorite book.
“Sure, Opa, I’ll help. But I need to talk to Mom first. Do you know where she is?”
“I suspect she’s in the office.”
Ellie jogged down to the foot of the hill, to the entrance of the winery, and entered a quaint building that appeared to belong in Rothenburg-on-the-Tauber. Red geraniums spilled out of window boxes, and fragrant muscadine vines with serrated leaves the color of sage flanked the covered walkway leading up to the wooden door. The building housed a tasting room and gift shop in the front and offices in the back. Waving at Ruth, who was helping a customer with juice in the gift shop, Ellie made her way to the back.
Katherine held up one finger to Ellie. “We really need that piece of legislation to go through,” Katherine said into the phone. “It would help Missouri winemakers tremendously.” She continued, apparently talking to someone in the state government as Ellie eased into the chair across from her mother’s desk.
Growing up, Ellie had been completely uninterested in the discussions of trade laws, tax laws, and liquor laws that always concerned the winery. She’d left that department to Beecher. He was such a natural that he’d even lobbied the Missouri Congress as a teenager—successfully.
Her mother hung up the phone. “So, what’s going on?”
“I guess I’m moving to Branson. René thought I should take the part.”
“That’s wonderful! I’m happy for you, Ellie. And if you can be happy in Branson, it will be nice to have you close by.”
Ellie lifted an eyebrow. “It’s three hours away.”
“I know, but at least it’s not Germany or New York. Even though I want you to do what you want to do, go where you want to go—”
“I know, Mom. And ‘be who I want to be.’ But I don’t really want to be Sammy Lane.” Ellie was whining, and she knew it. But she didn’t care. “I honestly don’t know how I’m going to do the part—hillbilly is so not me. The whole idea is hokey. Maybe if it were in a serious theater somewhere…but Branson? I might as well be in one of those country music shows.”
“There are worse plights.” Katherine slid a flat cardboard box across the desk toward Ellie. “I’ve been waiting to give this to you, but it never seems the right time. Maybe this is the time.”
Ellie opened the box and pulled out something hard and rectangular, swathed in crinkled brown paper secured with twine. She untied the twine and carefully peeled back the paper to reveal a small book with a tattered black cover. It was embossed with an ornate floral of orange, green, blue, and white. The design had a foreign flavor, and though she was used to such things, this was exotic, like nothing Ellie had seen before. It was clasped by a tiny protective lock, but the lock was rusted on its hinges and broken. Ellie gingerly opened the cover and read in German from the tea-stain-colored page:
Elise Marie Falkenberg
1887
Ich lebe, doch nun nicht ich, sondern Christus lebt in mir. Denn was ich jetzt lebe im Fleisch, das lebe ich im Glauben an den Sohn Gottes, der mich geliebt hat und sich selbst für mich dahingegeben.
“Great-great-grandmother’s diary?”
“Yes. It’s hers.”
“Where’s that verse from?”
“Galatians, I believe.”
“Wow. What a cool thing. I didn’t even know you had this diary.”
“Like I said, I’ve saved it for you, but the time to give it has never seemed right.”
“Thank you, Mom. I mean, it’s really special.” Ellie ran her finger over the floral pattern. “But it’s in German. It’s going to be hard for me to read.” She grimaced at the thought. She’d almost completely let her second language go by the wayside in the past few years.
“It’ll be a good way for you to brush up before visiting Beecher.” Katherine smiled. “And perhaps it will help you identify with your inner hillbilly.”
Chapter Two
I don’t have an inner hillbilly, thought Ellie.
She was dressed in a T-shirt Beecher sent her from MIPLC, the Munich Intellectual Property Law Center, and a pair of comfy boxers she’d stolen from his dresser years before. Her dark brown hair was up in a haphazard French twist, secured by a clippie, and since she’d taken her contacts out, she wore “the glasses of an artist,” as her Opa had commented when he first saw them. They were thick-rimmed and black with rectangular lenses. Ellie’s amber-colored eyes dazzled most people with their brilliance; however, without the aid of contacts or glasses she could hardly see a thing. Both characteristics—the color and relative blindness—she inherited from her father, along with her dark hair. The only things he ever gave me.
Her head propped on two pillows, she lay on her back in bed, feeling her body ache all over. She’d spent several hours in the garden with Opa, fighting the battle of the weeds. Then she “did dinner” for her mother by picking up a pound of smoked chicken salad from The Downtown Deli and Custard Shoppe. She served it with crackers, cheese, and white wine on the back patio. The evening was pleasant enough, with fireflies doing their electric air-dance above the meadow and frogs chirruping in chorus around the pond. But Ellie felt she would gladly trade fireflies for big city lights and frogs for the hum of traffic on Broadway. How was she going to call that Will Howard in the morning and accept her plight as Sammy Lane?
She o
pened Elise’s journal with a freshly calloused hand.
19 January 1887
Today was my sixteenth birthday. It was nothing like the lavish birthdays I remember back in Germany, but I have grown accustomed to our more simple life here, and it was nice nonetheless. At breakfast, there was a package wrapped in crisp brown paper and tied with a string beside my plate. It turned out to be this diary, a gift from Mama and Papa, who said it came all the way from St. Louis. I was very happy to receive it. Heidi gave me a stick of peppermint candy. There was also a peacock feather from Uncle Robert and Aunt Liesel in Branson. Mama allowed me to tuck it into my Sunday hat.
During the greeting time at church I had many well-wishers, including Richard Heinrichs. He walked right up in the middle of a group of ladies to single me out and handed me a pink rose. They all grinned at me and giggled and winked as he walked away in his new gray suit. No doubt they are impressed by his tall, dark form. Mama says he’s Hermann’s most eligible bachelor, having come from Philadelphia with a sack of money.
I have no idea how he knew it was my birthday. A bigger shock came after church, however, when he asked if I’d like to go for a ride in his new buggy. I shrugged, not really sure I wanted to say yes, so he asked Papa for his permission to take me home and Papa gave it! Just like that! I have to admit, I felt a bit like a mule being traded between them, though that is probably unfair. Richard is an honorable person. Papa is very dear. This is just how things are done.
I sat beside Richard stiff as a board. The buggy was nice, and I do love the horses. He complimented my hat, noticing the new feather. But Richard Heinrichs makes me nervous. He is so grown up and sophisticated! I am still a schoolgirl. I don’t feel ready for my life to change again, even though Mama and Papa say that it will. I suppose it must now that I am growing older.
Placing the diary on her bedside table, Ellie dozed off, exhausted from the day’s events and also the mental effort it took to read German. Her dreams that night were fitful and fragmented.
* * * * *
When Ellie woke, she had the distinct mental image of herself in a red calico dress, hair in a bun, with a peacock feather stuck in it. Only she wasn’t riding in a horse-drawn carriage on a country trail dotted with wildflowers through the untouched Missouri countryside. She was trapped in a line of bumper-to-bumper traffic on Highway 76, the thoroughfare that cuts a six-mile stretch right through the heart of Branson.
* * * * *
“Mr. Howard?”
“Yes, this is Will.”
“This is Ellie Heinrichs. I’m calling to let you know I accept the part of Sammy Lane.” Ellie almost choked on the words and hoped he couldn’t tell. Though she wanted to get it out of the way, she was beginning to question the wisdom of making the call before having her coffee.
He didn’t seem fazed. “Okay, great. We’ll see you in the next few days then. Practice starts Monday, but you’ll need to pick up a script as soon as you can.”
“What time are you in the office? I can come by tomorrow if you’d like.”
“I have some PR to do in the morning, but I should be back after lunch. Could you come around two o’clock?”
“Sure. I’ll see you then.”
“Okay. See you. Be careful driving.”
“Thanks.”
Be careful driving? This guy sounded like her Opa.
Ellie texted “Branson or Bust” to Beecher, then set her phone on the bedside table next to her great-great-grandmother’s diary.
After throwing on a T-shirt and some cut-off jeans and descending the stairs, she was surprised to find her Opa and Katherine sitting at the breakfast table. She poured herself a cup of coffee and joined them.
“What are you guys up to?” She kissed them both on the cheek before sitting down.
“Just going over some paperwork.” Katherine handed Ellie a mock-up of the brochure she’d printed and folded.
Ellie studied it intently for a few minutes before handing it back. “I like it.”
“That’s all we need to know then.” Opa grinned at her. “Let’s send it on to the printer, Katherine.”
Ellie’s mother nodded, taking a sip of her coffee. “Okay, that’s a wrap.”
Ellie took a deep breath. “I have some news for you guys.”
They both looked at her expectantly out of identical pairs of eyes.
“I’m moving to Branson tomorrow.”
“You accepted the part?” Katherine’s eyes widened.
“Yep. And the director wants to meet with me tomorrow afternoon. I figured I’d just move on over—at least some of my stuff. It’s not like I have that much, and what I did bring home from St. Louis is all still packed.”
“That’s convenient.” Opa shuffled through the papers in front of him. “And I happen to have an apartment you might be interested in.”
Ellie eyed her mother, who simply shrugged.
Opa put on his reading glasses and recited: “Brand-new two-bedroom, two-bath furnished condominium. Lower-level garage. Hardwood floors, granite countertops, stainless-steel appliances, tenfoot ceilings with crown molding throughout. Wrought-iron balcony with view of the White River/Lake Taneycomo. All in a prime location at Branson Landing.”
“You bought this?” Ellie said, staring. “What if I had moved to New York City? What about when I do?”
Opa’s eyes held a hint of mischief. “I thought it was a good investment, and I made an executive decision. This apartment is for winery purposes. We need it if we’re going to expand operations in Branson. It’s not just for you, Sunshine, although I do hope you like it.”
* * * * *
When Ellie pulled her silver BMW into the garage of the new condo, letting the door down quietly behind her with the remote control Opa gave her, she smiled to herself. After a three-hour drive from Hermann, the trek to Branson Landing and her new apartment had been simple and quick—basically one exit and one turn toward the river. Besides the novelty stores of old downtown Branson, there was even a Starbucks on the route, which she eagerly took advantage of, ordering a tall mocha latte with whipped cream.
The condo was situated on the east end of Branson Landing, part of a tiny community tucked neatly between a walking park on the left and the beginning of a row of exclusive shops and restaurants on the right that all backed up to the water. Ellie recognized her unit from Opa’s description. Positioned between two stone-and-brick units, the facade of hers was taupe stucco, with black shutters and iron gaslights. The garage door, trimmed in cedar with black hinges, looked like it belonged on a charming old barn in the French countryside.
She got out of her car, slinging a bag of stuff over her shoulder, and unlocked the door that would lead her inside. Immediately in front of her was a small square foyer that shared another door—the door to the outside. Ellie closed the door to the garage behind her, left the other one locked, and turned toward the stairs, sliding her fingers along the smooth oak banister. The taupe-painted wall on the right was bare except for a good-sized cubby hole trimmed in white—the perfect place for the Murano glass platter she had brought back from Venice. She and Beecher had gone there for a weekend over Christmas break during the two weeks she’d spent with him in Munich, and she’d fallen in love with the colorful platter, its edges scalloped like an oyster. Beecher had bought her the coordinating vase, tall and thin but equally fantastical, and it would be the perfect complement standing to the side and back of the platter.
I’ll keep my keys there, Ellie thought. Mom will be proud.
She continued up the stairs, admiring the wide crown molding around the ceiling. To the left of the landing, where she set down her bag, a living room began, and in front of her was the kitchen. To the right a short hall led to a bathroom and a tastefully decorated guest bedroom. Ellie loved the open floor plan—the kitchen and living area divided only by a black granite bar housing a row of four iron-and-leather barstools with fleur-de-lis on their backs. On the other end of the great room, between tw
o windows, was a stone fireplace with gas logs resembling birch and an eye-level rough-hewn mantel of dark wood. High above hung a deer’s head, which Ellie hoped was fake.
Beyond the window to the left, catty-cornered, was a mahogany armoire. Ellie opened its doors to reveal a plasma television set. The drawer beneath it was stocked with movies, including some of her favorites: the BBC’s Pride and Prejudice, Hamlet with Mel Gibson, Casablanca, Pretty Woman, and a special edition set of The Lord of the Rings. Had Katherine orchestrated this?
To the left of the armoire was a half wall that overlooked the stairs. Positioned comfortably along it was an oversized chair and ottoman with a funky black-and-white floral print. The iron magazine rack beside it stocked current issues of The New Yorker, Time, People, Entertainment Weekly, and Wine Country. On the opposite side was a wood-topped table with iron legs and a lamp.
Ellie slipped off her shoes and stepped onto the white sheepskin rug in the middle of the room, feeling its cushiony caress. It tied the room together, with the chair and ottoman bordering it on the stair side and a marble-topped coffee table set in front of a red leather couch on the other. Beyond the sofa, which provided a sort of boundary line for the great room, was a long, narrow dining table along the far wall. It seated six, with one distressed black chair on each end and four along the side opposite the wall. Ellie was astonished at the table’s beauty; it was like nothing she’d seen before. The base was iron, but the top was a mosaic of broken tiles—black, white, yellow, cobalt, and terra cotta. Running the length of the table down the center was an infinity pattern, two red strands intertwining with no apparent beginning or end. She traced the windy path of the white grout, feeling its gritty texture against the smoothness of the tiles it held together.
To the right of the table a door opened into the master bedroom that ran the full length of the great room. The light, airy bedroom featured bay windows on the far end and French doors to a balcony on the back side of the condo. Ellie admired the king-sized bed, its blue and gold bedding and mahogany scrollwork, the two mahogany nightstands with gold marble tops, and the huge matching dresser with mirror and armoire. A charming sitting area with loveseat, table, and comfy-looking chair nestled into the bay windows. Flanking the balcony on the left side was the master bath, complete with Jacuzzi tub and large walk-in closet.
Love Finds You in Branson, Missouri Page 2