Love Finds You in Branson, Missouri

by Gwen Ford Faulkenberry

  Katherine, Will, and Beecher all looked at each other and then back at Ellie.

  “You guys all resemble cats who have just eaten canaries. What’s the deal?”

  Beecher’s mouth broadened into a huge grin. “He wants you to come to New York. He set up an audition for you with a friend of his on Broadway.”

  Ellie’s eyes widened. Her face turned from white to pink to crimson. She swallowed hard. Then she said, “No way.”

  Will patted her leg. “It’s true.”

  “Are you kidding me? Mom—is he lying?” She shot a look at Beecher.

  “No—he’s not. It’s true.”

  Ellie fanned her face with her hand. “Oh, my goodness. I can’t believe this. I don’t know what to say.” She was beginning to hyperventilate.

  “I think you need to call him and say you’ll be there.” Will smiled at her reassuringly.

  “But what about the play here?” Ellie suddenly remembered The Shepherd of the Hills and her commitment to the role of Sammy.

  But Will shook his head. “Ellie, this is your dream. We can take care of things here. This is too good of an opportunity for you to pass it up.”

  “Wow.” Ellie remained in a state of shock for the entire meal.

  * * * * *

  Beecher drove Katherine and Opa home to Hermann later that night. It was decided they should leave Branson Sunday night, rather than waiting till morning, because of Opa’s impending doctor visit. After calling first thing in the morning, Katherine was able to get him in for a ten o’clock appointment at their family doctor in St. Louis.

  There was so much to do at the winery that Katherine stayed in Hermann while Beecher drove Opa in to St. Louis. Doctor Rippy did a thorough exam, finding nothing wrong, though she did order a round of bloodwork. Back in the lab, the person who drew blood had to stick Opa three times, which almost made Beecher sick to his stomach. He was glad when it was all over.

  “I’ll call you if there are any abnormal results.” Doctor Rippy patted Opa’s back as they left.

  “I told them there was nothing wrong with me.” He winked at her. “No news is good news.”

  For lunch, Beecher took Opa to a German restaurant they both liked in south St. Louis. The exterior was dark wood, and it had a chalet façade, complete with white shutters and scalloped roof shingles.

  “It’s like walking into a cuckoo clock,” Opa commented as Beecher held open one of the double doors.

  Once seated, Opa ordered stroganoff. Beecher had schnitzel. A server in a blue and red dirndl filled their wine glasses and brought them coffee. They shared a hot apple strudel with ice cream for dessert. Their conversation was light, mostly about Munich and law and Opa’s garden.

  At one point Opa said, seemingly out of the blue, “I am proud of you, Beecher. You are a good man.” For a moment their eyes locked, and then Opa finished off the strudel.

  On the drive home, Opa fell asleep. Beecher stole glances at him as he struggled to keep his speed sub-Autobahn on the Missouri freeway. It was hard in Katherine’s Lexus. He noticed that it was true, what everyone had always said. Opa’s profile was the same as his own. Just older. The high forehead sagged a little and the skin over his cheekbones was not as tight. The square jaw was less defined now than it had been at Beecher’s age.

  Opa’s lips, slightly parted, let out a little whistle as he breathed.

  Beecher felt an uncharacteristic warmth spread all over his body.

  “If I am a good man, Opa,” he thought aloud, “it’s because of you.”

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Audrey DuPree sat with her legs crossed in an uncomfortable chair at the end of the concourse, watching people. Beecher’s flight from St. Louis was on time and she was glad for many reasons, not the least of which was that La Guardia was getting a bit creepy. She’d already been hit on by two guys.

  Of course, she was ridiculously overdressed. Banking on Beecher’s usual haute couture, she’d chosen her most expensive outfit, a dress recently purchased at Bloomingdale’s when her parents visited New York. Her mother had insisted she needed it for their evenings at the theater, and it fit Audrey like a glove. It was iridescent Aztec blue, crinkled silk chiffon, with a crossover neckline, pleated bodice, Empire waist, and flowing, split-front draping. It came just to her knee, and with it she wore black wrap-around, high-heeled sandals. Her arms, legs, and neck were bare. The dress needed no hose or jewelry.

  Her naturally curly hair flowed loose in fancy ringlets just past her shoulders, and wispy bangs framed her lovely white face. Her makeup was understated and elegant, which made her pouting red lips seem extravagant. She fiddled with her bangs and looked up at the clock. With her luck, this would be the one time in his life Beecher Heinrichs donned sweatpants or some other completely logical, casual outfit people wore in order to be comfortable on airplanes.

  The musician in dreadlocks who was standing a few feet away struck up a new song on his guitar, sounding like Jack Johnson. Audrey caught something in the lyrics about bubbles and toes. A group of passengers began to emerge from the corridor in front of her. There was a bedraggled mother with two little kids and an old Laotian man who used a cane. Next came a soldier in camouflage fatigues, apparently on leave. Then she saw Beecher. He was wearing a flax-colored linen suit.

  For just a moment Audrey watched him scan the waiting crowd.

  “Beecher!” She stood, waving, and his eyes lit up—unmistakably—as he saw her. He hurried over, setting down his Louis Vuitton bag, and threw his arms around her and hugged her, picking her several inches up off the floor.

  “Audrey. It’s great to see you.” He set her down and stepped back, examining first her face and then her dress. “You look amazing.”

  “Thanks.” Audrey blushed in spite of herself. She glanced down at her shoes, then back up at Beecher through a veil of dark eyelashes. “So do you.”

  They chatted about the flight from St. Louis as they made their way down a few levels, via escalators, to baggage claim. They stood amongst a cross section of modern humanity and waited. Beecher’s matching suitcase was soon spit out onto the revolving belt, and he grabbed it as soon as it came close by. Then they went outside to hail a taxi.

  It was eight-thirty by the time they made it to Audrey’s apartment in Greenwich Village. Lugging his suitcase and carry-on bag up five flights of stairs, Beecher deposited them in Audrey’s foyer so he could look around.

  “I love your apartment,” he said. “So contemporary. Such clean lines.”

  “It was furnished already, but I like it too. Something different.”

  “Who did the painting?” Beecher pointed to the abstract expressionist piece that covered one of Audrey’s whole dining-room walls.

  “A friend of mine in law school. He gave it to me.”

  “Do you understand it?”

  Audrey giggled. “No.”

  “I don’t either.”

  “The guy is really into Jackson Pollock. He’s his hero.”

  Beecher nodded. “He was a fascinating artist. Did you—”

  “See the movie?” Audrey finished his sentence. “Yes. Not before, but I rented it after Ellie told me to. It was great.”

  “Yeah. It was.”

  “Are you hungry, Beecher? Did you want to go out, or are you tired? What do you want to do?”

  “I don’t know. I could go either way.”

  “Well, you pick. We can go out, or order in, or whatever you want.”

  “Let’s go out. You look too pretty to stay in.”

  * * * * *

  Audrey suggested Ai Fiori, Michael White’s new Italian place in the Setai Hotel on Fifth Avenue. They took another taxi to get there. Once inside they were seated by a middle-aged hostess at an intimate corner table. It had crisp white linens and a candle glowed in the center. A blind man played soft music on an ebony grand piano.

  “This is probably not very elegant, but I’m going to order pizza,” Beecher said after perusing the m
enu.

  “The pizzas are the best thing.”

  “Want to share one with me?”

  “Sure. I like the one with artichoke hearts and sun-dried tomatoes.” Audrey leaned across the table to show Beecher the right one on his menu.

  “Amy’s Aphrodisiac.” He read the name aloud, raising an eyebrow.

  Audrey narrowed her eyes. “I don’t get it for the name.”

  “Sure, sure.”

  “You are so immature.”

  He grinned at her and then set down his menu. “Audrey’s Aphrodisiac it is.”

  “Beecher!”

  The waiter appeared to take their order.

  “We’re going to share an Amy’s,” Audrey told him. “And two glasses of red wine.”

  He nodded and took their menus.

  “So, tell me all about Ellie’s opening night. I called to wish her luck before, but I haven’t talked to her yet about how it went.”

  “She was outstanding—just unbelievable. You’d never imagine, or I wouldn’t, that a person could do what she did with that role. I mean, that night she turned this little hillbilly story into high art.”

  “Really?” Audrey said. “Good for her.” “It was something.”

  “Do you think Will Howitt has something to do with it?”

  Beecher snorted. “Uh, yeah. I’d say.”

  “What’s he like? I mean, your impression. Because Ellie obviously—”

  “Is crazy about him.”

  “Yeah. And I’ve been worried about that. For her sake, you know. I hate not being there to gather my own impression.”

  The waiter poured their glasses of wine, and they thanked him, letting the wine set to breathe.

  “To be honest, I came home for that as much as opening night. From my vantage point in Munich, things seemed to be getting pretty serious.”

  “Do you think they are?”

  “I do. And you know how I usually hate all of Ellie’s boyfriends.”

  “Yes.” Audrey snickered.

  “I don’t feel that way about Will. He is definitely different.”

  Now Audrey was shocked. “I’ve thought that from what she has told me, but hearing you say it—that’s major.”

  “He’s very kind to her. Honoring. And he’s smart, at least—not like that idiot Seth Young.”

  Audrey rolled her eyes. “Did you see him in the play? Can you believe he showed up there?”

  “Yes. I saw him. His part is ridiculous—he doesn’t even have to act.”

  “Did he see you?”

  “No.”

  “What else about Will?”

  “I can’t believe Ellie hasn’t called you.”

  “What do you mean? They’re not getting married, are they?”

  Beecher gave her the look he usually reserved for people he thought were idiots.

  Audrey was unfazed. “Well, spit it out!”

  “Okay, this is all tied in with why I liked him so much.” Beecher took a sip of his wine. “We met this guy from New York in Branson, and it’s a long story, but he has a Broadway connection and he offered Ellie an audition.”

  Audrey’s eyes gleamed with joy. “No kidding! That’s wonderful!” “See—that’s exactly what Will said.” Beecher paused. “And that’s when I knew I liked him.”

  “Ah. He passed the friendship test.”

  “Yep.”

  The waiter came back with a steaming round plate covered in pizza and set it in the center of the table. He gave Audrey and Beecher both smaller white plates and offered fresh Parmesan and fresh cracked pepper. Audrey authorized both. Then, using her fork, she took a piece of pizza.

  Beecher followed. “This pizza is as beautiful as its name.”

  Audrey chomped into her piece, ignoring his comment.

  The crust was as thin as paper and perfectly crunchy. Instead of a tomato-based sauce, White used pesto, and then covered that with spinach leaves and arugula, yellow bell peppers, sun-dried tomatoes, artichoke hearts, red onions, avocado, and farm cheeses. This was placed in the oven and top-broiled—till everything was roasted but still crisp and fresh. It exploded with colorful flavor.

  “Heaven on a plate.” Audrey went for her second piece.

  After the wine and pizza were gone, Beecher ordered a piece of amaretto cheesecake, which they shared for dessert. Then they had decaf coffee. It was midnight before they returned to Audrey’s apartment. After tossing her shoes into her bedroom, Audrey retrieved linens from the closet at the end of the hall. Returning to the living room, she and Beecher began to stretch sheets over the couch where he was going to crash.

  “I wish I didn’t have to go to work tomorrow.”

  “Me too.” Beecher consulted his watch. “You’re going to be tired.”

  “I don’t have to go in till nine o’clock, so it’s not so bad.” She tossed him a pillow, which he placed at one end of the couch. “I did get off for Thursday and Friday, though.”

  “That’s great. And I’ve got that meeting tomorrow anyway, so we’ll get our business tended to and then do some playing before I have to leave.”

  “‘Night, Beech.” She held out her fist to punch his softly.

  “‘Night, Audrey.”

  * * * * *

  The next morning Audrey moved as silently as possible around the apartment. She knew Beecher had to be beat, after flying in from Munich, then going straight to Branson, making the trip to St. Louis with his Opa from Hermann, and then flying to New York and staying up late with her the night before. She remembered him as a heavy sleeper anyway, from all of the times she’d spent the night with Ellie growing up. Their giggling, dancing to music, and other antics had never seemed to faze him. That sort of fortitude, she thought, would serve him well on her couch.

  Hiding out in her bedroom, Audrey dressed in a lime-colored suit that was seam-detailed. The cotton and spandex jacket had oversized buttons and long sleeves, which she pushed up. She also turned up the collar. Gathering her hair into a ponytail, she twisted small sections of it back, creating a chic bun at the back of her head, just above the collar. She used several bobby pins to tame her rebellious curls and a few more to hold back her bangs. Again, she wore no jewelry.

  She sneaked past a sleeping Beecher, who had stripped down to his boxers and V-neck undershirt before he went to bed on the couch. Audrey swallowed hard. His chest was visible over the top of the quilt. It rippled with muscle under the shirt, and he had chest hair, which Audrey had always found sexy.

  His feet were sticking out of the blanket Audrey provided him—her grandmother’s butterfly quilt—and her eyes lingered for a moment on his toes. He had the ugliest feet of anyone she’d ever met. It wasn’t really his feet, though, it was the toe. The second digit on each of Beecher’s two feet. They looked like toes and a half, with the upper part hooked so that the joint looked like a little knob, and the toenail curled insidiously under it.

  The toe was a genetically inherited atrocity that had apparently plagued the Heinrichs family for generations. Audrey and Ellie had teased Beecher about it mercilessly as children, and she’d even heard Katherine say how thankful she was that the toe skipped her, passing directly from Opa to Beecher. For Beecher’s part, he took it all in stride, usually responding to their teasing by touching them with the toe or making some remark about it being his one imperfection. Opa would join him, saying, “They are just jealous of us, Beecher. The toe is obviously a mark of genius.”

  Feeling like a kid again, Audrey dug down in her purse. She crept stealthily over to where Beecher was sleeping and squatted on the rug beside his feet. She took out her hot pink nail polish and began to paint the nail of each hideous toe, starting with the one on the left foot and then moving to the right. Beecher stirred once, and Audrey nearly dropped the brush, but then he settled down and she was able to finish. It was a masterpiece.

  Checking to make sure Beecher was sound asleep, Audrey replaced the polish and got out her phone to take a picture. Then she tiptoed out
of the apartment, shutting the door and locking it behind her. She would send the picture to Ellie while she was on the subway.

  Chapter Thirty

  “Will, you have got to see this!”

  Ellie held up the phone from where she was cooking in the kitchen. Will set down the magazine he was reading beside the chair and walked up to the bar. He took the phone from Ellie.

  “Is that Beecher’s foot?”

  “Yes! Audrey did it to him in his sleep. Isn’t that hilarious?”

  Will smiled, feeling a male’s sympathy for Beecher. “The tortured toe. He’s going to be surprised when he wakes up.”

  “I’m sure he was. The picture was from this morning.”

  Ellie drained the pappardelle, which was al dente, and folded it into the pork ragù she’d been slow-cooking for hours.

  “That smells wonderful.”

  “Thanks. It’s a new recipe I found in Williams-Sonoma. I hope it’s good.”

  Will opened the Heinrichs Haus Chianti Ellie had set out and poured them each a glass. He sat down at the bar, facing her. Using braising tongs, Ellie dished up the hearty ragù in white pasta bowls and rounded the bar to join him.

  “I’d like to propose a toast.”

  Ellie lifted her glass. “Okay.”

  “To you and your new adventure. I believe this is going to be a big break for you, Ellie.”

  They clinked their glasses together, and each took a sip of the Chianti.

  Ellie set her glass down tentatively. “I should really be toasting you, you know.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “For giving me the wings to fly away from here.”

  A shadow passed through Will’s eyes, but he smiled at her. “It’s your dream. What else could I do?”

  “Well, for starters, you could make me finish out my contract with The Shepherd.”

  “I wouldn’t stand in the way of anyone’s dream—much less yours.” “I know. And it’s wonderful of you.” She traced the rim of her glass with the tip of her index finger,

  “That’s not to say it’s easy. I’m going to miss you terribly—in the play and around here.”