But the candles, the lack of electricity—the stage had been set.
In agreeing to marry Gerald, she’d agreed to several stipulations. Playing the role of a character out of a book was something he’d asked her to do—kept his mind active, he’d claimed. She figured he was just odd. But then again, so was she. What would be expected of her tonight, as on all other nights, was for her to guess the play or book and respond with the accurate lines to Gerald’s. After a line or two were exchanged, adhering to the script would no longer be part of the enactment, and she and Gerald would spend an hour or two talking to each other about their day’s events—as the character they were portraying.
She drew in a breath and squared her shoulders. Forget a bubble bath and early bedtime. Time to play the role.
She wandered about the room, searching for clues. A thin pink silk sheath lay on her bed, along with suede slippers. She riffled through the clothes. A petticoat, bloomers, and silk stockings lay neatly next to a garter belt. And a note. She frowned. The words gave her little to go on besides a simple direction written with a quill and ink: Your Ladyship, clothes tha mun wear. What?
A knock sounded at the door and Gail, the part-time upstairs maid and full-time drama student, opened the door. Liz swept her gaze over the girl.
“Evenin’, Your Ladyship.” Dressed in a black poplin high-necked dress with a hem just below her knees, long sleeves, button boots, and a white muslin pinafore, Gail bobbed in a quick curtsey.
Liz bit her lip. Hell. If she came to Gerald without first figuring out her part, the evening would be ruined. At least, Gerald’s evening would be ruined. She sighed. A man who required no emotional connection was what she’d wanted, but sometimes she became annoyed with the inconvenience of adhering to the historic authenticity of a role. She also had grown frustrated at having to figure out who she was supposed to play by the few clues Gerald left.
She scanned Gail’s costume, which fit the part of a maid in many different times, save for the skirt length. Not enough information for her to determine a role. She let out a slow sigh and turned back to the neatly piled clothing on the bed. “Help me dress, Gail?” she asked.
“It’s Mrs. Betts, if you please. Your housekeeper.”
Mrs. Betts, the housekeeper. Another clue. To what, though? Gail’s speech betrayed no accent. The words she used could have been either American or British. Liz mentally sifted through the plays and pieces of literature she’d studied while getting her BA in Literature. Nothing cropped up—she was simply too tired to make her mind work.
Liz stripped out of the same dress she’d been wearing since early in the morning and bent over, pulling off her four-inch heels. She took a moment to massage her feet, groaning at the pain.
Gerald expected her to dress well. When he’d first brought models to the estate to choose her wardrobe based on what the designers had sent, Liz thought she’d died and gone to heaven, surrounded by all that luxury. Sometimes, though, a plain old pair of sneakers and her well-worn jeans called to her. She pinched the bridge of her nose.
“He’s waiting, mum, so p’rhaps we’d best hurry.”
Liz cocked her head to the side. British. This time Gail’s assumed British accent was clear. Cockney, maybe? “Thank you, Mrs. Betts, for the reminder. Perhaps you could let me know where I am to go?”
Gail—Mrs. Betts—shook her head. “I’m only to tell you to go outside, ’round back, mum. Yer t’ figure it out after that.”
Fine. She’d do just that. She raised her arms and the maid slid the dress over her torso, tugging the fabric straight. Liz peered down and noticed that her hem hit the same length as Gail’s, just below the knee. Silk stockings and suede slippers followed. Judging by the type of clothing and hemlines, she could safely assume the time period to be in the late 1920s.
Within moments, she stood ready. She left the maid to blow out the candles and padded down the curved marble staircase, then made her way to the back of the house, running over the few clues she’d been given by Gerald. She replayed what she knew in her mind: she was a lady, part of the English aristocracy. That bit had been clear.
She stepped outside and gasped in shock as rainwater sluiced over her. “Fuck!” she shouted, then clapped a hand over her mouth. Ladies did not shout the word “fuck” in public. Elizabeth Picard would never shout “fuck,” no matter how wet she got.
She shivered and wrapped her arms around her chest. Had the gardeners had forgotten to turn off the sprinkler system? She looked upward and realized the spray had been designed to seem like rain. Gerald would forget no detail in his re-enactments, as he called their charades. He’d set up the scene so she’d be caught in the rain. He’d given her a clue.
If she were an aristocratic lady during the late 1920s in England, caught in the rain, where would she go? She rolled her eyes, exasperated, and then chided herself. She’d made the decision to accept Gerald’s proposal…to forever play a role. She’d better damn well accept that being anyone but Liz Pritchard was her life from now on.
* * *
The solid oak barn door it its heavy iron hinges squawked in rusty protest as Liz pressed it open, cool Marin fog seeping in with her. The scent of hay and horses wafted over her as she stepped inside the warm, dimly lit building and peered into the darkness. She felt a surge of pride that she’d figured out her role from so few clues.
A sound caught her attention. There, a crack of light spilled from under a closed door, which opened slowly to reveal a man standing before her, in baggy cord breeches, a flannel shirt, and a black oilskin jacket. Gerald.
No, she reminded herself quickly. Tonight her fiancé would be Oliver Mellors, and she’d play the role of—
“Lady Chatterley,” Gerald said.
She’d guessed right.
Liz had learned early on that Gerald’s desire to play the role of famous characters from literature didn’t mean they followed the script, but rather created one of their own, interspersing lines from the literary works, or imitating the language. Usually she did quite well, using the skills she’d learned at acting a part from when she’d played the role of slut throughout her years in high school. The puffy clouds would fill her mind and she’d go empty as she played the role for Gerald. But tonight, her mind wouldn’t empty. The room felt too crowded, the costume too tight. Memories of her childhood and teen years crowded her mind, forcing away the beautiful white clouds that always made the real world face into oblivion.
“Say it, say it now,” he continued. “M’lady, say you love me.”
Gerald wanted Lady Chatterley to tell Oliver Mellors she loved him, she reminded herself. He didn’t want to hear Liz Pritchard tell Gerald Callahan she loved him. So why had her body tightened? Because of the words and who they reminded her of? She hadn’t been able to say the words to anyone for years.
Since Hunter.
Tears came to her eyes. Dammit. It had been thirteen years. Why the hell couldn’t her mind let go?
Focus on Gerald, she reminded herself. Gerald, and the role she was playing. Gerald, like her, wanted to live without love. Like her, he wanted to protect himself from the inevitable pain of getting hurt. But Gerald had no problem hearing words of love when playing make believe. She, however…
Play the role, dammit. Just play the role.
But those words caught in her throat and made her choke. Gerald demanded to hear what could never exist in her heart.
She couldn’t do this. Not tonight.
“I’m sorry, Gerald,” she said. She turned and caught him looking at her, his pupils a small pinprick of black against a sea of grey. Empty. No…sad.
“You’re still putting your house up for sale?” Gerald asked, his voice monotone.
Liz breathed a sigh of relief. He’d come out of his role as Oliver Mellors. She could answer as herself, and not tumble around in her head for Constance Chatterley’s voice. But she couldn’t talk about the house sale. Not yet. Not before she’d had a chance to tell Gerald
the fake engagement was over. “We need to talk,” she said.
A wave of some kind of emotion—pain, maybe?—passed over Gerald’s face. “Not tonight.”
“But it’s important.”
“I can’t, Liz,” he bit out sharply. He gave her an apologetic half-smile. “It’s been a tough day for me. I just want to escape into a little fantasy before dealing with more reality. You understand?”
God, did she ever. She nodded. “I met with the Realtor today.”
Relief seemed to wash over Gerald’s face, and his half-smile formed enough to seem real. “Good. Once the sale goes through, that will be the last of Liz Pritchard.”
She couldn’t help it—his words stung a little. The last of Liz Pritchard. Gerald was right—the deed to 35 Nightingale Lane was the last legal document with her former name. Once the sale went through, she’d be completely free of her past. Just the way she’d wanted, the way she’d planned.
So why the hell were there hot and angry tears in her eyes?
Gerald turned on his heel and strode to the door. Opening it, he paused, then turned back to her and said, “I need Elizabeth. Which means we need to get rid of Liz. I appreciate all you’re doing. I know this isn’t easy.”
She swallowed, then nodded and watched as he walked out the door.
Gerald was right—none of this was easy. But she hadn’t had things easy since she was thirteen. Before her mom hit the bottle hard. Before Liz had fallen in love with Hunter.
Before her life as she’d known it had come apart at the seams.
And when she’d tried to put the pieces back again, she’d ended up with her own version of Frankenstein—pieced and stitched together all completely wrong.
* * *
The next morning, Liz winced as Alba clutched her arm with what felt like a claw as they wandered through Gerald’s rose garden.
Alba stopped and bent her head to breathe in the scent of a bright pink rose, heavy with early morning dew. “Darling, your idea for the fundraising event—having couples dress up as literary lovers—is exquisite,” she said. “I’ll have to see if my husband would enjoy being Mr. Darcy, paired with me as Elizabeth Bennett. Or maybe Emma and Mr. Knightly. I do love my Austen heroines, don’t you?”
“I’m sure you and your husband will be a lovely Austen couple,” Liz said. “And I wish I could take credit, but I’m afraid Gerald was the one who put the idea in my head. He was thinking of having a costume party here sometime after our wedding and came up with the suggestion.”
“He didn’t mind you usurping his idea for our charity, did he?” Alba asked.
Liz thought maybe the woman had attempted to arch an eyebrow at her, but her forehead remained perfectly smooth.
Botox.
With a sudden realization, it dawned on her that this could be her in a few years—a woman whose face wouldn’t move. Surgically enhanced, biochemically modified. Like a Stepford wife. She grimaced. She was on her way. A far cry from whom she’d once dreamed of being.
A shudder passed over her. Apparently, she’d brought more back from Meadowview than just gas receipts. Memories of her youthful hopes and dreams had managed somehow to attach themselves to her psyche and she couldn’t seem to shake them free.
Once she’d dreamed of her and Hunter getting married and living in Meadowview. She thought she’d take care of her mother, get her off the booze. They’d have another child after both of them finished college, and get and a Labrador retriever and a couple of guinea pigs. Life would be good. Simple, Meadowview style.
Then she’d lost Hunter, her daughter, and her reputation all in one summer. And her friends at Meadowview High had turned on her. Everyone had. Even the librarian, Mrs. Gregson, had shot her daggers. The town had shown her its pasty underbelly, and she’d fought to leave.
She brought her attention back to the woman at her side, who was staring at her expectantly. At least, Liz assumed the expression was that of expectation. It was a little difficult to assess, what with the immovable brow and cheeks. She hadn’t realized until today how uneasy the expressionless faces of the women she’d been surrounding herself with her made her feel.
“No,” Liz answered. “Gerald didn’t mind in the least. He even suggested we go as Antony and Cleopatra. I’d mentioned Buttercup and Westley from The Princess Bride, but Gerald said—”
“Oh, no, far too common, my dear. Too beneath you.” Alba tossed a hand in the air, as if waving away a foul stench. “Gerald is right. Stick with the classics.”
Liz felt her face flush and fought hard to refrain from snapping at the woman. She drew a breath and counted her heartbeats until the flush of anger and desire to call Alba a snobby bitch passed. This was her life now—pandering to rich old biddies who thought they could pull off playing Elizabeth Bennett. Snobs who stuck their noses up in the air at anything they deemed beneath them.
Snobs like her.
She’d willingly joined their inner circle. Accepted the role of subtle snark. Well, then. If she were to truly be Elizabeth Picard, she’d better damn well star in the role.
“Come,” she murmured, tucking Alba’s hand in the crook of her arm. “I’ll take you to the library and show you Gerald’s collection of first editions. I’m sure you’ll be delighted in his many classics,” she said, emphasizing the word with an edge of sarcasm.
Next to her, the expressionless Alba remained oblivious. At least, that’s what it looked like to Liz. Who knew?
* * *
Abbie backed the red Ford Taurus out of her father’s garage and squinted into the early morning sun. Once in the street, she glanced both ways—not looking for oncoming traffic, but for her aunt’s car. With her father and stepmother, Ember, visiting Ember’s folks in Tallahassee, Abbie had been staying with her aunt Linda. With luck, her school hadn’t yet contacted Linda to let her know Abbie had skipped out after first period.
It hadn’t taken her long to ride her bike from school to her father’s house, punch in the security code in the garage door, and find the spare set of keys. Nerves had shot through her when the car sputtered, but she calmed when the engine finally cranked over and purred to life.
There was no sign of Linda’s yellow Prius on the street. The coast was clear. With trepidation, Abbie gave the car a little gas. The vehicle revved, but went nowhere. Oh, yeah, the parking brake, she remembered. She pressed the thumb latch down and released the brake, startled when the car leaped forward down the road.
Her heart pounded loudly in her ears. She knew she could get in a boatload of trouble if she were caught. But her father, her real father, Hunter Thorne, wanted to meet her. And his last email said he was going to Meadowview to find her mother, Liz Pritchard. He’d even given her the address: 35 Nightingale Lane, Meadowview, California. Population: 2,010.
Podunk, USA, basically. A nothing town in the middle of nowhere. But a town where her parents were waiting for her, whether they knew it or not.
The onramp to the freeway lay directly ahead. Abbie revved the engine, letting the Taurus leap forward. She hit the freeway doing seventy-five, power and excitement surging through her as the car burned a line of rubber down the road.
* * *
Later that evening, Liz stepped into her dressing room and sucked in a deep breath at the sight of the rich, ruby red velvet gown. Crap. She’d forgotten Gerald had arranged yet another role-play for tonight. And she still hadn’t had a chance to talk to him about breaking off the engagement. His secretary had penned her in for the following day, but by the looks of the costume in front of her, tomorrow would be too late.
She rubbed a hand across her forehead. After yesterday with Hunter, she knew she couldn’t play a character again. She felt raw. As if every one of her emotions had been torn out of her and exposed.
But she couldn’t just bow out of the arrangement with Gerald without first discussing it with him. She owed him that. There may be no love between them, but there was still mutual respect. Concern. Care. A friendshi
p of sorts
She fought against the pain edging into her chest and slid a hand against the velvet, fingering the soft fabric, admiring the dress Gerald had chosen. The gown laced up the bodice, which was embroidered in gold and silver thread. White handcrafted lace layers edged a crisp white chemise. A farthingale sat to the side, along with a red cap and lengths of red ribbons. Silk woven stockings and calfskin-laced shoes had been placed on a cushioned stepstool.
Gail entered, and the maid looked extraordinarily different in a white shift, dusty blue petticoat, and grey corset than when Liz had seen her earlier in the day in her uniform.
“Time to dress, madam,” Gail said, curtseying.
Liz knew Gerald. The costume pointed to Shakespeare, but which play?
Gail helped her dress, remaining silent except for the occasional direction in how to place her arms in all the bits and pieces of the costume. She spent time pulling Liz’s hair back and winding ribbons in the length, then pinning up the mass. By the time Liz was fully dressed, she still hadn’t picked up on any clues. Was she to guess by the dress alone?
Gail finished dressing her and pointed downstairs, saying, “Go, girl, seek happy nights to happy days.”
Liz mentally sifted through lines she’d memorized from Shakespeare’s plays. The line sounded familiar, but she needed more context. Damn. She headed downstairs, uncertain of where she was supposed to find Gerald. The man hadn’t given her much to go on this time. At the cavernous foyer with its black and white checked marble floor, she paused, listening. The sound of classical music—Stravinsky? Prokofiev?—came drifting to her from the right: the grand hall.
She walked toward the hall, slowly becoming aware that each step brought a sense of unease. Of dread. The sensation puzzled her. She’d participated in Gerald’s dramatic events before, so why would she feel this way now? Why the nervous tension? Why wasn’t her mind drifting off into its puffy cotton cloud state and removing her from the real world this time?
Claiming The One (Meadowview Heat 3; The Meadowview Series 3) Page 7