by Renee Roszel
“Remember me?” he asked, his leer perfectly vile.
Paul had turned now, but he said nothing as Gina nodded vaguely. “I do, but I’d appreciate it if you don’t mention it again.”
He chuckled and winked. “Our little secret, honey.”
Gina’s face went hot. Obviously this Max person had gotten the wrong idea about her. Apparently he believed that just because a woman prances around outside naked, she was loose or something. Try as she would, she couldn’t really blame him for that.
“Say, Max,” Paul inquired. “You know Gina?”
He chuckled again. It was a depraved sound that made Gina feel like she needed a shower. “Yeah, we met once.” His slitted gaze shifted to Gina as he added, “Didn’t we, honey?”
Paul frowned.
Gina cleared her throat. “Look, if you don’t mind, I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t call me that.”
Still smiling, he ran a thick paw along his temple, as if smoothing his mane of hair, though Gina could tell it was heavily moussed into place and probably couldn’t be destroyed by a tidal wave. “Then maybe you’d better tell me your name,” he suggested smoothly. “I’m Max Murphy. Any time I’m out your way making deliveries, don’t hesitate to ask me to stop by and do you any little—favor.”
“Uh—Max, this is Gina Baron,” Paul interjected. “She’s getting a divorce.”
Gina spun to eye Paul narrowly. “Thanks for the help,” she retorted thinly.
Paul looked confused. “What’s with you and Max?” he asked. But before Gina could reply, Fred Potter called for quiet and explained that the lead characters would be decided tonight. Tomorrow he’d announce the supporting cast and stagehands.
“He’ll have to telephone me,” Gina whispered. “I’ll be entertaining David’s boss.”
Paul lifted a skeptical brow. “Are you going to be a good girl?”
With a defiant smirk, she asked, “What do you think?”
Paul grinned and shook his head, but they didn’t have time to say more. Tryouts had begun.
When her name was called, Gina stood to go but was stopped by a paw on her wrist. “I’ll be rooting for you, pretty lady,” Max whispered from behind her.
“Me, too,” Paul promised, smiling encouragingly.
Trying not to think about the fact that Max Murphy would be envisioning her naked, she moved on rubbery legs to the stage.
The pianist was a sprightly octogenarian named Marjorie. She was a wonderful musician and could improvise just about anything anyone wanted to sing. Gina hadn’t thought about having to prepare something, so her mind raced as she tried to decide what might best showcase her voice. When Fred greeted her with an encouraging pat on the shoulder and asked the dreaded question, she managed to squeak out, “Does Marjorie know ‘The Indian Love Call’? It’s from an old Jeanette McDonald and Nelson Eddy movie.”
Marjorie nodded and her sharp blue eyes twinkled merrily. Apparently she preferred the old songs to some of the contemporary stuff she’d been asked to play. Moments ago, Idi had managed to pull off a passable version of Lady Gaga’s latest hit. More than half the credit should rightfully have gone to Marjorie, who’d done a miraculous rendition at the piano.
“‘Indian Love Call’ is fine,” Fred agreed. “But who do you want to sing it with you? It’s a duet.”
She fiddled nervously with her hat brim. That hadn’t occurred to her. “Well, er, I—”
“How about me?” came a strong baritone voice from the rear of the room. Gina jumped at the familiar sound and her gaze shot back to see David ambling up the center isle.
Her eyes widened at the sight, for he looked nothing like the Yuppie professor she’d married. He sported a pair of faded jeans that hid little of his masculine attributes, glossy black cowboy boots and a flannel shirt, its sleeves rolled up to reveal muscular forearms. To top off the ensemble, he wore a black cowboy hat. Its wide brim was pulled low, obscuring his eyes in shadow—but not his strong jaw or his appealing half-smile.
There was an appreciative buzzing among the feminine members of the Maryvale Players as this tall, broad-shouldered cowboy made his way to the front of the room. Then, to Gina’s utter astonishment, he placed one hand on the stage and pushed himself up over the top and righted himself, as though he’d leaped across fences and onto broncos’ backs all his life.
Thrusting out a hand to Fred, he drawled, “Howdy, I’m Dave Baron. I’ll sing with the little lady.” The words had come out in a flawless Texas accent, devoid of the clipped British intonation he’d acquired while living in England. All at once Dr. David Baron of London and Boston was every inch a Texan! Gina’s lips dropped open in shock.
Fred was grinning broadly. “Glad to meet you, Dave,” he said, pumping the taller man’s hand. Then his face took on a curious note of recognition. “Baron, you say?”
David glanced at Gina as he said, “Right.”
“Oh, Gina’s husband,” Fred mused aloud. “Well—welcome to tryouts, Dave. I guess you’re here for a while?”
Gina winced. Though she’d tried to keep David and his reason for being here a secret, the news had obviously gotten around.
“I’m visiting for the summer,” David was saying. “I hope it’s okay if I try out.”
Fred nodded. “All we ask is that you sing loud and, if you get a lead part, don’t run out on us before opening night.”
David nodded. “You’ve got a deal.”
What is his game? Gina cried mentally. Did he plan to keep her his prisoner even in town?
When she cast him an incredulous look, he snagged her gaze and held it with those shadowed eyes, and as Fred moved away to leave the couple alone at center stage, he whispered, “I would have preferred Verdi’s Aïda, darling, but in a pinch, I can dredge up my country-boy past.”
“You don’t know this song!” she retorted under her breath.
“I’ve heard those old seventy-eights your grandmother left you for years. I imagine I could sing everything Jeanette and Eddy ever recorded in my sleep.”
“Please—I don’t want you here,” she sputtered, upset.
His lips twisted devilishly as he mouthed, “I know.”
Gina saw no laughter in his eyes, and she felt sick. When bent on getting his way, David was a hard man to oppose.
Marjorie began her musical introduction. David turned to half face the audience, and, getting into character for the love song, placed a caressing arm about Gina’s shoulders. Just before she was to begin her part of the haunting lyric, he whispered, “I hope those aren’t my good pants.”
She looked up at him lovingly, as was required by the song, and murmured, “They are. And if you like this outfit, just wait until tomorrow night.”
The music paused and then swelled. It was time for Gina to start. Her smile, as she began to sing, had more to do with his grimace than the obligatory loving expression. Her face lifted sweetly upward as she expressed her undying love for her Indian brave.
David answered, his voice gentle yet strong, and as lush as any male singer Gina had ever heard. When their parts required that they blend their voices, he even harmonized perfectly with her melody.
The song ended, and their vocals drifted away on a lingering seductive note. For a long moment there was no sound at all in the room. Then, all at once, the onlookers burst into applause. Some of the most appreciative stood and whistled.
Fred bounded up the stage steps to congratulate them for an awe-inspiring performance.
Shaking David’s hand, he smiled at Gina and declared, “If you two can act at all I think I’ve found my Curly and Laurey in one fell swoop!”
Gina smiled tentatively. It had never occurred to her that she might not only get the lead in this musical, but have to share it with David!
“If you two wouldn’t mind reading for the parts now, we can make this official.”
He ran off to get a couple of scripts, and as he did, Gina turned an accusing eye on her husband, demanding und
er her breath, “When did you ever sing?”
He lifted a shoulder in a lazy gesture. “I was in the boys’ choir at school. For three years running, I sang the solo in—”
“Never mind,” Gina snapped, her excitement about being in the Maryvale Players’ musical waning fast. “What about that John Wayne getup you’re wearing? Where in heaven’s name did you get it?”
“I made a few calls this afternoon to find out what the musical was. Then I visited the local thrift shop for the jeans. The department store had the rest. Looks pretty authentic, don’t you think?”
She sniffed, provoked. He did look authentic—powerfully so—but she refused to admit it. Instead she muttered, “You’re going to make a complete fool of yourself, David. Curly says words like ain’t, s’sposen and brung. You couldn’t do it—not even if you were going to be paid money.”
“S’posen I did it for love?” he chided with a taunting grin. “If I don’t miss my guess, Curly and Laurey will have a kiss from time to time.” His smile grew sly and meaningful, and a shaft of dismay sped down her spine.
“If you dare try to slide your tongue…” Unfortunately, Fred was back with the scripts and she thought better of finishing her thought. David was smart enough to get the message.
Winded from his dash up the stairs, Fred said, “Okay, let’s try the scene where Curly and Laurey are alone in the orchard. You’re holding hands, love-struck. At the end, down here.” He pointed on the page. “You might as well go into the song, ‘People Will Say We’re in Love.’ How about it?”
“Sounds great,” David replied, taking her hand firmly in his.
Gina’s smile was false as she assured Fred. “That should establish my acting ability if anything does.”
Gina noticed that Fred’s expression was perplexed as he left the stage.
Ten minutes later, Gina and David had been given the parts of Curly and Laurey. Gina felt only marginally victorious, considering her leading man. They were leaving the stage to lingering applause when she passed Paul, who was trying out for the part of Jud. He squeezed her arm and prompted, “See, there, I knew you’d get it.”
Her smile was sickly. “I guess I’m happy about it.”
His encouraging smile wavered. “That man of yours can do just about anything, can’t he?”
Gina’s lips compressed with determination. “He’s not my man! And after tomorrow night, he’ll wish he’d never followed me out here.”
DAVID HUNG UP THE PHONE and called to Gina, who’d locked herself in the bedroom over an hour before. “They’re in Maryvale, now. It’ll be twenty minutes until they arrive.”
“I’ll be ready.”
“You’re not going to embarrass me, are you?” he asked, worry ripe in his voice.
“I told you, David, I’ll be wearing a jacket, skirt and hose. How bad could it be?”
He stared at the closed door, his hands resting on his hips. “And how do I explain the tape across the house? Earthquake damage?”
“I don’t care how you explain it. It’s your problem, not mine. I never intend to explain myself to those educated snobs again.”
“What if I just rip it up?”
“You do, and I’ll come out there stark-naked.”
“Like you did with the deliveryman?”
There was a long pause before she replied firmly, “Don’t remind me of that. I didn’t know he was out there. The point is, he lives in town. I’ll have to run into him from time to time. The Finchkelps—I could care less!”
He pursed his lips and looked down at the damnable tape. Exhaling tiredly, he decided he had little choice. “All right. Put on your clothes. I’ll leave the tape.”
“Fine,” she called. “Let me know when they’re here.”
David puttered nervously in the kitchen, though the salad was made and in the crisper, the salmon steaks were ready to be popped into a simmering skillet of herbs, and the stuffed eggplants were giving off a delicious aroma from the oven. He’d worked hard on this meal, and he hoped everything would go all right. Quentin would be retiring in two years, and David knew he was high on the list of candidates to replace him as AEI’s president. It would be a highly prestigious position, even in Boston, a metropolis filled with prestigious institutes of higher learning.
He checked the warming plate where the spiced-apple dessert simmered. He’d been hard-pressed to put together a menu that didn’t conflict with Estelle’s dietary demands, but he thought he’d done a good job. Now, if only Gina would cooperate—
There was a hearty knock at the door, and David tensed. The moment was at hand that could make or break his chances of becoming AEI’s president.
“Gina,” he called as he went to the door. “The Finchkelps are here.”
Pulling the front door wide, he smiled at the squat, bald man and his thin, pinched-faced wife. “Why, hello, Estelle, Quentin. I gather you had no trouble at the bridge.”
Quentin, perpetually florid, marched inside, booming delightedly, “Baron, old sport, let me have a look at you. Estelle, doesn’t he look fine? Trim and brown as a boot.”
David smiled but didn’t particularly feel like it. His mind was on the bedroom door that had just clicked open.
Estelle followed her husband inside and repeated meekly, “Fine. David, you look fine.”
Ignoring Estelle, Quentin slapped David on the back and said, “Mind if I smoke, old sport? Estelle’s allergy to smoke keeps me from doing it in the car, you know.”
“If she’s allergic to smoke, Quentie, maybe you’d better quit—if not for your own sake, for hers,” Gina commented as she came out of the bedroom. Her bizarre appearance stopped David and both his guests dead in their tracks.
She smiled at the three stone-stiff statues, openly gaping at her, and she felt a thrill of triumph. She hadn’t lied to David. She was wearing a jacket, skirt and hose—only the jacket was oversize, sequined denim, and the skirt, a wildly printed yellow scarf with a long fringe. She’d tied it at her waist. Clingy and transparent, it covered only a portion of her thighs. Her hose were bright fuchsia and her shoes were studded riding boots. She had on a tie-dyed T-shirt, torn away at her midriff. Across her breasts was emblazoned the command, Don’t Think—Be!
From one ear dangled a man’s antique pocket watch, framed by hair that stood away from her head in all directions, as though it had been blown-dry in a wind tunnel. Lastly, and most disturbingly, her smiling lips were—black.
Estelle made a strangled sound in her throat, and Quentin didn’t even try to hide his gasp.
Slowly, reluctantly, David’s eyes trailed over his wife and his heart sank. She hated him. She couldn’t have shown it more clearly, had she walked directly to him and spat in his face. He closed his eyes, erasing the vision, wishing he could as easily erase the reality.
Gina, noting David’s shock, felt a sudden surge of remorse for what she was doing. She really didn’t want to humiliate him so much as shake a little stuffing out of the Finchkelps’ starched shirts. But by his pained expression, she could see that she was hurting David badly with her shabby game. Forcing herself to keep smiling, she went on with her entrance, but she decided she’d try to repair the damage if she could. Brightly, she exclaimed, “What? No costumes? David didn’t you remember to tell Quentin and Estelle this was a ‘Come as Your Favorite Singer’ dinner?”
He stared blankly at her as she forged on, thinking fast. “It’s the latest rage in California, Estelle. You see, I’m, er, Stinking Mama and David’s, uh, Julio Iglesias!” She’d pulled the name out of the air, not at all confident that Julio Iglesias ever wore button-down shirts and suspenders.
“Julio Iglesias?” Estelle asked, her expression even more pinched as she turned to look at David.
“Yes. He’s a Latin singer who—”
“I know who he is,” she interrupted quietly, walking toward David. Peering closely at him, she breathed, “My goodness.” Then she suddenly smiled, “I love Julio. You look just like him, e
xcept…” Shyly, she reached up and tugged a lock of hair down across his forehead. “There. That’s better.”
“Are you a fan of his?” Gina asked, surprised.
“I simply love him,” Estelle murmured. “Quentin, why didn’t you tell me this was a costume party? I don’t look like anybody.”
Gina felt pity for the poor woman who lived her life as The President’s Wife. Apparently she was starved for some fun. With a supportive smile, she offered, “You look a little like Doris Day, Estelle. Do you like her? Maybe if we pulled your hair back in a French roll and gave you a few freckles with my eyeliner pencil…”
Estelle’s face lit and she began to fumble with her fine, shoulder-length gray hair. Pulling it back, she declared. “I think that would help. What else?”
“Well, you see—” Gina was throwing out things now as they flashed through her mind. “We have to call each other by our singer’s name and we have to sing when we speak—in their style. Like Doris sings sweet and perky. Understand?”
Estelle was beaming with delight. Obviously she was game for new things. It was too bad not many new things came up in her life.
Quentin was scowling and Gina had a sinking feeling that this ploy wasn’t going to fool the correct, hidebound man. He looked from Gina to David and then back to Gina. “I’ve never heard of such a thing,” he groused. Peering pointedly at David, he said, “Old sport, you never even mentioned the party theme to me. And here I could have worn my new Bermuda shorts and come as Don Ho. I’ve loved Don Ho ever since we made that trip to Hawaii in ’89. Remember that, Estelle?”
She was removing her suit jacket and unbuttoning the top two buttons of her high-necked blouse. “Call me Doris, Don.” She smiled timidly at him. “And I may let you—be perky with me later.”
Gina almost fainted. Gathering her wits, she managed, “Just roll up your pants, Quent. And I can make you a lei from pages of this Newsweek and some string. What do you say?”
The older man rubbed his big paws together in anticipation, quick to do as she suggested. After rolling up his pants to expose pasty, bow-legs, he began to gyrate his mammoth hips, singing something about a grass shack in a gritty monotone.