Verity and the Villain

by Eloise Alden

“It’s silly to compare yourself to a tree. Why not a cat?”

  “I’m allergic.” The woman winked at her. “Would you like to go whale watching or not?”

  “Are you sure?” Addison took the proffered tickets, and saw they were for tomorrow morning. She had thought to leave before then, but she’d already paid for the vacation rental for the weekend, so she might as well stay. “Would you like me to buy them off you?”

  “Not with money.”

  “Oh.” Addison’s suspicion hackles rose. She didn’t like making deals with strangers.

  “You can tell me a story. I collect stories, you know.”

  “Really? So do I!” Addison perked up, but then remembered her sadness. “Or at least I did.”

  “Once a writer, always a writer.”

  “No…I am a writer, just not a very good one.”

  The woman quirked an eyebrow.

  “Not a successful one,” Addison amended, thinking of her collection of rejection letters from agents and editors. “And I own a bookstore, so I collect stories there, too. Or I did.”

  “What happened?”

  “The economy,” a sick anger burned in her belly, “and the ugly tide of self-publishing. I leased out my bookstore last week. Soon it’ll be a massage parlor.”

  The woman chuckled.

  “I’m glad someone can laugh about it.” Addison tucked a loose curl behind her ear.

  “Well, you have to admit, a bookstore and a massage parlor are both in the same business.”

  “How’s that?”

  “They’re both used to manipulate moods.” The woman gaze at her with watery blue eyes.

  “I suppose.”

  “Is that it?” the woman asked, her gaze growing more intense.

  “Is what it?” Addison squirmed beneath the woman’s scrutiny.

  “Is your failing bookstore the reason you look like someone drowned your cat and poisoned your dog?”

  Addison thought about confessing her mistake to this woman, but she wasn’t ready to admit it, not even to herself.

  The woman patted Addison’s cheek with a hand of bones and papery thin skin. “It’s okay to be sad. Here, I have something that will cheer you.” She pushed her satchel toward Addison.

  “What’s this?”

  “It’s a story. I’ve been carrying it around, wondering what to do with it. I didn’t feel I could leave until I found the right person to take care of it for me, but you are that person. I want you to have it.”

  Addison opened up the satchel and peeked inside at the hundreds of typewritten pages. “You don’t think your grandson will want it?”

  “No, he only reads nonfiction.” She said this in the same sort of tone she would have used to say he only eats fried liver and onions.

  Addison smiled. “Thank you. This is…so kind.”

  The woman slipped her feet back into her shoes. “No, thank you. It’s nice to see a story you love reach a happy ending. Now how about you? You owe me a story.”

  “You don’t want to hear my stories.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “Well, why would you? No one else does…”

  The woman contemplated her. “Perhaps you’re right. How’s this? In payment for those tickets, you need to make sure that this weekend has a happy ending.”

  Addison thought about the disappointing beginning of her weekend, and bit her lower lip. “I’m sorry, I’m not sure I can promise you that.”

  The woman leaned forward to peer into Addison’s face. “Will you try?”

  “Huh. Sure. I’ll try.”

  The woman pulled herself to her feet. “Goodbye, my dear. Promise me you’ll take good care of my story and write a happy ending for this weekend.”

  “I promise,” Addison said, although she had no idea how to do that, or what the woman was asking of her. As the woman tottered away, Addison glanced around and spotted a bookstore. Because she’d learned long ago that her only hope for a happy ending lay between the pages of a novel, she headed for the familiar warmth of a shop full of books. After buying a blueberry muffin and a cup of tea at the counter, Addison found a plump upholstered chair near the window, pulled out the manuscript, and began to read.

  Gracey and the Gambler

  By Geneva Leigh

  Wanted: A nice, plump, healthy, good-natured looking domestic and affectionate lady to correspond with. Object: matrimony. She must be a believer in God and immortality. She must not be a gadabout or given to scandal, but willing to endeavor to create a happy home.

  The Arizona Sentinel, 1875

  Poke was playing her song! White-hot anger, as mind altering as any potion or aphrodisiac, flashed through Gracey. Clarisse, a virginal vision clothed in white lace, opened her mouth to sing, and Gracey grabbed the closest weapon she could find, an occupied wig stand, and headed for the stage.

  Clarisse’s high C turned to a squeak and her blond curls bobbed when she saw Gracey flying up the stairs wielding the wooden head.

  “That’s my song, you little strumpet!” Gracey took center stage and swung at Clarisse.

  The wig hit Clarisse in the face, but she brushed it away as if it were a large, hairy fly. Clarisse straightened her dress and picked up her tune, leaving Poke, the pianist, a few stunned beats behind.

  With the wig stand braced in front of her like a battering ram, Gracey charged. Clarisse jumped away, and Gracey landed in the curtains. Clarisse climbed onto the piano bench, jostling Poke, who lifted his hands from the keyboard and flashed Gracey a startled although amused look. Clarisse, balancing beside the pianist, nudged him with her tiny shoe. “Please continue, sir. This audition is not over.”

  “Oh yes it is!” Gracey dropped the wig stand, which bounced around her feet as she lunged for Clarisse.

  “Now, Miss Clarisse, you know I can’t let you climb on the piano.” Poke, struggling not to laugh, reached for but missed Clarisse.

  Clarisse inched across the lid of the upright piano as Gracey scrambled onto the bench and, using Poke’s shoulder as a toehold, tried to join the music-thieving Clarisse on the top. Poke grabbed Gracey and hauled her to center stage. She kicked Poke’s legs and tried to pry his grip from her waist.

  “Can’t you see she’s a complete nutter, Ivan?” Clarisse said from her perch on top of the piano. “We simply cannot have her in the troupe.”

  Gracey wriggled for a better look at Poke’s good-natured face. “I wrote that song. It’s mine. She stole it!”

  “I didn’t steal it. Besides, how can one steal a song?” Clarisse asked. “I simply heard it, learned it—”

  “Through the paper-thin walls while I wrote it. Do you want to know what I heard through the walls?” Gracey smacked her lips, making kissing noises. “If you get a spot in the troupe, we will all know why!”

  Clarisse gasped in outrage, and Ivan, the director, laughed from his place in the dark auditorium.

  “I got my position in the troupe because of my gifts and talent!” Clarisse said.

  So Clarisse already had a role. Little wonder. “And your willingness to share your...gifts and talents.” Gracey wiggled, but Poke wouldn’t let her go.

  “Would you like to sing, Miss Ryan?” Ivan’s disembodied voice spoke from the theater seats. Because of the dark house and the flickering gas lights lining the stage, Gracey couldn’t see Ivan and wished she could. She longed to read his expression.

  Poke didn’t seem in the least perturbed about holding her. Of course, he was built like an ox. He was not solely the troupe’s accompanist but also the “man at large” responsible for assembling and disassembling the heavy settings.

  “Set her down,” Ivan said. “Let’s hear her.”

  Clarisse put her balled fists on her hips. “I think we have heard quite enough from her!”

  Poke chuckled and set Gracey down. Gracey flashed Clarisse a warning glance. Gracey worried that Clarisse might stomp the piano keys or kick at Poke, who was settling onto his bench, acting as if hav
ing a blond tart atop his piano was de rigueur.

  “You wrote this song?” Ivan said. “Then let’s hear it.”

  “Ivan,” Clarisse’s tone turned silky soft, reminding Gracey of Clarisse’s many “private auditions,” when Ivan had undoubtedly seen and heard more than a song…or two.

  “I’ve heard you, Clarisse. I know what you can do,” Ivan said, confirming Gracey’s suspicions that Clarisse had only gone through the formality of the audition for the prime purpose of discouraging Gracey from joining the traveling troupe and escaping dreary Seattle.

  Poke played the opening bars while Gracey stared into the lights. Blood pounded in her head and zinged through her veins. Every nerve tingled, and goosebumps rose on her arms. The Rose Arbor Traveling Troupe was her ticket back to New York City, and she wasn’t about to let a trollop like Clarisse steal it from her.

  Gracey came in right on cue, her voice steelier than her spine and almost as strong as her resolve.

  ***

  “Quite the show you put on tonight,” a voice sounded from the center of her dressing room and sent the sensation of crawling worms down Gracey’s back. She took a deep breath and threw a robe over her chemise. Boris Kidrick, a heavy drinker, tobacco chewer, and black licorice sucker, carried his own unique odor—a stink Gracey easily recognized and did her best to avoid. She wondered when he had come in, because she hadn’t heard the door over the clatter of the dancers and the tinkling piano rising through the floorboards. Gracey poked her head over the screen to see Boris leering at her.

  “I try to entertain.” She kept her voice light. Her earlier outburst had left her tired and drained. She didn’t want another sparring match.

  Her glance fell on the fire tools beside the mantel. She considered caning Boris and finishing him off. She’d be doing the world a favor, and then the world would be in her debt. She really would like to be in a position to call in favors, instead of the awkward, semi-clothed position in which she currently found herself.

  “And I could use a little entertainment.” He licked his lips. “How much for a private show?”

  The door flew open, and Matilda breezed in, but she stopped short when she spotted Boris standing bull-like amid the overflowing costume trunks and crates of props. Matilda took a step toward the screen, as if to protect Gracey, and glared at Boris.

  “Mr. Kidrick, you must know men aren’t allowed in the dressing room!” Matilda crossed her arms and drew herself up to her impressive full height, towering over the squatty man.

  Boris chuckled. “I now own this room and that fancy stage you’re so fond of parading on.”

  Surprise replaced Matilda’s haughty expression, and Boris rubbed his hands together. “Didn’t know that, did ya?” He chuckled at Matilda’s sagging shoulders. “Good things are coming my way,” he said, an unpleasant glint in his eye. “We will be having that show I mentioned. If not tonight—then soon. Maybe on this stage or maybe someplace quieter. You may not know it yet, but when I bought this theater, I bought you too.”

  He winked at Gracey, who ducked behind the screen and tightened the belt on her robe. She waited for the sound of the door closing before she peeked out.

  “He’s gone.” Matilda crossed the room, dropping clothing on her way to the dressing table. She sat before the mirror and rubbed her face with cream, leaving her stage makeup in runny smears. In the harsh light, she looked all of her forty years plus some.

  “I didn’t know Mr. Taylor had sold the theater,” Gracey said, settling down on the bench beside the older woman.

  Matilda shrugged and frowned. “I heard Kidrick came into some money.”

  “Any chance he’ll lose it—and the theater?” Gracey’s glance met Matilda’s in the glass.

  “It’s inevitable. But until then, we have to live with him.” Matilda scrubbed at her worn and tired face. Once she had been beautiful. Under the stage lights, she still moved like royalty. But here, in the quiet dressing room, after a long night of trying to carry a loveliness she could no longer claim, Matilda appeared faded beside Gracey’s pink skin and blue eyes. Gracey, feeling apologetic for her youth, twisted her hair into a long, thick braid.

  Matilda patted Gracey’s hand. “Don’t worry, pet, you’ll be on your way to New York long before we get a new lock for the dressing room door.”

  “Why do men like Boris consider actress synonymous with harlot?”

  Matilda twitched a boney shoulder.

  “King David liked to sing and dance. No one thought he was immoral.” Gracey’s voice faltered. “Until Bathsheba came out on the roof… Maybe he’s not the best example—but he did sing and dance.”

  Matilda laughed. “There are plenty of noble and worthy performers.”

  “Tell that to my father, my mother, my grandmother and my cousins.” Gracey swallowed. “Tell that to men like Boris.”

  “Your father and mother—although they might not have meant to—have hurt you far worse than the likes of Boris Kidrick.”

  Gracey had learned a lot from Matilda since she had joined the Rose Arbor troupe, but that particular lesson she had learned months earlier when her parents had shipped her to her grandmother’s ranch seven long, bumpy, jaw-jarring and teeth-rattling miles from Godforsaken Seattle. Had they really expected her to stay on a ranch surrounded by acres of pastures of horses, cattle and cowpies? Did they really think she would learn to behave like her hick grandmother and shovel out stables?

  As if reading her mind, Matilda said, “I don’t know why you’re so anxious to return to their company.”

  Gracey leaned against her friend. “I don’t want to go to New York to see my parents!”

  Matilda’s lips curved into a smile. “You want to be on the New York stage.”

  “Of course!”

  “Do you imagine that you will sing and dance right beneath your family’s nose and they will never notice?”

  “I am an actress—and a wizard with makeup and design. They will never recognize me.”

  Matilda lifted an eyebrow. “Your family has already summoned a posse to look for you.”

  “Here. But they won’t think to look in their own backyard!”

  Skepticism clouded Matilda’s expression. “If they are as influential and prominent as you say—”

  Gracey lifted her chin. “No one can stop a shooting star.”

  Matilda smiled and wiped off her face cream. “Laws, child, have you no fear of heights?”

  ***

  Addison put down the manuscript. It was silly…but compelling. The opening advertisement made her ill. So many women through so many generations saw marriage as the end-all. Her mother had taught her, “A man is not a financial plan.” And yet, Addison had still fallen for it. It was like she was programed to see a man as an answer to her problems. When would she finally grasp that a man wasn’t the answer, but, in her case, the problem?

  Addison braced her shoulders. She had to solve her own problems now. But a tricky little voice in the back of her head whispered that even after Paul’s death she still wasn’t standing on her own financial feet. The life insurance policy would always eclipse anything she could ever hope to earn at the bookshop. It had been tempting to continue on at the store, watching it lose money every month, but common sense and Mr. Patel had prevailed. She had tried to make a go of a business and she’d failed. Just like she’d failed her marriage. Even if she hadn’t known it.

  She glanced around the Books and Bun Bookshop. What made this place successful? Who says it is? the voice in her head asked. All the people? But how many are actually buying anything?

  Addison sank back in the club chair and took note of her fellow bookstore patrons. The elderly man with his glasses perched on the end of his nose had a pile of historical fiction books on the ottoman in front of him. In the children’s section, a mother with a toddler on her lap flipped through a picture book. Two chairs over, a nail-biting woman sat lost in a romance. Dozens of people were parked at the tables, hiding behind
laptops. She couldn’t see the checkout counter from where she sat and, of course, she had no way of knowing the store’s financials, but if no one was actually buying anything, the store had to be suffering.

  It was just like the self-publishing tidal wave. If everyone was going to give away books, how would any book business survive?

  “Addison? What are you doing here?”

  James.

  Too late to hide. She smiled up into his blue eyes. How could she have been so mistaken? Had she completely misread him? Had all those lunches and long conversation been nothing more than a pleasant way to spend the time?

  “Checking out the competition?” he asked.

  She swallowed. “A bookstore in Shell Falls could hardly compete with a shop in Frisco.” Especially if the Shell Falls shop closed its doors.

  “That’s true.” He nodded. “I guess I shouldn’t be surprised to find you in here. But why didn’t you tell me you were coming to San Francisco?”

  Not knowing what to say, she gave him a weak shrug. She’d wanted to surprise him. But he’d been the one to surprise her when she’d spotted him kissing that blonde on the pier. The girl looked like a teenager with an incredibly poor sense of color coordination—bumble-bee stockings, a red and white striped mini-skirt, a purple hoodie.

  “You’re a long way from home.” She heard the questions in his tone, but she didn’t feel the need to provide any answers.

  Cary Grant handsome, James usually caused her to melt whenever he came into her shop, but now when she looked at him she couldn’t help seeing the Barbie hanging on his arm. Even if the blonde wasn’t there physically, in Addison’s head, she was.

  “Even bookstore owners need a vacation,” she told him.

  “How long are you in town?”

  She had thought about leaving as soon as she’d seen him and Bimbo in action, but now she decided she wasn’t going to let him run her off like a dog with a tail between her legs. “I’m here for the weekend.”

  Trying to mask his surprise, he glanced at his watch. “That’s great. I have a commitment tonight.”