“Oh, I don’t think so,” she said breezily. “There aren’t any lying, cheating bastard roles inArsenic and Old Lace.”
His eyes widened at the direct hit, and she swore his cheeks—already a dusky olive—flushed a little darker.
She turned away from him and started down the steps to greet the darling man who probably stood no more than five feet, three inches. But what he lacked in height, he made up for with that dark, luxurious hair and mustache.
“You must be Mr. DeRiccio,” she said, extending a hand. She couldn’t bring herself to call a man forty or more years her senior by his first name, even if it was a nickname. “I’m Vivien Savage—the owner of the theater and the director of our show. Thank you so much for taking on the role of Mr. Gibbs.”
“I came here under duress,” replied Jake’s father as he took her hand. He smelled comfortably like Old Spice and was much more casually dressed than his son, in dark chinos that bagged at the knees and a button-down plaid shirt. A white t-shirt peeped from behind the open collar of his button-down. “At least, Idid. But now that I’ve metyou, young lady—well, I’ve changed my mind.” He had to look up at her a little, as she was five feet, six inches, but he didn’t seem to mind in the least. His dark eyes danced as he lifted her hand—not to shake it, but to press a very quick, very light kiss on the back of it. His mustache, soft and glossy, brushed her skin. “It’s possible I might enjoy this after all.”
“That makes two of us,” Vivien replied.As long as your son doesn’t stick around.
“Jake, this here’s Vivien Savage,” said Mr. DeRiccio. “I guess she’s gonna be telling me what to do up there.”
Vivien was relieved that he seemed to have missed the brief exchange between herself and his son, considering that she’d called Jake a lying, cheating bastard. Which was pretty much the truth, but maybe not the best thing to say about his son in her actor’s hearing.
“I wish her luck with that,” Jake replied. But he didn’t look at Vivien as he climbed down from the stage.
Nor did he correct his father’s assumption that they hadn’t met before.
Just then, Vivien heard a familiar sound…one that could raise the hairs on the back of her neck almost as quickly as a falling catwalk bridge.
Thump. Thumpity-thump. Thump.
She looked back out over the empty seats of the house to see Maxine and Juanita—with Maxine’s cane creating the unholy rhythm on the floor—making their way down the center aisle. Behind them followed the much taller Orbra and a shorter woman with cotton-ball-white hair done in a simple grandmotherly style. Each of them were toting a shopping bag.
“Stages—nothing but health hazards, I’m telling you,” Maxine said to Juanita in her carrying voice. “People always getting flattened by things falling from above. Every murder-mystery show has at least one falling sandbag or backdrop, you know. Better make sure you have good insurance, Miss Vivien Leigh,” she called. “Or this star ain’t settingfooton that stage.”
Her voice carried in the empty space (at least Vivien wouldn’t have to remind her to project when delivering her lines), causing everyone to turn.
Ricky DeRiccio said something to his son, and Jake turned to look at the group of older ladies. “That’s Maxine Took? The woman you’re afraid of?” His reply was just loud enough for Vivien to hear. “She’s got a walking stick, for Pete’s sake, Pop.”
“Hello, Maxine,” Vivien called, chuckling inside over Jake’s blithe ignorance. He’d learn about Maxine soon enough. “How nice of you to drop by.”
“Had to see where I’ma make mydebut,” replied the old woman, emphasizing the first syllable of the word. “And we brought summa Orbra’s scones and sandwiches for the workers. It wasmyidea.”
“It certainly wasnot,” Orbra said testily. “I told you I was planning to bring some things, andyoustarted telling me which ones you wanted to eat.”
“Whatever,” Maxine retorted. “Now, where is my dressing room?”
Vivien drew in another deep breath, for Jake had gone back up onstage and was examining the broken catwalk. Why didn’t he just leave everything alone?
Why didn’t he justleave?
He was messing up her mojo. Bringing bad juju.
Bringing back memories.
“The dressing rooms are backstage, but they’re—”
Vivien’s warning that it was no place for a woman with a cane was cut off when the dainty lady with fluffy white hair hurried over to her. “Oh, I can justfeelthe energy here! The ghosts of musicals past! You must be Vivien Leigh Savage. I remember your record album, you know. Yours and your sister’s.” Her eyes showed a hint of sympathy. “And the fantastic performance at the Tonys.”
“Yes, I’m Vivien,” she replied, watching askance as Maxine Took made a beeline toward the steps at stage left even while she hoped the lady in front of her wouldn’t start singing “Happy, Happy Me”—the biggest track from The Savage Sisters’ one-hit-wonder album. It had hit number ten on the Billboard chart.
“I’m Iva Bergstrom. I’m so happy to finally meet you!” The cotton-haired woman was the epitome of the kindly grandmother type with her bright blue eyes and round, delicate cheeks. She was dressed sensibly and not quite so grandmotherly in dark blue capri pants and a light summer sweater twinset of lemon yellow. A perfect Mrs. Claus, if you were going for tiny, elegant, and not quite as chubby as the mister. Or maybe even a Mrs. Potts…
“Same here,” Vivien replied, then called desperately, “Maxine, it’s not really safe to be—”
“I’ll befine,” retorted the woman, already thumping across the stage like she owned it. “It’s Juanita you gotta worry about. I got three legs to balance myself, and she’s got but two.”
