Rewriting Rita Page 3

  The wind teased at her papers again, making her worry she might lose a page or two if she continued to read. Giving up, she pushed the pages back into the satchel.

  The man continued to stare at her.

  She tucked her hair into the hood of her rain slicker and tried to look unapproachable. There wasn’t anything about the jeans, sneakers, and black and white T-shirt beneath her coat that should be the least bit alluring.

  He approached anyway. “Excuse me,” he said. “Your satchel looks familiar. Where did you get it?”

  So much for being alluring. Addison pulled the satchel off her shoulder to look at it. “It was a gift.”

  “My grandmother had one just like it. Remarkable.”

  “This was given to me by an elderly lady. For all we know, satchels such as this may have been a hot commodity thirty or forty years ago.”

  “Maybe.” He smiled into her eyes, sending her a warm jolt of pleasure and surprise. He looked familiar, although she couldn’t say why.

  “I probably just have my grandmother on my mind. We were supposed to go on this whale watching trip together.”

  “You aren’t possibly Landon, are you?” Maybe that was why he looked familiar. But, except for the blue eyes, he didn’t at all resemble the woman she’d met the day before.

  “Yes.”

  “I met your grandmother yesterday!”

  He paled. “I’m sorry, that’s not possible. My grandmother died three weeks ago. In fact, her memorial is tomorrow.”

  “Oh, strange coincidence then.”

  He studied her, making her feel like a bug on the business end of a microscope. She rushed to explain. “Yesterday, while sitting on a park bench, I started chatting with an elderly woman. She told me she was supposed to go whale watching with her grandson but he had called it off because he was too busy.”

  He scowled. “That sounds like my grandma…and me.”

  “And his name was Landon.”

  “And she had a satchel like my grandmother’s.”

  A chill traveled over Addison. “Was her name Geneva?”

  He relaxed and laughed. “No. Clara Braxton.”

  “Whew!” She brushed an imaginary curl off her forehead. “That’s good. I thought maybe I’d been talking to a ghost.”

  He cocked his head, and looked at her with squinted eyes. “Do you believe in ghosts?”

  “Not at all, even though I love a good ghost story.”

  “You do? I would have pegged you as a romance reader.”

  She bristled. “I hate romances!”

  He edged away, surprised by her venom. “Did I hit a nerve? If so, I’m sorry. My granny loved romance novels. I guess I just assumed all women did.”

  “I don’t.”

  An announcer interrupted their conversation. “All passengers of the Splendor of the Sea, please line up and prepare for departure.”

  She glanced at her ticket. “That’s me.”

  “And me.” He fell into step beside her. “Why do you hate romances?”

  She sucked in a deep breath and headed up the gangplank without answering his question. It didn’t surprise her when Landon followed her up the stairs to the boat’s viewing deck. After unbuttoning her slicker and pulling it off, she repositioned the satchel on her shoulder and put her coat back on, thereby protecting the satchel’s supple leather. She felt his eyes on her.

  “Your hair…”

  “Yes?” She tucked it back into the hood. “Are you going to ask if I have a temper to match?”

  “It’s the color of fire.” He chuckled. “That explains the freckles.”

  “No. Only melanin and sunlight can explain the freckles.”

  “Are you a dermatologist?”

  “No,” she said, feeling defeated. “A bookstore owner. About to become a former bookstore owner, actually.”

  ““I’m sorry. In Frisco?”

  “No. Shell Falls. Are you familiar with it? It’s a small beach town about forty miles north?”

  “I actually know it well. I’ve clients in Colina.”

  A bouncy brunette wearing a bright yellow life vest jogged up the stairs. “Hi everyone, I’m Charlie. I need y’all’s attention while I explain the complicated ins and outs of our life vests.” She nodded at the burly guy beside her. “Duke here is going to pass them out and,” she wagged her finger at the passengers as if they were naughty children, “if you refuse to put yours on, Duke will have to escort you off the boat.”

  “It might be worth it for some one-on-one time with that eye-candy,” the middle-aged woman behind Addison murmured.

  Duke must have heard, because he flushed.

  Addison was embarrassed for the woman.

  “What happens if we take off our vests when we’re on the water?” a man in front of them asked.

  “Then Duke will throw you overboard,” Charlie said without missing a beat. “Now, listen up.”

  But Addison didn’t pay attention to the safety precautions, even though she knew she should. After all, she’d been hurt, a lot. First by Paul, and then just recently by James. Lying loathsome liars… But Landon reminded her of Christian, which made her think about kissing.

  “You never answered my question. So what do you have against romances?” Landon wanted to know as soon as Charlie and Duke had climbed down the stairs to the main deck.

  “Do you like romances?” She had to speak loudly to be heard over the engine’s roar.

  “No. I mostly read nonfiction.” He spoke directly in her ear, sending his warm breath across her cheek.

  A tingle passed over Addison, but she dismissed it.

  “My grandmother thought I lacked imagination.”

  “Sad.”

  “There are worse things to lose.”

  “So—you lost it? Meaning you once had one and then it disappeared?”

  He grinned. “We’re off track. We’re supposed to be talking about why you hate romance.”

  “I don’t hate romance.” She pulled her jacket close to protect herself from the salty wind. “I just don’t enjoy reading romance novels anymore.”

  “Why not? Falling in love is often the most remarkable thing a person goes through. Why not read and write about it?”

  “Have you ever been in love?” Addison asked, inspired by Rita and Christian and yet surprised at her own bravery for crossing a social line with a stranger.

  “Yes. Just once.”

  “And how did that work out for you? Are you married?”

  He placed his ringless left hand over his heart. “Sadly, no.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “She left me during law school. She’d rather play than work. And law school was a lot of work.”

  Charlie returned, but this time without Duke. “Hey, all, in just a few more minutes we should hit one of the whales’ favorite stomping grounds. Those of you seated may want to gather around the stern.”

  Addison wasn’t surprised when Landon followed her to the railing.

  “How about you?” he asked.

  “I’m a widow.” She bit her lip. “I loved him, and I thought he loved me.”

  “I’m sure he did.”

  “Yes, but he also loved a chick named LeAnn.” She blinked when the boat hit a wave and sent a spray of water their way. “I met her at the funeral.”

  “Oh, wow. How did he die?”

  “Aneurysm.” She gave him a twisted smile. “I should have known about LeAnn. There were probably others I should have known about, too. Paul liked to stay busy.” Paul’s dynamic personality had drawn her to him. He provided a perfect shelter for her to hide behind, and she’d been lost without him. “I never got to tell him goodbye. And then after I found out about LeAnn—learned that she wasn’t lying, as I had originally thought—I wasn’t able to yell at him.” She sucked in a deep breath, feeling emotionally drawn. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what made me open up to you.”

  “I’m not sorry. I mean, I’m sorry you went through that, but
I’m not sorry you felt comfortable enough to share your story.”

  “I don’t even know you.”

  “I’m Landon Brooks.” He stuck out his hand.

  “I’m Addison Mills.” His grip was warm and solid.

  A giant whale surfaced, jumping high into the air. The creature crashed back into the water, rocking the boat and soaking the passengers.

  “Welcome to the splash zone, boys and girls!” Charlie called out. “We’ve just been thrown into a kettle of whale soup!”

  After the boat ride, Landon offered to take her to dinner.

  Addison battled her emotions. They’d had such a good time, she didn’t want to spoil it. “I’m sorry, but I need to get home.” She had a story to read.

  Chapter 2

  I want to know some pretty girl of 17 to 20 years. I am 29, 5 feet 9 inches tall, a blond. I can laugh for fifteen minutes and I want some pretty girl to laugh with me.

  Matrimonial News, January 8, 1887

  Rita’s thoughts jumbled as the man in the moonlight pressed against her, filling her with a strange, intense heat. How odd that none of the other boys who had fumbled their way to her lips had raised such warmth. She couldn’t think. She mustn’t drown. Clasping his shirt with both hands, she hung on while the kiss…no. She couldn’t, wouldn’t do this. Although he outweighed her by a hundred pounds, she pushed him away and slipped through the theater’s back door.

  He didn’t follow.

  In the dark hall, she leaned against the wall, fighting for breath and coherent thought. If she opened the door, would she find him still standing there? Could she step into his arms and whisper, “So sorry to interrupt—would you please continue?”

  Common sense pulled her away from the wall. With another long look at the door, she dragged her feet to the stairs. She needed to pack her bag, although that wouldn’t take long. She hadn’t been completely joking when she said she’d go with only a pair of shoes; she had little else. She had run away from the ranch with what fit in a tapestry bag—it was not as if she could carry a steamer trunk.

  Rita promised herself that the next time she left New York, she would have trunks full of beautiful clothes. From New York, she would travel to London and Paris. She would dance for the Queen of England and sing on the banks of the Seine.

  She told herself that such a dream was much better than the memory of the kiss still tingling on her lips.

  ***

  Later that night, Rita woke to a woman’s screams. Sitting up, she bunched the blankets in front of her more for protection than for warmth. Humid, hot night air along with the sound of angry voices blew in through the open window. Beside her, Matilda stirred, pulling at the covers in her sleep.

  Russian cursing followed the screaming. Rita, suspecting Boris Kidrick, crawled from her bed to peek out the window.

  In the alley below, Kidrick had a woman by the hair. Rita watched, horrified, as Kidrick slapped the woman with an open palm. The sound of flesh hitting flesh was like a blow to Rita’s own belly. She pulled back from the window, knowing she had to help but wondering how. Her eyes landed on the chamber pot beneath the bed. She nudged it with her foot. Empty. Was that good or bad?

  The screaming continued as Rita picked up the pot. She knew the likelihood of hitting Kidrick was as slim as the wisp of a woman he was beating, but maybe the surprise of a flying chamber pot would stop him. But for how long?

  The woman screamed again, falling to her knees, and Rita didn’t waste another moment. She aimed for Kidrick’s head.

  As her pot sailed out the window, more questions sailed in, like what if it actually hit him? What if he discovered who had tossed the pot? Who was the screaming woman?

  But when the chamber pot actually landed true and broke into pieces on the crown of Boris’s head, Rita had only one question. Now what?

  “Vous l'avez tué!” The woman looked up at the window with red-rimmed eyes.

  Rita knew she should duck and hide but horror kept her transfixed on Kidrick’s lifeless body. Beside Kidrick, the woman stood and tried to run but cried out, crumpled to the ground, and grabbed her foot.

  “Good for you.” Matilda chuckled behind Rita.

  Rita flashed a look at her friend. “Brussels sprouts are good for me. I think this could be very bad for me.” She threw a wrapper over her chemise.

  “Where are you going?”

  “To see if he’s dead.”

  “Stop.” Matilda put a hand on Rita’s arm. “Don’t further involve yourself.”

  Rita again looked out the window, and guilt swelled in her. “Look—she’s hurt.” She hadn’t meant to kill Kidrick, and she certainly hadn’t meant to hurt the woman. “She probably doesn’t even speak English. I have to help her. Besides, in a few days I’ll be on my way to New York.”

  “Not if Sheriff Calhoun puts you in jail first.”

  Rita threw Matilda a wry smile as she grabbed the blanket off the bed and slipped out the door. Relief tingled down her back when Matilda followed.

  ***

  In the alley, Rita threw the blanket over the crying woman’s shoulders and held her while Matilda bent over Kidrick. Chamber-pot fragments lay scattered around his prone form. Rita glanced up and down the quiet alley, searching for witnesses to the murder she’d committed. A breeze blew dead leaves, but nothing else stirred.

  “He’s alive,” Matilda pronounced, standing.

  “Mort?” the woman asked.

  Rita fought a sob of relief. She knew Kidrick would be more trouble alive than dead, but she didn’t want to be a murderer. And if he was alive, she doubted she had any responsibility to the shivering woman in her arms. Still, compassion wouldn’t allow Rita to leave the woman alone. The woman babbled.

  “Lentement,” Rita said, but the woman would not speak slowly. Rita shook her head, trying to understand the garbled French.

  “What is she saying?” Matilda whispered.

  “I can’t understand her. She sounds nothing like my au pair. Maybe she’s Canadian.”

  “We can’t stay out here trying to translate.” Matilda motioned toward the theater, and Rita helped the limping woman into the building.

  In the dark hallway, Rita felt only a tiny bit safer. She nodded toward the alley. “Should we just leave him there? Shouldn’t we get a doctor?”

  “What for?” Matilda didn’t stop but took the stairs to the basement. “It’s not as if we want him to recover.”

  Rita held onto the woman as she limped down the stairs behind Matilda. “What if he wakes up addled?”

  Matilda stopped at the bottom of the stairs. “Then nothing will have changed.”

  Milky darkness filled the cavernous room, and pale moonlight shone through the dusty, tiny windows near the ceiling. Old scenery screens, props, crates of what-nots, costumes, mannequins and wigs filled the room. Mismatched furniture lined the walls. A mock Egyptian coffin stood beside a gilded throne complete with a scepter.

  “She’ll be safe down here,” Matilda said. “Why don’t you try talking to her while I find something to clean her up?”

  Rita nodded and, as any knowledge of French flew out of her head, stared at the woman. She had a swarthy complexion, long dark hair, and a nasty fat lip.

  Rita led the woman to a giant steamer trunk and sat, motioning for the woman to join her. “Je m’appelle Rita.”

  The woman stared at her and then burst into tears, punctuated by a long and convoluted story.

  “What is she saying?” Matilda asked when she returned with a tray of food, a pot of tea, and strips of bandages.

  “I’m not sure, but I think she’s Kidrick’s wife.”

  The woman nodded and then, sniveling, looked at the ground.

  Matilda scratched her head. “Kidrick said good things were coming his way. I wonder if he meant her. What’s her name?” Matilda drew the woman’s face toward hers by the chin.

  “Corinne?” Rita looked at the woman, who nodded, or at least tried to as Matilda patted th
e fat lip with a bandage. Rita turned to Matilda and nodded. “I think she’s a mail-order.”

  Corinne winced, and Matilda grimaced. “That means she doesn’t have any family around here.” She spoke to Corinne for the first time. “What are we going to do with you?”

  Rita jumped up with a thought. “I wonder if I could take her with me to New York with the traveling troupe—say that she’s my maid?”

  Matilda shook her head slowly, watching Corinne wipe her nose and face on a sleeve. “If Kidrick finds out, he’ll be livid.”

  “He’s usually livid.”

  “If he paid for her—”

  “He can’t pay for her. Slavery was abolished more than a decade ago.”

  “I don’t know how it works! But I do know she can’t stay here.”

  Matilda and Rita frowned at each other while Corinne nibbled on a piece of bread, watching them.

  “Ask her where she wants to go,” Matilda suggested.

  “Où voulez-vous aller?” Rita asked.

  Corinne blinked back tears and shrugged.

  “Are you sure she understands you?” Matilda asked impatiently.

  Rita waved off Matilda’s comment as if it were a horsefly.

  At that, Corinne launched into an anguished tale.

  Rita listened with a sick stomach, then related the story to Matilda. “Her parents are dead and her uncle arranged the marriage. She said he’ll kill her if she returns to Quebec.” Rita cocked her head and considered Corinne. “She may be exaggerating.”

  “What about your grandmother’s ranch?”

  “I can’t send her there!” But Rita knew she didn’t sound very convincing, primarily because she knew that she could. Her grandmother would take in the woman, clean her up and either offer her a job on the ranch or find her one through her large network of friends. Her granny was good at solving problems…even problems involving runaways, which was why Rita wanted to steer clear of Granny and her ranch. “Maybe if we could find someone to take her there.” A thought occurred to Rita. “I met the most handsome man tonight.”

  For the first time, Matilda smiled. “That’s an interesting yet abrupt change of subject.”