Be Careful, It's My Heart, Page 2

  He slipped the quarter back into his pocket and strode off the other side of the green.

  They’d upgraded Main Street. Brody approved of the stamped concrete now marching the three-block stretch of road in front of a newly refaced City Hall. Charm and function over the formerly crumbling brick that had been in residence when he’d left. Decorative wrought iron street lights provided elegant accents, boasting signs proclaiming Wishful to be Where Hope Springs Eternal. Interspersed between them were Bradford pear trees just getting tall enough to dapple the late morning sunlight on the sidewalk. Most of the businesses had been given face lifts. New awnings, shiny new signs, and fresh paint made each shop front stand out like an eager kid on the first day of school. Planters spilled over with bright-faced pansies and petunias. A few seasonally-minded souls had created autumnal displays with hay bales and scarecrows, despite the temperatures that hovered near eighty. September in Mississippi was, after all, still the tail end of summer. Whoever was heading up the community restoration project down here had great taste. The overall effect was charming.

  Dinner Belles had a crisp coat of new white paint over the repointed bricks, but as soon as Brody stepped through the glass door to the jingle of a bell, he was back in the past. The black and white checkerboard tiles were worn, but they still shone with a mirrored gleam. The booths were green vinyl now instead of maroon, but they still marched along the outside walls in matching L’s that flanked the front door. A smattering of Formica tables dotted the middle. A few of them were occupied—some old timers still camped out with their omnipresent cup of coffee, newspaper, and crossword, and a trio of middle-aged women with shopping bags tucked neatly around their feet. Everybody glanced up as he bypassed the central seating and headed straight for the wide counter in front of the kitchen, but none of them were familiar faces.

  Though the lunch hour had barely started, the scents of grease and onions perfumed the air. The smell had Brody salivating as he slid onto a stool and grabbed a menu. The edges were worn and curling, exactly as they should be after generations of patrons’ hands. He skimmed the list, idly wondering if the fried pickles would put him in a post lunch coma.

  “Well, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes.”

  Brody looked up at the waitress who balanced a tray of dishes on her shoulder. She was looking at him with that expectant air that said she knew him. Scrambling to identify her, he said the only thing he could think of. “Hi.”

  “Let me just get these on out. I’ll be right back to take your order and you can tell me everything you’ve been up to the last few years.” She sashayed away to the shopping ladies.

  Her hair was bleached an ashy blonde, with at least an inch of dark roots showing. Her face was angular, only a couple steps up from flat out gaunt, and Brody had the impression she’d been somehow winnowed down. Jeans hugged narrow, almost bony hips. A pack of cigarettes peeked out from her back pocket. Her long nails were painted a bright, bubble gum pink that nearly matched the V-necked shirt she wore.

  And he didn’t have the first clue who she was.

  Maybe she had him confused for somebody else?

  Tucking the now empty tray under her arm, she leaned against the counter beside him and laid a hand on his arm. “So tell me, Brody Jensen, where in the world have you been the last eight years?”

  The gesture, the invasion of his personal space, solved the mystery.

  “Well, Corinne, I’ve been working, like everybody else, I expect.”

  She laughed, as if he’d said something brilliantly witty. The scratchy, awkward bray put him in mind of a donkey with strep throat. That hadn’t changed much. Neither had her shameless flirtation.

  “Silly man, I want details,” she drew the word out, as if inviting him to share a particularly juicy secret. Her gaze slid, none too subtly, to his left hand. At the lack of a ring, she eased in a little bit closer and his gut wound a little bit tighter with discomfort.

  Brody reached to put the menu back, hoping to dislodge her hand. “It’s nothing much interesting, I’m afraid.” The hand didn’t budge. Okay, yeah—lunch was definitely gonna be to go. “Listen, I’d love to stay and chat, but I really just popped in to grab a sandwich to go. Gotta get back to work. Think you could put it on back to the kitchen?”

  “For you, cutie pie, anything. What’ll it be?” Corinne whipped out a pen and order pad.

  He refrained from sighing in relief as he got his arm back. Rather than the cheeseburger he really wanted, he wracked his brain for something that wouldn’t have to be cooked. Sandwich. Cold. “How ’bout a turkey club with chips.” His gaze skipped down the counter. A rack with the day’s selection of pies took up one corner beside the old-fashioned cash register. Nobody, but nobody, did pie like Mama Pearl. “And a slice of coconut cream pie.”

  “Comin’ right up.”

  As she circled around to the other side of the counter, Brody eased out a breath. He was nearly thirty. Her behavior should not make him just as uncomfortable now as it had in high school. But fact was, Corinne didn’t understand about boundaries or didn’t respect them, anyway. She’d never been able to accept he just wasn’t interested, and in the years through college, that he wasn’t available. More often than not, she’d embarrassed them both with her outrageous attempts to get his attention.

  As Corinne leaned comfortably on the counter in front of him, angled deliberately to give him a chance to ogle her cleavage, the kitchen door swung open and the Goddess of Pie herself ambled out. “You finish on up here and get on the road,” said Mama Pearl. “You gots a long drive to get that youngin’ of yours from his daddy.”

  Well that just wiped the flirtatious smile off Corinne’s face. She straightened. “I’ve got another forty-five minutes left on my shift.”

  Mama Pearl’s placid face didn’t shift a bit at her display of conscientiousness. “Won’t hurt you none to scoot out a little early. We’ll clock you out at your regular time. Nasty storm’s comin’ in from across the river. You leave a little bit early so you can beat it back. Safer that way.”

  Corinne started to say something else, but Mama Pearl just rolled right over her. “You go on back, have some lunch before you go. You’s too skinny.” She pounded a hand on the pass-through. “Omar! You see this girl gets some meat on her.”

  Outflanked, Corinne stepped back and shot Brody a flirtatious smile. “Looks like I’m out. But you come on back now, you hear? We need to catch up good and proper.”

  Brody said nothing, just lifted his hand in a half wave and stepped through the kitchen door. Then he let out a sigh of relief.

  Bullet dodged.

  Mama Pearl began to wipe the already clean counter in front of him with swift, efficient strokes that telegraphed her irritation. Her fathomless dark eyes pegged him on the stool, made him feel like a kid called to the principal’s office. Brody fought the urge to hunch his shoulders.

  “Took you long enough,” she said at length.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “You got unfinished business here. ’Bout time you took care of it.”

  “Order up!” The short order cook slapped a bell and slid the takeout box through the window.

  Mama Pearl took her time bagging it, fixing Brody’s drink, ringing him up. The better to let him stew in the juices of her disapproval. It might have been stupid to be bothered by that, but he was. As she passed over the bag, Brody wondered how many other folks were going to offer up their opinion about his long absence.

  With no particular destination in mind, he started walking again, figuring there’d be a sidewalk bench where he could scarf down his sandwich. He turned off Main Street, noting the swanky new facade and the attractive patio seating they’d added to The Daily Grind, and made his way down Broad Street, toward his old stomping grounds. The restoration project hadn’t made it quite this far. The buildings were less well-kept, dingier with age and use. This was the street that came to him in dreams on the rare occasions he thought of home.
/>   Home.

  It gave him pause to realize he still thought of Wishful as home, but he’d spent the first two decades and change of his life here, after all. Shoved by a gust of autumn wind, he found himself propelled in front of the Madrigal Theater. It was here Brody was struck by nostalgia for the old and familiar. How many hours, how many nights had he spent here in his youth? He ran his gaze over the building, drinking it in like the sight of a long ago love.

  The theater was less majestic than he remembered, huddling now with sedate and faded grandeur. He could see the deep red carpet of the lobby through the front doors, worn in tracks where decades of audiences had trooped through to find their seats. The interior doors into the theater itself were closed and the windows were coated with a film of grime. Stepping back, he surveyed the exterior, noting the ticket window and the poster cases displaying shows of bygone days. The Music Man. Carousel. South Pacific. Oklahoma! He’d played Curly in that. And it had been the show that changed everything.

  He wondered how many of the old crowd were still here, still acting.

  Well, if he were honest with himself, he really only wondered about one member of the old crowd, something he hadn’t permitted himself to do in years. It was normal, natural that he’d wonder about her. All his memories of this place were inextricably bound up with Tyler. His perfect leading lady. The one who hadn’t wanted to be his lady off stage in the end.

  Brody shut down that avenue of thought in a hurry.

  What had happened with Tyler was ancient history. He was a grown man. He’d moved on and made a damn good life for himself. And if that life wasn’t quite what he’d imagined, well, he was grateful for the continual string of adventures and surprises he’d gotten instead.

  Brody shifted his attention up to the marquee, wondering what play was in the works.

  Irving Berlin’s White Christmas. Auditions Sept. 18, 6 PM.

  His mother had loved that movie and all the other musicals of that era. It had been her influence, and that of Danny Kaye, Fred Astaire, and Jimmy Stewart that had gotten him interested in dancing. Brody hummed a few bars of “The Best Things Happen While You’re Dancing” and did a quick step ball change, shuffle, and slide. It felt great. God, if his crew could see him now. Not that he’d ever been one to let a little friendly ribbing keep him from the stage. His itinerant lifestyle had done that for him for years. But he still felt the pull of the lights. The crowds. The music.

  Brody did the math. Auditions tonight. Casting next week. The show would open in early December and run for two or three weeks. He’d be in town that long with the hotel job. He’d audition, he decided. See if he still had it in him to slip into somebody else’s skin. And maybe, just maybe, it would make him feel comfortable in his own again.

  Auditions

  Tyler slipped through the front doors of the Madrigal and into the relative hush of the lobby. Through the closed doors of the auditorium, she could hear a muted and incredibly off-key version of “Blue Skies”. If the guy could dance, she knew Nate would keep him on, put him in the chorus. Men without two left feet were definitely rarer than singers.

  She took her time crossing the plush red carpet, waiting for echoes of the heartache that had chased her out of here years before. But she felt only the fluttering excitement in her belly that always preceded an audition. Smiling, she opened the auditorium doors and slipped inside as Mr. “Blue Skies” was exiting stage left.

  “Next!” shouted the director. A balding man, somewhere north of fifty, with dark, square-rimmed glasses and the physique of a man ten or fifteen years his junior, Nate Sheffield was set up in the middle section of seats, about five rows back from the stage. He’d been directing musical productions at the Madrigal for well over two decades. He was as much a fixture of the theater as the lights and backdrops.

  For a moment Tyler just stood there, closing her eyes and remembering.

  It even smelled the same. Like velvet and lemon oil.

  Then a familiar voice spoke up from the stage. “I’m Tucker McGee, and I’ll be auditioning for the role of Phil.”

  “What’re you singing, Tucker?”

  “‘Happy Holidays’.”

  Tyler found herself beaming as someone started the music and Tucker launched into his number, blond hair gleaming beneath the lights like some kind of Hollywood prince. He still had it, she noted—the same happy feet that had helped him charm his way through the ranks of high school girls and made certain he was never without a date to dances. Yeah, she could play opposite him again.

  Not wanting to interrupt, she quietly made her way to the front of the theater and headed for the door to back stage. It was like crossing into another world, entering this secret space behind the magic of the show. Climbing the steps with silent feet, she found Piper waiting for her, small duffel bag in hand. “I have us on the list for a double audition. ‘Sisters.’ We can do that routine in our sleep.”

  “Do they have fans?” Tyler asked, taking the bag.

  “More or less. Stage right. Hurry up and change. We’re only a few more slots down the list.”

  “Good. I need to get through pretty quickly. I’ve got to pick up Ollie at seven, before Dad’s poker game.”

  Tyler hit the dressing rooms, slipping out of her work clothes and into the leotard and skirt Piper had packed for her. There was no telling where she’d dug that up. It still fit, though. She paused, a hair clip in hand, and studied herself in the bright lights of the mirror. For a moment she saw roses, smelled the scents of makeup and warm curling irons, as a much younger, more idealistic version of herself waited to go on stage for the performance she never dreamed would be her last.

  She shrugged off the memory, twisting her hair up off her neck and clipping it into place. No one had made that her last performance but her. And it was time to get over it and get back on that horse. As someone else was finishing up an audition with the “Blessings” number, she slipped on her dance shoes and felt like she’d come home. Singing a series of scales, she began to stretch and limber up.

  Piper stuck her head through the dressing room door. “We’re on.”

  Tyler took the offered fan, a blue poster board concoction that had obviously been thrown together in a hurry with duct tape and no small amount imagination, and followed her friend out onto the familiar stage. The floorboards were worn, scuffed by years of feet, marred by residue from tape that indicated places from past performances. Without a backdrop, the stage opened all the way to the black back curtain. The space seemed cavernous. The lights were up, so she couldn’t actually see more than the vaguest outline of Nate in his seat.

  “Tyler Edison. Well, it’s about damn time you came back. Good to see you.”

  She lifted her hand in a wave.

  “I guess I don’t have to ask which number you two are doing,” he said. “Go on then.”

  Tyler raised the fan in front of her face and mirrored Piper’s position, grinning at her as the music began to play. There was no set, no costumes, no props other than the fans in their hands, but she didn’t need any of that to slip into the role of Judy Haynes. She fell into harmony with Piper as if it had been a day, not years, since they’d performed together at something other than karaoke. They played off each other, grinning, glaring, sparking with all the subtle and not so subtle cues that fed the audience and told the story.

  God, she’d missed this! Her body felt electrified, alive, fueled by the music.

  They finished the routine and danced off stage left to a smattering of applause from those still congregated to see the rest of auditions.

  Piper held up a hand for a high five. “Nailed it.”

  Tyler slapped her hand, followed up with a hip bump. “We’ve still got it.”

  ~*~

  She was still here.

  Brody stared at the empty spot on the stage where Tyler had just flounced off. He’d convinced himself that she’d be long gone, as he had. That there was nothing left for her here. It was how
he’d been able to accept the hotel job without so much as blinking.

  But there she was, exactly where she should be. It was a sucker punch to the gut. God. After all these years, she still left him breathless.

  Someone slid into the seat next to him. “Well, if it isn’t the ghost of performances past.”

  Mind reeling, Brody didn’t immediately process the voice. He turned his head, stared at the face with the curiously blank expression. Then his brain kicked into gear. The face was older—weren’t they all?—and a bit craggier than he remembered.

  “Tucker.” Brody wanted to smile, but he wasn’t sure of his reception. Tyler hadn’t been the only one he’d left behind.

  “What’re you doing here?” There was no accusation in Tucker’s tone, just mild interest. It was as good as a shout. The quieter Tucker got, the more pissed he was. And Brody was forced to admit he had a right to be pissed.

  “Thought I’d audition,” he said, though he knew Tucker hadn’t meant here in the theater. “I’m in town for a job for a few months. Thought it’d be good to get back on stage.”

  Slowly, Tucker nodded. “Your timing’s pretty good. We need the big guns to save the Madrigal.”

  “Save it?”

  “It’s fallen on pretty hard times, what with the economy being like it is. Old Mr. Stanton died earlier this year and his kids dug into the books. Turns out the place is on the verge of foreclosure. This show is our last ditch effort to try and raise the money to get a reprieve. We could use some of the old magic to pack ’em in.”

  Spying Tyler leaning over to say something to Nate, Brody sank lower in his chair and called himself a coward. “I’m pretty sure the magic’s dead.”

  “Is that why you left?” For all his moves, Tucker wouldn’t dance around the truth.

  “No. But it’s why she stayed. And why I had to stay away.”

  Tucker arched an eyebrow. He glanced up front. “Does she know you’re back?”