Where the Heart Leads (9 page)

She fastened her eyes on Moira as if gauging her reaction to the story, then squinched her nose and turned the sides of her mouth down in a clownish look of disgust.

“Men are such pigs.”

Moira laughed and finished off her tea.

Rocky knew how to tell a story, even one she probably shouldn't have.

“Thanks for the coffee and goodies, Rocky, but we'd better leave now. Rafe said a used furniture store is having a going-out-of-business sale, and Astrid and I wanted to hit it this afternoon.”

Rocky's eyes opened wide. “Josie's?”

“Yeah. Do you know where it is?”

“Sure do. Tell you what.” Rocky stood up and pulled on her jacket. “I'll go with you. That old gypsy will give y'all a better deal if I'm along.”

Moira parked the Toyota in the middle of the block and looked around. The area was questionable at best.

A trio of grubby-looking men standing in front of Ulrich's Drive-in Beer and Grocery across the street gave them a once-over as they got out of the car. A fourth man sat on the curb in front of the store, taking long pulls from a bottle in a paper bag as he gazed into space.

After double-locking her doors, Moira followed Rocky and Astrid back down the broken sidewalk, past an empty building, to a corner storefront with
MUEBLERIA USADA
spelled out on the old theater marquee above the door.
SALE
was scrawled across the front window in what looked like red poster paint.

Rocky opened the door for Moira and Astrid, then followed them in. The store, which must have been the theater lobby, was wide, shallow, and had a slight incline toward the back.

At the back of the room stood a tall, gaunt woman with frizzy, iron-gray hair. Her arms were folded like an Indian chief, and her expression was grim.

Rocky gave her a lighthearted wave. “Hi, Josie. I'm Rocky McAllister. You remember me.”

The woman's expression didn't change. “Mahogany armoire. Brass candelabra.”

Rocky laughed. “That's right. You bought them from my mother when she moved to Florida.” She gestured toward Moira and Astrid and smiled broadly. “My friends have just moved into Bosque Bend and need a few things. I told them you're the best furniture place in town.”

The woman focused her black eyes on Moira. “You the director lady for Mr. Rafe's theater?”

“Yes. I'm Moira Farrar and this is my sister, Astrid Birdsong.” She extracted a credit card from the purse in her portfolio. “We've got a budget of three hundred fifty. What will that buy us?”

Josie motioned toward the furniture lining the walls and shrugged her shoulders. “Whatever you need. Don't want nothin' left when I move outa here this weekend.” She glanced out the side window at the convenience store across the street. “Shoulda got outa here a while back. Used to be respectable around here, but with that long-distance bus stop on the side of the buildin' and Ulrich's across the street, it's gone bad. Mr. Rafe, he say he gonna take over the whole block 'n make it respectable again, but I dunno.”

It had taken almost two hours and a pounding headache, but finally their furniture selections had been made, bought, and paid for. When Moira asked about delivery, Josie shrugged and went enigmatic on her. “Mr. Rafe, he said you don' worry about it.”

Whatever that meant.

Moira breathed a sigh of relief as she, Astrid, and Rocky returned to her car, which, thank God, was still there and still intact. After she gave Astrid the keys, she climbed into the back, eased down into the seat, and closed her eyes. Once they got home, she'd take an aspirin and lie down for a while before she had to head off to the children's get-acquainted meeting.

Astrid put the car in gear and headed over to Starbucks to drop Rocky off at her car. Determined to be gracious, Moira opened her eyes as Rocky unlocked the door to get out.

“This was great, Rocky. Thanks for inviting us. We've got to do this again sometime.”

“And thanks for helping us at Josie's too,” Astrid chimed in.

Rocky laughed. “Y'all are a lot of fun. Call me anytime.” She reached into her purse and handed a pen and piece of pink stationery across the console at Moira. “I almost forgot. Would you mind writing a little note to my mother and signing it? I want to give it to Ma for Christmas. She's crazy about
The Clancy Family
.”

Moira put her portfolio on her lap to use as a desk.

“What's your mother's full name?”

“Theda Kay Colby Eagan.”

Moira used her purse as a desk so her handwriting was a little wobbly, but she doubted if Rocky's mother would give her a hard time about it.

After adding the usual happy face, she handed the pink page back to Rocky. Fans were fans, but it made her feel a little uncomfortable to autograph a note for a friend, even though it would be used as a gift to her mother.

Moira pushed open the front door of the museum, surprised it was unlocked, and hurried upstairs. The auditorium door was flung open, the lights were on, and two black-dyed heads turned around and watched her as she came down the aisle.

Crap.
She'd deliberately come early, but Xandra and Fleurette had beaten her here.

Fixing a smile on her face, she walked down to the front, trying to figure out who the woman in the parka sitting beside the sisters was. Five children, all bundled into padded jackets, were strung out beside her.

The Fontaines and their friend rose from their seats as Moira approached, and Xandra's mouth tightened as if she expected Moira to accuse her of jimmying a window to get in.

“The night custodian opened up the museum before you got here because it's so cold outside,” she announced. “His granddaughter takes tap from Fleurette, and he recognized her from the recital last spring.”

“How nice of him,” Moira returned in her most pleasant voice, then held out her hand to the woman sitting beside them. “Hi. I'm Moira Farrar.”

The woman looked tired, but her handshake was firm. “I'm Kathleen Loughlin, and these are my kids.” She glanced toward the children—an older girl, two boys, and a pair of bright-eyed little girls. “They've all signed up for the show. My oldest is in Xandra's advanced ballet class, the boys have already told me they want to shine shoes, and my two little girls are more interested in dressing up than anything else.”

Xandra attempted a smile. “Mrs. Loughlin is our full-time accompanist. We'd like to save Vashti the trouble of coming over to our studio twice a week and instead have Kathleen rehearse the songs with the children.”

Moira took a quick breath. “Wonderful!”

Wonderful?
It was fantastic! If Vashti didn't have to show up at the dance studio every Tuesday and Friday, the opportunities for the Athertons and Fontaines to engage in a battle royal would be cut in half.

Moira walked up to the lectern. The familiar jitters coursed through her as she looked out at her audience of parents, and she couldn't help but glance toward the back of the auditorium for a reassuring flame of red hair, but Rafe wasn't there.

She felt his absence even more than she'd felt his presence.

The Fontaines had barely cleared the auditorium when the Athertons arrived for the adult rehearsal and established command center at the piano.

Moira approached Vashti immediately and told her about Xandra's offer to have their accompanist work with the children at the dance studio, then waited for the pianist's blistering reply.

To her surprise, Vashti went for it. “My dear, I'm not only okay with Mrs. Loughlin teaching the songs to the children, but I'm relieved. To tell the truth, I was not looking forward to working with Xandra and Fleurette in such close quarters. And I know Kathleen. She subbed for me at First Baptist a couple of times.”

After everyone had settled in, Vashti ran the principal actors through “Street Song” again, then sent Carmen off to work with Billie Joe in the boardroom while she rehearsed Phil, Sergio, Travis, and Micaela on their solos.

Moira sat back to listen and take notes

Phil's ringing tenor filled the auditorium, but he seemed wooden—more like he was singing an oratorio than a love song. Oh well, maybe he'd loosen up after a couple of rehearsals. Sergio was a little stiff too, but he was just eighteen and understandably nervous. In contrast, Travis was Mr. Suave himself, probably because his main focus was Micaela.

Moira didn't know whether to laugh or cry. Good thing Donna Sue hadn't cast Travis as the husband. The stage would have gone up in flames.

Micaela, on the other hand, was Della personified, the vulnerable, hopeful, sweet, innocent, starry-eyed wife, who loved her husband with her whole heart. Moira put down her pen and leaned back to absorb the beauty of the lyrics and the music.

Who would she have been if Gramp hadn't spotted her imitating characters on cartoon shows, if she hadn't spent her childhood on sets and stages, if she'd lived a normal life—like Rocky?

Sometimes, as she waited for a cue backstage, she'd daydream about living in a storybook cottage in a storybook neighborhood with a storybook mom who baked cookies and a storybook dad who read her stories before she went to sleep each night.

Micaela's voice warmed, and Moira knew what was coming next. She closed her eyes to sample the sweetness of the moment and hide her own pain.

As soon as the practice was over, the Athertons hurried up an aisle and out the door, with Phil and Sergio right after them, but Travis remained behind, his legs dangling off the edge of the stage.

Moira picked up her portfolio and gave him a questioning look. She was surprised he hadn't left with Micaela.

He eased himself onto the floor. “Com'on, little doggie. We're a-leavin' Cheyenne, and I'm your cowboy bodyguard for the evening. Rafe asked me to make sure you got to your car safely.”

Moira rammed her notepad into her portfolio like it was a punching bag. How many people was Rafe going to make responsible for her protection? First Sammy and now Travis—and neither of them was necessary. She'd survived the worst Hollywood had to offer, and she could damn well survive callow teenagers hanging around a floodlight and inhaling lung cancer.

On the other hand, she was deathly afraid of darkness, so maybe it wasn't such a bad idea to have some company as she moved through the creaky old building, turning off lights and locking doors.

They stepped out onto the sidewalk. Travis looked around at the lonely lampposts and empty street. “Damn, I want out of this nowhere town.”

So, Travis
did
recognize his own potential. “Have you tried getting solo gigs in some of the bigger cities in Texas—Dallas or Houston?”

His face took on a bitter cast. “Rocky doesn't like me to do overnight gigs”

Moira didn't reply.
Not going to get in the middle of that one.

They walked across the street and into the parking lot. A familiar figure stepped away from the threesome under the floodlight and came toward them, challenge in his stride.

Travis waved and kept on walking. “Hiya, Sammy. I'm Travis, Rafe's brother. He told me you'd be here.”

The teenager nodded solemnly and, mission fulfilled, lit a fresh cigarette and returned to his friends.

Rafe tossed and turned in his bed. It wasn't the bed he'd shared with Beth, of course. That bed had left the house the day after her funeral. And it wasn't a bed he'd shared with anyone when he was on the town. Those beds had been safe distances away from the ranch, often in homes he entered through a side door so the neighbors wouldn't talk.

He threw an arm back over his head and stared at the ceiling.

Moira.
God, he ached for her. And she hadn't turned him down so far. But where did they go from here? And where could they meet? Not along the highway, no matter how upscale the motel. Moira was better than that.

He was more attracted to her than he'd been to any woman since Beth died. She had an inner strength that drew him like a magnet, and that neat little shape and sweet, kissable lips didn't hurt.

He stared out the window at the barn light down the road. But would she want to stay around as long as he wanted her to? Sure, she had the job, but Colin Sanger's widow didn't need the money.

He yawned and rolled over, winding the sheet around him.

But if she didn't need the money, why the fuck had she taken the job?

M
oira went to bed tired. The two rehearsals had taken a lot out of her, and she needed a good night's sleep.

But as soon as she closed her eyes, she was enveloped in the familiar darkness.

Total darkness, as if she'd been buried in the center of the earth.

Tears trickled down her face.

She tilted her head to maneuver them close to her mouth so she could lick up their moisture because she didn't know how or when the darkness would end.

If ever.

There was nothing to do but sit back on her haunches.

And wait…

Something cold touched her cheek, something cold and wet.

She screamed, and Astrid, dressed for the morning, came running into her room, grabbed Ivanhoe by his collar, and hauled him off the bed.

“For shame, Ivanhoe! You frightened Moira!”

Moira sat up.
Crap.
She'd had the nightmare again, and the big dog had tried to comfort her.

“That's okay. He did me a favor. I needed a cold nose in my face right about then,” she said, untangling herself from the bedcovers. Apparently she'd been kicking around for half the night.

Astrid was instantly alert. “That dream again? Are you okay now? Dr. Sjoberg will be here right about now, but I could stay with you for a few minutes. She'd understand.”

Moira moved to the side of the bed and wiped her face with the edge of her hand. “Yeah, it was the dream, but you go on to work. I'm awake now, and I have Ivanhoe here to take care of me.”

She patted his majestic head, and he let his tongue hang out in a panting smile.

A horn sounded in the street, and Astrid looked out the window, then back at Moira. “You sure you're okay?”

Moira pointed her arm toward the door. “Go!”

Ivanhoe followed his mistress to the door, then returned to Moira with his tail drooping.

She smoothed his thick fur. “I know I'm only second-best, doggie, but I'll try to give you what comfort I can. And you can comfort me.”

Still in her sleep shirt, she wandered into the family room, picked up the control of the big-butted television that Josie had thrown into the deal, and ran through the channels for a rerun of an innocuous sitcom that could clear the shadows of night from her brain.

Ivanhoe curled up against her leg.

Damn.
What had triggered the dream this time?

Maybe it was the show. Everything seemed to be going well, but this was her first time working with community theater, and every day was a new challenge. Vashti and the Fontaines were spoiling for a fight, Travis and Micaela were burning up the stage, and she'd caught one of the mothers coaching her little girl from the back of the auditorium as if the show were a child beauty pageant.

She glanced around the room. When she and Astrid had moved in, it had seemed so barren. Now, with a couple of shelving units against one wall, a buffet against the adjoining one, and an upholstered couch and chair in place, the place looked downright homey.

The next time she saw Rafe, she'd have to be sure and thank him for bringing everything by yesterday evening and then helping Astrid move it into place.

She clicked the television off again and made herself stand up and walk over to the sliding glass door to look at drizzling rain.
Damn.
Not only was the nightmare still hanging over her, but Astrid has made off with their only umbrella, which meant she'd get soaked to the bone when she stopped by H-E-B to buy a baby present for Donna Sue.

The doorbell chimed, and Ivanhoe raced to the door to protect her from what must be nothing less than a zombie invasion. Glancing out the living room window as she passed through to the hall, Moira saw a panel truck parked at her curb with
ROSEMARY'S FLOWERS
stenciled on its side.

With Ivanhoe still barking like a maniac, she walked to the door and opened it to a man in a heavy jacket holding a vase of yellow flowers. He looked at the little envelope attached to the vase.

“You Ms. Farrar?”

“Yes.”

“Flowers for you.” He thrust the vase at her, stepped off the porch, and hustled back to his truck before Moira could even say thank you, and who could blame him? The cold was biting, and Ivanhoe sounded like he would too.

She closed the door and locked it carefully, then carried the bouquet to the kitchen, with Ivanhoe parading in front of her, his ruff still up.

Doggie settled on the throw rug as she opened the envelope and pulled out the note inside.

Suddenly the dreary, sodden day seemed brighter, and the nightmare receded into the new day.

Donna Sue was sitting up in the bed and staring at her mobile phone when Moira entered the hospital room.

“Babes! Come in! You've got to see this. It's a terrific—I mean a really
super
—picture!” She thrust the cell phone at Moira. “Genevieve Valentina—we're going to call her Ginny—she's so photogenic! Wait till you see her. The nurse should have her back in the room any minute. They're weighing her—regulations, you know—to make sure she's thriving, though Lord only knows why. She weighed eight pounds, two ounces—can you believe it?—when she was born. Of course, Leonard was photogenic too—Ginny's brother—but in a more masculine way!”

Moira's eyes stung unexpectedly as she looked at the photo. “She's perfect,” she whispered.

Genevieve Valentina Gomez was indeed a charmer, but then, Moira had never met a baby who wasn't. In fact, she adored babies and everything about them—their cuddliness, their soft skins and chubby pink cheeks, their solemn eyes, their sweet cupid lips, their cooing cries. When she and Colin were first married, she'd assumed they'd have children right off. After all, he was in his late thirties.

But Colin had opted for a vasectomy early in his career, when he was enjoying everything Hollywood had to offer and didn't want any evidence left behind.

She handed over her pink gift bag from H-E-B, then took the visitor's chair beside the bed. She hoped Donna Sue would like her choice. She'd looked up and down the rack in the baby aisle before finding exactly what she wanted—little pink slippers with red ribbon roses on their toes. Sweet baby shoes for sweet baby feet.

Donna Sue lifted the shoes out of their bag and held them up to admire, then gave Moira a dimpled smile. “How darling! I love them—absolutely adore them.” She leaned over to give Moira a light hug. “They'll be so perfect for Ginny.”

She laid the shoes down carefully on her bedside table, then turned to Moira, her brown eyes snapping with curiosity. “Now, tell me—I'm dying to hear—what's going on with the rehearsals. Are Travis and Micaela still doing their star-crossed lovers act?”

Moira rolled her eyes. “Oh God, Donna. Even when they don't say a word to each other, it's so obvious—and distracting. I'm worried that the audience will be watching the two of them instead of the play.”

“Not much you can do, babes.” Donna Sue shrugged. “Travis and Micaela were a steady couple—from high school on—and they can't help but sizzle whenever you get them together.” She scooted back on the bed and winced. “Damn episiotomy. I'm never having sex again.”

Moira laughed. It felt good to laugh. She hadn't been doing enough of that lately. Bubbly Donna Sue and wicked Rocky—her new friends. Both of them made her laugh. Rafe was a friend too, but he was in an entirely different category. Humor wasn't his primary attraction.

Donna Sue filled a cup from her bedside water pitcher, then looked at Moira again. “What about the kids' get-together yesterday evening? Have you met Kimberly Nixon yet?”

“She gave me her daughter's pageant resume—all three single-spaced pages of it. And she had Wendy rigged out in a pink-and-white dress like Nancy Clancy used to wear.”

Donna Sue took a swig of water. “Just don't let her get away with any crap, babes. You gotta call her on it right off the bat —Kimberly, not Wendy—Wendy's just doing what her mother tells her to—or it'll drive you crazy.” She replaced the cup on her bedside table. “Oh, and speaking of crazy, my classes are a total mess because Ginny—she's so precocious—came early, and I wondered—don't feel you have to say yes—if you could possibly go in Friday morning and talk to the kiddos. My first class is at nine, and I can call Fred Hurst, our principal—he's a great guy even though none of his teams ever got to state when he was coaching—and he'll show you around like you're Elizabeth Taylor reincarnated. I mean, babes, I've got a lot of substitutes scheduled, but you'd be the big cheese!”

“No problem,” Moira assured her. “I have most of Friday free.” She'd been planning on dropping by the library to look at costume books, but that could wait. Besides, she wanted to know what a high school was like—a real high school, Rocky's kind of high school, not the ones on television and in the movies where all the students' complexions were clear, they broke into song and dance at the slightest opportunity, and vampires lurked around every corner.

The door opened, and a nurse wheeled in a Plexiglas cradle on top of a metal cabinet, then transferred a blanket-wrapped bundle into Donna Sue's eager arms.

She nuzzled her baby's face and cooed sweet nothings to her baby.

Moira felt a sweet pang of longing in her breast. Would she ever be a mother? Ever hold her own sweet little baby in her arms? Maybe a little boy with a shock of bright red hair?

Close that door right now, girl! Any relationship you have with Rafe will be on the terms he originally proposed—sex only—body satisfying body.

Rafe rolled up the original blueprints for the Huaco Theater that he'd been studying all morning and stuck them back in their slot. Why in the hell had he decided to take on an entire block? Restoring the old movie theater would have been enough in itself, but the rest of the damn block too? God, he must have been out of his mind. Still, for the renovated Huaco to be successful, theatergoers had to have a reasonable expectation of not getting their tires slashed while they were tapping their toes to
Thoroughly Modern Millie
.

He ran his hand up his forehead and through his hair. He had too much going on at the same time—the renovation, the theater guild, the new pathologist, Rocky's mother, Moira…

He walked over to the window and tried to sort things out. The drizzle had passed, and the sky had turned the striking blue that usually follows a hard norther.

Taking a couple of deep breaths, he leaned on the window frame and watched as Rosemary's driver turned into the wide alley and angled the delivery truck into its parking space behind the flower shop. Judging by the way the driver scooted into the back door of the building, the temperature must still be down in the forties.

Had Moira liked his flowers? Rosemary had put together a simple arrangement of daffodils, then backed it with foliage—charming, he thought, but not enough to scare Moira off.

He returned to his desk, picked up a pencil, and started drawing circles and attaching them to each other with straight lines. The last thing he'd expected when Johnny Blue recommended Moira Farrar was that he'd be giving her the rush. Sure, he'd enjoyed her characters on TV, but he'd never been what one would call a rabid fan. Nancy Clancy and Twinky Applejack had been two-dimensional cartoonlike creations to him, and Robota—well, it was hard to relate to a tin suit with lightbulb eyes.

But he'd related to the living, breathing Moira the instant he set eyes on her. And the more he was around her, the more he wanted to relate to her.

He glanced at his watch and reached for his bomber jacket.

It was almost time for Delilah's preschool let out. She'd never had to wait for him yet, and she was never going to.

Moira arrived at Eisenhower Consolidated early in the morning, passed under a large pale blue banner with
GENERALS RULE!
printed on it in purple, and waited at the security desk for clearance by a goggle-eyed clerk, who got an autograph out of her in the process.

Mr. Hurst was fiftyish, combed his thinning hair forward, wore red-framed glasses, and had just put a phone to his ear. He closed the laptop on his desk and reraised a forefinger in apology, then nodded her toward the chair in front of his capacious desk—the penitent's chair, Moira figured.

She down and looked around. So this was what a real principal's office looked like. Another large purple-and-blue banner, this one reading
GO, GENERALS!
was tacked on the wall above a display of diplomas, certifications, and commendations from community organizations. Framed photos of Eisenhower Consolidated football teams hung above the bookcase, and two upholstered chairs lined up with a metal filing cabinet against the far wall. A coffeemaker, a microwave, and the burnt-orange neon outline of a steer's head sat on top of a long table against the opposite wall, with cardboard boxes stacked underneath it.

“I have Moira Farrar in my office now, and I—yes, Nancy Clancy.” He shuffled through the mess of documents that obscured the large calendar on his busy desk, nearly knocking over a trifold iPad, a cup full of pens and pencils, and a vase containing a bouquet of purple-and-blue papier-mâché flowers. “Anyway, I'll—”

Moira could hear an explosion of excitement on the other end of the line, but Mr. Hurst interrupted ruthlessly. “She's subbing for Donna Sue, so I've got to take her to class now. Call me later.” He replaced the phone in its cradle, gave Moira a welcoming smile, and came around the side of his desk.

“We're honored to have you here at Eisenhower Consolidated High School today, Ms. Farrar,” he said, shaking her hand. “Our students don't get to meet a person of your stature every day, and it will mean a lot to them. It's about time for classes to change, so I'll take you to Donna Sue's room and get you settled. She's got three theater classes in a row; a speech class; thirty minutes for lunch; a class prep period, which I suggest you spend in the teacher's lounge because everyone will want to talk to you; then two advanced theater classes.”