Rubato: An important characteristic of the Romantic period. It is a musical style where the strict tempo is temporarily abandoned for a more emotional tone.
December 2, twenty years later
Twilight, Texas
Backstage at the one-hundred-forty-year-old Twilight Playhouse, Paige MacGregor wriggled into her skimpy “Santa Baby” costume, finger-pinched red Lycra leggings up around her waist, flashed her doughy-white belly to the full-length mirror, and quite possibly the ghost of John Wilkes Booth, and swore off Christmas cookies forever.
According to local lore—and open to heated debate—after assassinating Lincoln, Booth escaped, and hid out in Twilight, Texas. He assumed the name John St. Helen and got a job as an actor. On his deathbed, St. Helen, aka Booth, supposedly confessed his true identity.
“Sorry, John,” Paige apologized. “But if you don’t want to see the sad evidence of my total lack of self-control, you shouldn’t haunt theaters.”
She was the first of the five Santa’s helpers to arrive, and the quiet of the old limestone building offered momentary respite from the extravagant Dickensian hullabaloo ruling the town square. Paige took a deep inhale, exhaled long and slow.
Breathe.
At the narrow oval window overlooking the flat roof of Perk’s coffee shop next door, Earl Pringle’s pet crow, Poe, pecked at the pane—tap-tap-tap—and glowered at her with murderous intent.
Poe was a moody cuss. You couldn’t judge Twilightites by him. He was tiny for a crow, barely larger than a female grackle, which might explain his grumpiness. He cocked his shoulders and flared his wings as if trying to convince her that he was a ferocious raven.
Paige pretended to startle because she knew what it was like to be on the short side, and hey, everyone needed an ego boost now and again, even small crows trying to prove themselves worthy of poetic names.
Poe gave a loud “Caw,” satisfied that he’d scared her, and flew away to find new folks to terrorize.
She moved to the window clouded with decades of dirt and grime, called, “Go forth and nevermore.”
Hey, were those snowflakes?
Her obsessive-compulsive gene wished for window cleaner and a rag, but her curiosity overrode that urge. She undid the rusty latch and, with some effort, shoved open the window for a better view at the street below. The smell of dark roast and yeasty pastries teased her nose, and watered her mouth.
No. No more sweet treats.
Behind the theater and the town square, Lake Twilight stretched sapphire blue, a dazzling jewel in Hood County’s crown. If she leaned out the window far enough and craned her neck to the left, she could just make out her uncle Floyd’s houseboat where she was crashing for the holidays, and/or until she reglued the fractured shards that were her life back together.
Delicate white flakes coasted silently from the sky, sprinkling trees, roofs, cars, and heads of passersby. Her West Texas heart leaped joyously.
She’d grown up in barren desert surrounded by oil and sand, far away from water and snow. And she was thrilled by the white stuff here in North Central Texas, even though she knew the ground was too warm for it to stick. For this one spectacular moment, Twilight looked like a shaken snow globe.
She took another deep breath, savored the sight for as long as she dared, then reluctantly pulled back inside and shut the window.
With a dreamy sigh, she kicked off her Skechers, and plunked down onto the creaky rocking chair. The paint was distressed-dingy white, chipped by advanced age and a vast collection of butts.
Paige zipped up knee-length, black-vinyl, spiked-heeled costume boots. Topped her chestnut, chin-length pageboy with a green elf hat, and examined the results in the mirror.
Turned sideways, sucked in her gut.
“What do you think, John? Give it to me straight. I know I’m no Eartha Kitt, but put me in a couple of Spanx and I can pull off this hot elf thing. Right?”
She spun around to get a rear view, but her ankle turned in the stiletto boots and she had to grab hold of the mirror to keep from toppling. “Okay, okay, Spanx and deportment lessons.”
It had been years since she’d worn stilettoes. She took a second look, brushed her hair back from her forehead, and reapplied her lipstick. Good enough. Time to clear out. The other assistants would be here soon and they’d need the dressing room.
Carefully, she minced down the stairs, past the stage where the hands were setting up, and went into the auditorium.
The Twilight Playhouse was one of the oldest existing US theaters that still hosted performances, and it was the only building on the town square to have kept its primary function since the town was founded in 1875.
The theater predated the township, having been built the previous year. Next door to what was back then a saloon, but was now a fine dining restaurant nostalgically dubbed 1874.
Not that Paige could afford to eat there.
The playhouse had undergone a historically correct renovation a few years back when Emma and Sam Cheek took over as owners, so while everything looked the way it had almost a century and a half ago, and the exterior was one hundred percent original, the auditorium itself was essentially brand-new.
The theater seated three hundred people, and during the month of December, every performance sold out. This year’s Christmas play was Elf and on Saturdays and Sundays they held a two p.m. matinee in addition to the evening performance.
Numerous green wreaths, with red velvet ribbon streamers connecting them, hung from the white limestone walls, festive and inviting. Stacks of programs sat on the apron of the stage, waiting for Santa’s helpers to pass them out to theatergoers.
From the slip of light filtering in through the open side doors, the colossal Italian crystal chandelier aggressively created rainbows, dappling the stage and orchestra pit in luminous prisms that twinkled and danced.
Someone had suspended a wedding-bouquet-sized clump of mistletoe from the chandelier’s central branch, inviting the audience to indulge in stolen kisses.
Aww, Christmas in Twilight.
Paige picked up an armful of programs, tucked them into her elbow, and tottered over the thick rose-patterned carpet to the theater lobby. No one was at the main reception desk, but rummaging sounds came from the closet on the other side of the room.
“Emma?” Paige called.
“Nope.” Colorfully tattooed, multiple-pierced, purple-dreadlocked Jana Gerard popped her head from the closet.
“Oh it’s you, Jana.”
“Sorry to disappoint. Emma hopped over to Caitlyn’s flower shop to replace the blooms.” Jana waved at the wilted poinsettia that sat in baskets on the long marble countertop.
From the closet, Jana dragged a life-sized cardboard cutout of an acoustic guitar protected by a sheet of thin clear plastic. The playhouse had used the guitar to adorn the lobby for the summer performance of Oklahoma.
“What’s that for?” Paige tilted her head.
“Sesty’s decorating for the Brazos Music Review fundraiser tomorrow night, and Emma said we could borrow the guitar.” Sesty Langtree was a local event coordinator, and one of Jana’s two bosses.
A few years back, Jana had moved to conservative Twilight from keep-things-weird Austin, and with her flamboyant appearance, she stood out like a scarlet rose in a planter box of white lilies.
No one knew much about Jana and rumors dogged her heels, which were usually clad in leather motorcycle boots stubbed with metal spikes. The speculations about Jana’s past ran the gamut from the absurd—she shot a man for cheating on her—to the sublime—she’d donated a kidney to a sick lover, friend, parent, sibling, child, what have you, but alas, they’d tragically died anyway.
While the truth of Jana’s abandonment of the state’s capital city for the hinterlands of the close-knit tourist town of Twilight was probably much more mundane, she did nothing to quell the hearsay, and at times actively flamed it. Offering sly smiles and lurid winks.
Paige understood the temptation toward mysteriousness. Even though she had relatives in Twilight, and she was not nearly as exotic as Jana, she, too, had been the topic of whispered speculation.
“Need any help?” Paige asked as Jana hoisted the cardboard guitar onto her back.
Jana eyed her. “You’ve got your hands full, and I’m not real confident in your ability to walk a straight line in those heels.”
“Me either,” Paige admitted, but she put down the programs and moved to open the left side exit door.
“Thanks,” Jana said.
“Excuse me.” Paige raised her voice to the tourists packing the sidewalk. “Woman coming through.”
The throng shifted, cutting a narrow path for Jana to join the flow of foot traffic.
And she was off, swallowed up as the crowd closed ranks again. The only visible sign of her was the bobbing cardboard guitar surfing over heads.
Right then, the other four Santa’s helpers came bustling in through the door that Jana had just exited, snow-dusted and laughing. They greeted Paige merrily, and trundled off to the dressing room.
All the Santa’s helpers had been told to get into costume early so the actors could have the dressing rooms at one-thirty. It was now 12:55. The helpers would work the lobby, greeting guests, passing out programs, manning the cloak room, guiding visitors to their seats, and selling refreshments at the bar.
“You’re gonna do great,” Paige said, giving herself a first-day-on-the-job pep talk. “Just don’t trip and break your neck in the dang boots and you’ll be fine.”
She spied the droopy poinsettias. A little water and time out from under the heat vents and they would rebound. Taking the initiative, she watered the plants and temporarily relocated them to the closet.
The side door of the theater opened again, this time ushering in a red-cheeked Emma carrying a giant basket of various white winter flowers. Emma was in her midthirties, and stood a full two inches shorter than Paige’s five-foot-two height, possessed flame-red naturally curly hair, peaches-and-cream skin, and an easy smile.
Emma Parks Cheek had once been a Broadway actress, and occasionally starred in a movie or two, but mostly she kept busy running the Twilight Playhouse, and riding herd on her veterinarian husband, Sam, Sam’s teenage son, Charlie, from another marriage, and their seven-year-old daughter, Lauren.
Emma stopped short and peered around the basket. “Where did the poinsettias go?”
“I moved them to the closet to make room for the new flowers.”
“Why, thank you, Paige. That was considerate.” Emma hefted the basket onto the marble counter, moving it this way and that, cocking her head to assess her handiwork, attempting to find the most strategic spot from all angles.
“No problem.”
“I should have taken care of the flowers sooner, but when I stopped by the clinic to drop off Sam’s lunch, he had a whole different kind of meal in mind.” She wriggled her auburn eyebrows. “Word to the wise, a quickie on an exam table is not as sexy as it sounds.”
“I . . . um . . . never thought.” Paige pressed a palm to the back of her head. “Well . . . um, okay.”
“Sorry, was that too much information?” Emma grinned as if she wasn’t the least bit sorry. Her husband was one smoking hottie and she didn’t mind letting everyone know they had a spicy sex life.
In all honesty, it wasn’t Emma’s frank talk that gave Paige pause, rather it was the realization that she’d not ever done anything halfway intrepid as a quickie on an exam table.
The bravest thing she’d ever done was to take up residence on a houseboat. And as far as sex went, well, she wasn’t exactly a femme fatale, never mind the skimpy Santa Baby costume.
“Now if you want to talk sexy . . .” Emma lowered her voice.
No, no, Paige did not want to talk sexy time with her employer.
“Room nine at the Merry Cherub has a seven-foot jetted tub. Fun!” Emma paused, her face turning dreamy at a spicy memory. “Or try a midnight rendezvous underneath the Sweetheart Tree in Sweetheart Park. But do bring a blanket. And you might want to wait for summer.”
“Um, doesn’t that violate public nudity laws?”
Emma looked like a sly cat that had slurped up all the cream. “It’s amazing the things you can do with your clothes on. Plus, sometimes a girl has to let down her hair and take a walk on the wild side.”
Wild side, huh? Yeah, well, about that . . . not her strong suit. Paige was more the look-both-ways-ten-times-before-crossing-the-street type. And her hair was cut in a short bob. Nothing to let down.
“But I shouldn’t be standing here gabbing about sex,” Emma said. “Lots to do.”
“How can I help?”
“Guard the doors and do not let anyone in until one-thirty. The town council has been riding my butt about letting people in early.” Emma rolled her eyes as commentary on the meddlesome town council. “You’ll only have to monitor the side door. All the rest are locked. Unlock them exactly at one-thirty.”
Keep guests out for twenty-five minutes? Sure, she could do that.
Emma stopped on her way into the auditorium. “Oh, and, Paige.”
“Yes?”
“You have the most genuine smile I’ve ever seen. Use it. And often.”
“Thanks.” Her stomach tingled, fizzed. She smiled a grateful smile, wanting Emma to know just how much she appreciated the job.
Emma disappeared. Leaving Paige more determined than ever to please her new boss.
She marched over to monitor the side door at the exact moment a guy pushed his way in, bringing with him a bracing breath of cool December air.
She was just about to reroute the intruder when their eyes met. Crash. Bam. Wham.
Head-on collision.
They both stilled instantly. Gazes fused.
Man. O. Man.
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