Chapter Four
“I hereby declare Barefoot Shakespeare a success.” Lacey Walker held the pool gate open while Lane dragged a stack of borrowed chairs off the sand. The sunset improv class—fueled by Mimosas, complimentary snacks from Junonia, and a spectacular moonlit night—had snowballed into a five-hour Shakespeare workshop with ten official students taking turns reading from Macbeth and many of Casa Blanca’s other guests joining in. By the time Great Birnam Wood rose up and stormed the castle, it was long past midnight.
“I think everyone had fun.” Lane yawned, feeling the creeping letdown that always followed a good class. “Those lighted e-readers were a stroke of genius.”
“Ashley’s idea. We keep them for guests to borrow.” Lacey closed and locked the pool gate. “I think you doubled Junonia’s restaurant business tonight. Also, I had a dozen people ask about hotel packages for MCT’s opening in October.”
“I guess that means we’ll sell at least a dozen tickets.” Lane grinned. “But I think they’re mostly coming back for Chef Ian’s Tiramisu.”
“Tiramisu. Mmm. Who can argue?” They walked through the building to Casa Blanca’s main entrance. “Still,” Lacey said, “your class surprised me. I always thought Shakespeare was dull, but you had people shouting lines and swinging swords as if the play was a matter of life and death.”
“Well, for their characters, it was. Shakespeare’s full of terrific stories—murder, mayhem, love, and jealousy. If people find it dull, it’s their theater’s fault.”
“And possibly their high school teachers.” Lacey laughed.
“Maybe.” Lane had always loved theater. She took her phone off silent, realizing with a stab of grief that she’d missed her daughters’ bedtime call. There it was at nine o’clock precisely. Lane listened to the message, hearing the girls’ excited babble, their grandmother’s stern voice cutting them off. She sighed. “I wish I could be here for the photo shoot tomorrow instead of cleaning the auditorium for the auction.”
“How’s setup coming?”
“Slowly.” Not at all. What with restoring costumes, teaching acting classes, and raising the girls, there’d been no time to get ready for an auction. “But some of my students are giving up their Fourth of July tomorrow to clean the theater and help set up displays.”
“Call me if you get desperate. I’ll send over some staff.”
“You’re very sweet.” Lane hugged her friend. “But it’s a holiday. They’ll be busy here.” And the ones who weren’t busy would want to go home to their families. “The auction’s going to be shabby-chic.” Lane refused to worry about trivialities. “Between Willow’s catering and the costume displays, we’ll be fine.”
“Hey, gorgeous.” Lacey’s husband Clay appeared in the driveway. “I’ve been waiting all night for a strawberry blond businesswoman to take me home to bed.” He came forward and offered his arm. “How about it?”
“Well….” Lacey batted her eyelashes. “Maybe this once.”
“Night-night.” Lane wriggled into her car, watching the couple stroll away, swallowing a lump of wistfulness. Not so very long ago, she’d had that kind of happiness with Alex, though it had been longer—much longer—since she and her disabled husband had been able to stroll side-by-side.
Still…she had the girls, a place to live, wonderful friends, almost a paying job. She had the joy of teaching, of watching students blossom when they connected with a dramatic story. Life was good.
Lane rolled down windows and drove, singing, through the empty streets of Mimosa Key. She had the late-night breeze, the soft caress of humid weather, the croaks of frogs, and chirps and twitters of the night. She had the creak of boats, the perfume of jasmine and gardenia, glimpses of moonlight reflected on the Gulf. She parked the MG, got the mail—just six more years until her husband’s medical bills were paid off—and climbed the long staircase to her apartment, missing the weight of sleeping daughters in her arms, the shampoo-scent of Mima’s baby hair.
Lane opened her apartment door and froze. Funny. The place smelled different. As if someone had been here. She dropped the bills, edged sideways to her ironing board, and picked up the heavy iron. But unless her intruder had broken in with buckets of bleach and glass cleaner, this wasn’t the scene of a crime.
Janet. Lane stalked to the kitchen, hit the lights, and glared at gleaming counters and brightly-polished appliances. Janet, I’m much too tired for this crap. Her ex-mother-in-law—forbidden to touch anything while costume restoration was in progress—apparently had not wasted a minute dragging the girls here to attack Lane’s bad housekeeping after the ban was lifted.
Dammit. Janet meant well. Mostly. She was a generous woman who doted on her grandchildren. But so eternally disapproving. Lane rested her forehead on the refrigerator, half-ready to drive to Blue Landing, collect her daughters, and give her interfering in-laws a piece of her mind.
But that was crazy. The girls were asleep. Tomorrow was going to be super busy, and Lane was exhausted. She kicked the refrigerator—leaving her footprint on the white door just to show the kitchen who was boss—brushed her teeth in the infuriatingly tidy bathroom, and stumbled to her bedroom.
Lane discarded tee-shirt and jeans, pulled on a sleep-cami, and stretched out on the freshly laundered bed. The fan was running and Janet—recklessly ignoring the possibility of rain—had left the windows wide open.
Maybe she’s getting senile. Of course, Lane didn’t want her mother-in-law to suffer a tragic illness, but it would be nice sometimes to think the woman had a flaw. She squirmed under the sheet, stretching, brushing her hand against a warm, muscular…. A paralytic shock ran through her.
What? Someone was in her bed. What the hell?
For one instant, Lane hoped it was Janet. She must have decided to sleep here with the girls. But then a man sat up and loomed over her in the darkness. A big, broad-chested, not-wearing-a-stitch-of-clothing sort of man, who rumbled incoherently.
“What the hell!” Lane didn’t stop to think. She grabbed the old bedside rotary phone and slammed it as hard as she could against the side of his head.