Page 12
Story: Welcome to Gothic
Wendy’s heart leaped with joy, but before she could call his name, Roy yelled, “Uncle Vince!” and raced over to hug him around the waist.
The man looked down at his nephew and ruffled his hair. “How you doing, buddy?”
Wait a minute. The leap of Wendy’s heart became cold, dark suspicion. Was this some kind of cruel joke?
She whipped around and stared balefully at Minnie and Mabel.
Both women were perched on their stools, mouths open, staring at Hugh in recognition and confusion. Minnie turned to Mabel, and Wendy clearly heard, “What in the blue blazes? Who is he?”
Mabel looked at Wendy, shook her head in helpless amazement and mouthed, We would never do anything to hurt you.
Roy’s voice dragged Wendy back to this time, this place, this situation. “Uncle Vince, we’re going to play a game. Will you be my parent? Please? Bendy Wendy volunteered, but she likes to boss people around more.”
“Bendy Wendy?” Vince laughed, looked up—and zeroed in on Wendy’s face.
His gaze clung. And clung.
Wendy couldn’t breathe. She was on the verge of tears. She wanted to run to him. To Hugh, who was here, now. Hugh, with a different name and a different attire. Hugh, looking fashionably scruffy in faded jeans, a white T-shirt and running shoes. Yet he was exactly the same; same height, same build, same smile, same haircut, same eyes that looked into her soul and saw the woman she was and longed to be.
She scrambled in her mind for an explanation.
She must have seen him somewhere, maybe around town, and her subconscious had made up a fantasy. Although how a man who looked like a 1940s movie star could be walking and talking and—
Suddenly her brain and ears recognized the quiet in the bookshop. Her eyes saw the way everyone, even the clueless children, looked between her and Hugh.
No, not Hugh. His name was Vince.
Yet this scene was a rerun: the last time, the actors and dancers backstage in Maeve Lindholm’s theater had watched them exactly like this . . . in 1940.
Self-preservation made Wendy break into a stream of babble. “Like to boss people around? Me? Ha ha, you’re making a joke. Of course your uncle is welcome to join our game if you want him to. Vince . . . Vince? Come and stand over here by the other parents and I’ll explain what you’re supposed to do. It’s really easy, I promise.”
Vince walked over, his arm around Roy’s shoulders, his gaze still clinging to Wendy’s face. “Have we met before?”
For a moment, she wondered if he shared her memories. “Here in town?”
“No, I just arrived in Gothic. It’s my first time here. But Roy and I are close.”
“He saved me from kidnapping!” Roy piped up.
Wendy took a step back and almost fell over a box of books.
Vince caught her arm and held her upright.
“Thanks. Grace Coordinated, that’s me.” Of course, she usually was coordinated. In her job, it was a necessity. But with him standing there, she hardly knew how to put one foot after another, and with his hand on her arm, she was afraid she’d melt into a puddle of molten lava and scorch the antique hardwood floor.
“Kidnapping?” Ariel was happy to be curious for them all. “Who kidnapped you, Roy?”
“My dad. He’s, um, not a nice man.”
So that was the shadow on Roy’s young life.
Roy continued, “Today my mom had to go away. She’s getting a restraining order on him.”
Vince winced. “His dad is the family’s . . . black sheep, to put it nicely—every family’s got one.”
All the parents nodded, and Deputy Dave said, “With us, it’s Ariel’s sister. What a head case.”
Ariel jabbed him with her elbow hard enough to make him wince, and asked brightly, “Shall we start the game?”
“Right, first obstacle is the bookshelves. You have to run through the maze, grab a bag, bring it back to your parent—” she looked at Roy “—your adult, and use whatever is inside to decorate them. Is everyone ready?”
The kids nodded.
The parents moaned.
Wendy pointed her finger at an overly enthusiastic eleven-year-old. “You! Emma! Be careful of the littler ones.”
Emma sat back from her sprinting rabbit stance. “Okay, Wendy.”
She grinned and punched her arm. “Good girl. Now go!”
The kids ran through the bookshelves, shrieking and laughing, and came back to fling a cloak over one parent, a feather boa around another, a grass skirt, a coconut bra . . .
The kids looked at their adults and laughed uproariously.
It was exactly what Wendy intended. She waited until they were fairly calm to announce, “Next we’re going to jump the book boxes, one by one, until we get to the far side. Grab a bag, jump back and dress your adult. One at a time, please, youngest to oldest! Go!”
Roy jumped, laughing all the way.
Wendy somehow found herself standing next to Vince. Vince, who was not Hugh. “He’s a great kid,” she said.
“He is.” All an uncle’s fondness was in his tone.
“Very athletic. For a karate beginner, he picked up on the moves quickly.”
“I’ve worked with him a bit.”
That made sense. Because like Hugh, this man who was called Vince was built like a guy who knew his way around the security arts. “You’re a self-defense practitioner?”
“In my business, it’s helpful.”
“You’re an actor?”
Vince glanced at her in surprise. “Not at all. But I am a stunt coordinator for the movies.”
She laughed in a gust. “Of course you are.”
“Are you sure we haven’t met before?”
“Pretty sure we haven’t.”
Roy roared back across the shop, yodeling like Tarzan.
“I taught him that,” Vince said.
“Of course you did.” As before, her conversation left something to be desired.
Roy arrived at Vince’s side, opened the bag and found an old, closed metal case. He looked at Wendy in confusion.
“It’s stage makeup.” She popped it open. “Looks like lip color to me.”
Every one of the kids fell on the ground laughing.
The fathers sympathetically clapped Vince on the back.
Roy found the brush she’d included in the bag and went to work on Vince’s face.
Vince now wore a grass skirt and thick ruby red lip color painted on with an inexpert hand.
“This is going to be great,” the next kid told his horrified father, and jumped over to the bags.
Roy watched and clapped his hands in anticipation.
In an undertone, Vince told Wendy, “Roy’s had a time with his dad being what he is. Big time drug user. My sister’s successful, so he figured to kidnap his own son and hold her feet to the fire. I went and got Roy. It was ugly, but I left Bill looking a little worse for wear.”
“Bill?” Wendy had been telling herself, over and over, that she was feeling absolutely fine, that nothing other than Vince’s resemblance to Hugh reminded her of a hallucination she’d experienced in the theater.
But that name—exactly the same name as the last kidnapper, when Hugh had died and she had lost her love . . .
“What?” Vince asked. “What’s wrong? Do you know him?”
“No. No, I don’t.” A gust of cool air damp with fog slipped in from beyond the wall and caught Wendy’s attention. A figure appeared to move within it.
Vince noticed, too. He glanced around, located the light switch and hurried to douse the overheads.
Deputy Dave caught on immediately. He indicated silence to the kids, and herded the families and the O’Hall sisters into the back behind the bookshelves.
Wendy peeked into the clothing shop. She couldn’t see much. It was all hulking shadows and silhouettes against the squares of window.
The outer door stood wide open.
The fog slid in, swirling as though something had passed through and disturbed it.