Page 4

Story: Welcome to Gothic

Backstage was the same madness it had been before, with costumers, palm wavers, dancers and Percy gesturing frantically at the soundman to add more jungle sounds to the chase scene.

But Wendy had changed. Before she’d gone onstage, she’d been sure she had suffered a head injury and was out of her mind.

Now she didn’t care if she was out of her mind. All she wanted was to do what Hugh commanded—to wait for him. To see what he wanted, to kiss him again, to find out if that single moment of connection was more than a dream.

When she walked up to Percy, he started to slap her on the butt, then at the last minute clapped her on the shoulder. He looked terrified.

“That’s fine,” she said.

“Good job, princess.”

“Calling me princess is not fine.”

“You’re a gosh-darned funny woman, but Miss Lindholm was so happy with your performance she said you should change in her dressing room, and you should come to the wrap party tonight up at the estate.”

“Oh. Good.” Wendy touched the tender knot on the back of her head. Would she be unconscious long enough to go to a party? To see Hugh? She hoped so, because he might be an illusion conjured up by her injured brain, but for him, she wanted to give her brain a blue ribbon.

Percy handed Wendy a folded piece of paper. “Here’s your salary.”

Wendy opened it and stared.

The date scrawled at the top was September 16, 1940.

Wendy thought about hyperventilating. Such a strange dream. So specific. Almost as if when she fell, she fell through layers of time to . . . this.

“Holy—” Don’t say crap. A woman in 1940 wouldn’t say crap. “Moses!”

“I know. Not bad for five minutes’ work.” Percy sounded smug.

She looked at the amount: three dollars.

Don’t spend it all in one place, Wendy.

She told him, “You’re paying for travel time, fast action, and there aren’t many women who could do what I did on a moment’s notice.” Actually, Wendy didn’t have a clue what stuntwomen did in 1940, but she would bet they made half what the men did so . . . because he’d doubled her salary to get her there in a hurry, she’d made what a man did.

“I like you, kid,” Percy said. “Wendy . . . who?”

Wendy was used to people not remembering her last name. “Wendy Giordano.”

“You could be a star if you’d change that last name to sound American.”

“I am American,” she said icily.

“Sure, and my real name is Milton Minkus, but that and a nickel will get me a cup of coffee.” Percy got a crooked smile on his face. “Look, there’s the real princess.”

Wendy followed his gaze.

A toddler, a little girl about eighteen months old, roamed the backstage in a white smocked dress, white ruffled socks and black patent leather shoes. She smiled a gap-toothed smile at everyone she saw, delighting in the world around her.

“Who’s that?” Wendy asked.

“That’s Miss Lindholm’s daughter, Hazel. She’s a doll, loves the theater like her mother, wanders back here charming us all while her mother’s onstage.” Percy knelt and held out his arms.

Hazel came right over and climbed in.

Percy stood with the little girl on his arm and said, “Hazel, this is a friend of your mum’s. Do you like her?”

Hazel jumped so fast Wendy’s reflexes almost failed her. She caught the child, they both laughed and quieted when Percy shushed them. Already, Hazel knew she had to be quiet backstage.

“I’m Wendy. What’s your name?”

“Hazel. H-A-Z-E-L Lindholm.” Hazel recited her name as she’d been trained to.

“Hazel, what would you like to do?”

“Go!” Hazel pointed to the door.

Wendy looked at Percy.

“Sure, take her outside. It won’t hurt her to run around. When you bring her back in, give her to the nursemaid.” He pointed to a young woman standing in the wings staring fixedly at Hugh. “She ought to be taking the baby home anyway. It’s past Hazel’s bedtime.”

Wendy glanced around, located a huge black-and-white school clock on the wall and said, “I guess! It’s almost nine o’clock.”

“If everybody does their parts right, the play’s over at ten.” Jungle drums picked up a beat, the dancers started onto the stage and Percy sprang toward them, stage-whispering, “The crocodile! Don’t forget the crocodile.”

Two of the dancers turned back and pushed a large purple-velvet plush crocodile to the back of the stage.

“Come on,” Wendy said to Hazel, and took her out the stage door and into the gathering dusk.

Hazel struggled to get down, and Wendy put her on her feet, then herded the toddling child toward Gothic’s main street.

The Pacific Coast Highway had been completed in 1937. That year, Maeve Lindholm traveled in her Duesenberg SJ north from Hollywood, turned right on Nacimiento-Fergusson Road, drove to the top of the Widow’s Peak overlooking the Pacific and announced she would build her castle here.

The Gothic village Wendy knew hadn’t taken form yet; the road’s steep seven hairpin turns and some of the lots had been laid out, but the roadbed was gravel and only a few buildings broke the vast emptiness of Big Sur. The grand, mostly finished Gothic Palace theater sat alone on the edge of a curve. The lower edge of town was marked by the raw-looking Gothic General Store.

Two buses painted Army green were parked nearby, which explained the number of uniforms Wendy had seen in the audience. All around cars were parked: early twentieth century black carriage-looking cars with spoke wheels, colorful cars that looked almost modern, sporty convertibles.

Fittingly, there was a gas station and car repair garage across the street.

In one roped-off section, men in dark suits and brimmed hats stood beside what were obviously high-end cars, smoking cigarettes and rubbing the fenders with their rags. Chauffeurs, Wendy assumed.

They wolf-whistled and leered at her jungle outfit.

Assholes.

Hazel picked up gravel and threw it at them.

Smart kid.

When she reached for another handful, Wendy pried open her fist and made her drop the pebbles. “We should take you back in, baby.” To get Hazel away from those men, especially the guy who didn’t whistle, but watched them so intently Wendy’s skin prickled with unease. Because if he meant trouble, she could defend herself, but the best defense was a good head start, and she had taken on the care of this little girl.

She picked Hazel up and carried her to the stage door.

The nonwhistling guy met them there and opened it. “After you,” he said.

She planted her feet and looked him in the face. “Are you supposed to be backstage?”

“I’m one of the actors. One of the bad man poachers. I came out for a smoke, but I’m on in a couple of minutes.”

“Okay.” She hurried inside in front of him.

Behind her she heard him say, “Hi, Percy, your poacher has reported for duty.”

“One of our poachers,” Percy corrected him irritably.

Hmm. Percy didn’t like the guy, either.

She waited until the man joined the group of very obviously villainous characters who waited in the wings for their cue, and when they went on, she turned to Percy and asked, “Who is he?”

“Oh. Bill.” Percy gave a gusty sigh.

“Oh, Bill.” Hazel didn’t so much sigh as sneer, an odd expression on such a tiny, angelic child’s face.

Wendy looked at her in surprise. So Hazel didn’t like everybody.

“Did he give you trouble?” Percy asked.

“No. No. He’s just not . . .” She shrugged one shoulder. “I didn’t like the way he watched me and Hazel when we were outside.”

“He’s a cousin of Miss Lindholm’s. She brought him out from Sweden when he was a young man. His mother said he wanted to be Miss Lindholm’s assistant. Turns out he wanted to be an actor.” Now Percy wore the sneer. “Miss Lindholm’s a good relative. She got him a screen test.”

“No interest?”

“A big, echoing void of interest. Now he hangs around here. She gives him the occasional role in her plays. Supporting roles, only. I don’t know what else he does with his time. Gambles, I think.” Percy looked sideways at her. “He must win because he’s got a car and enough money for gas.”

“That makes him important.”

Percy smirked. “I like you, kid. Ya got a smart mouth.” With a glance on the stage, he lifted his hands in despair. “Could the lighting man get the sunrise right just once?”