Page 12 of Welcome to Gothic
“Okay,” she mimicked herself. Whatever he saw in her that appealed to him, it wasn’t her scintillating conversation.
She started toward the stairs she’d come up, the ones that led to the Vintage Gothic Encore Clothing Shop, but changed her course and headed for the stage. Because she didn’t know if, when she descended those stairs, she’d be back with Minnie and Mabel, buying props for a kids’ party—which she loved to do—and living her unglamorous, high-energy life in the modern village of Gothic.
Onstage, Wendy gazed out over the orchestra pit and beyond, to the last of the audience as it dispersed through the wide double doors into the lobby, and she marveled at the clean floors. Apparently in the early half of the twentieth century, the audience did not spill their drinks or their popcorn or throw their candy wrappers on the floor. They left the place as clean as they found it.
Wendy descended the wide steps that led to the sloped aisle and strolled up toward the lobby. There, a few of the audience lingered, men in their dark suits and wide-brimmed hats holding evening wraps for the wives, girlfriends and daughters clad in dresses, heels, hats and gloves.
In her slinky silk gown and her costume department heels, Wendy was overdressed. But notthatoverdressed.
These men looked in appreciation, but none of them whistled or made lewd comments. The rules were different in here.
One of the women approached Wendy holding a small book in her hand. “Could I have an autograph?”
“I’m not anyone. Just the stuntwoman,” Wendy assured her.
“You’re the one who swung down to Hugh Capel and he...lookedat you?” The woman thrust her autograph book at her. “Yes, please, I want your autograph.”
Feeling alternately foolish and pleased, Wendy signed her book, and a few others. Once she glanced up, she saw two white-haired women walk toward the theater exit.
“Minnie! Mabel!” She started forward, but they vanished out the door and when she looked out on the street, they were nowhere in sight.
Again Wendy rubbed the lump on the back of her head and reminded herself this was a dream, a nightmare... a Harlequin Romance fantasy.
“Miss?” One of the teens who lingered in the lobby offered her autograph book.
“Of course.” Wendy signed, then escaped out the front door and stood on the short wooden sidewalk as the last of the sun set. She stood as she had seen early twentieth century models stand: back slouched, hips thrust forward, the epitome of lazy glamor.
The remaining audience disappeared into a bus or cars. Headlights came on, and the vehicles drove toward the recently completed Pacific Coast Highway.
Wendy stood enjoying the cool air, the faint rhythm of the ocean waves against the cliffs, the sense of being familiar with this place, while at the same time, she experienced a clawing sense that little Wendy Giordano didn’t belong here. Didn’t belong in this time, didn’t belong in this place with the beautiful people.
Wendy thought of her life outside the dream. Why was she here? She believed that a person had a fate, a destiny, a reason to be on this earth. What had she been sent here for?
A lone car, an early twentieth century model Ford, was parked facing up the road toward Maeve Lindholm’s still-in-progress Tower. The engine was idling, but no one was around. She stepped back by the ticket office, curious to see who came out of the theater and drove away.
It was Bill. He carried something wrapped in a blanket, and in the dim light, he appeared grimly triumphant.
A small arm flung back the blanket. A small black patent-leather-clad foot kicked.
Wendy saw a fluff of white skirt and golden curls, and she knew. She hiked up her skirt and ran, yelling, “Hey! You! Stop now! Someone! He’s got Hazel!”
Bill glanced her way, flung Hazel through the window into the passenger seat, leaped into the driver’s side and roared toward Nacimiento-Fergusson Road and the depths of the Santa Lucia Mountains.
“No!” She kicked off her heels and ran faster. “You can’t have her!”
Someone caught her arm.
“Let me go!” She turned savagely.
Hugh. Hugh Capel. He held her, observing her, glancing around, zeroing in on the car roaring up the road. “Wendy,” he said urgently, “what’s wrong?”
She pointed. “He’s got Hazel! Bill’s kidnapping Hazel!”
Chapter Seven
Hugh didn’t waste time reassuring her that Bill was Maeve Lindholm’s cousin, nor did he demand a lengthy explanation for her panic. He said, “I’ll get my car.”
In less than a minute he returned from the parking area in a nice-looking convertible. He leaned over, flung open the passenger door, and holding those stupid heels, Wendy climbed in. She barely had the door closed when Hugh put the vehicle in gear and hit the accelerator.
