A Road Through Mountains (Love's Encore Book 1)
A Road Through Mountains
Miranda MacLeod
Contents
A Road Through Mountains
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
About the Author
A Road Through Mountains
By Miranda MacLeod
Copyright © 2016 Miranda MacLeod
All rights reserved. This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance of characters to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The author holds exclusive rights to this work. No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without permission from the author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.
Find out more:
www.mirandamacleod.com
Contact the author:
mmacleodwrites@gmail.com
“A line can be straight, or a street, but the human heart, oh no, it's curved like a road through mountains.”
-Tennessee Williams, A Streetcar Named Desire
1
“Have you ever been backstage at a real theatre before, Mrs. Parker?” asked Susan Monroe as she rose from behind her desk to begin the tour. There was a trill at the end of the word “theater” that made it clear that only the British spelling would be tolerated in these hallowed halls.
Cecily's back stiffened at the unintentional snobbery in the woman's tone. A familiar weight of doubt settled into her stomach like a rock. She'd discussed her qualifications with Bev, the theater's perky young intern, just last week. But the suit-clad, stiletto-wearing businesswoman who greeted her today was the managing director of the Oakwood Theatre. Cecily's status as one of the Oakwood's top patrons demanded nothing less, but Susan's no-nonsense professionalism brought all the usual anxiety rushing in. Being shown the ropes by an unimposing college student would've suited Cecily's sensibilities much better.
“Backstage?” Cecily replied, forcing an airy laugh. “Not since college, unless you count my son Tyler's third grade school play. He was a tree. His father and I were very proud.”
“Oh, of course. How could I have forgotten? You were a drama major, isn't that right?”
“Just a minor, I'm afraid,” Cecily corrected. “But theater's always been an interest.”
It had been more than that at one time. It had been her passion. There had been a time … Ancient history. Cecily pushed the memories down before they had a chance to surface. What mattered was the present, and finding a way to distract herself from it now that Tyler was gone. He'd persuaded her to let him live on campus for his senior year at St. George’s Prep. He was only a few miles away, but his absence made Cecily feel—well, “depressed” is what one of those therapists that all the other mothers in town went to would probably call it. And then those same therapists would look at her with concern, and ask a bunch of prying questions, and end up suggesting she needed a hobby. This was why Cecily had decided to just skip all that and say “yes” when Bev called looking for volunteers.
Hobby acquired. Problem solved.
See, who needed a therapist? Not Cecily Parker. For once in her life, she had it under control.
“Well, I think you'll find that despite our small size, our facilities here at the Oakwood rival some of the best theatres in New York. Thanks in no small part to the generosity of you and your husband, of course.”
“We're just thrilled to see a good show without the long train ride into the city,” Cecily said, cringing inwardly at the woman's ingratiating tone. Unlike the usual patron level donor, she was legitimately looking to do some work, not to be fawned over. “We've been so impressed by the changes you've made recently that we're honored to be a part of it.”
“Is your husband as devoted an arts aficionado as you are, Mrs. Parker?”
“Chet?” Cecily couldn't conceal her amusement at the thought. She'd used the word 'we' out of habit, it having been so long since she'd presented herself as just an 'I'. “No, I'm afraid he's more of a golf aficionado. And football. And basketball. Pretty much if it has a ball and someone keeps score, he can hardly look away. But he likes for me to have my hobbies.”
Her mood soured at the mention of Chet’s name. To say that he liked her plan might be overselling it a bit. To like would imply that he noticed, and to notice he'd need to be around more often. Frankly, that was the last thing Cecily wanted. The fact that Chet would be leaving for Malaysia on business tomorrow and not returning until Thanksgiving had been the best thing to happen in their marriage for years. Not that any of that was Ms. Monroe's concern. A therapist would probably have a lot to say on the topic of her marriage. One more good reason not to see one.
They left the manager's office and started down a long corridor lit with electric torches that gave it a dramatic flair. Cecily smiled at how even something as mundane as a hallway seemed more exciting in a theater. The Oakwood had a particularly captivating air to it. Built in the 1920s, it spanned a full city block and had offices, workshops, rehearsal space, and the auditorium itself all housed under the uneven peaks of its roof. Quirky passageways and staircases connected it all with an aesthetic that suggested the building had more likely sprung organically from the ground than been planned by any architect.
The pungent scent of freshly cut pine and solvents tickled Cecily's nose, sending a rush of exhilaration coursing through her. She'd recognize that smell anywhere, even after almost twenty years. The scene shop must be close by. Her pulse quickened and her stomach fluttered nervously as she geared up for her new adventure.
At the end of the hall stood a pair of imposing metal doors. “Behind here is the scene shop, where all the sets for the shows are made,” Susan announced, using the same hushed and reverent tone that one might employ when introducing a room containing lost Aztec gold or the Ark of the Covenant. “Now, I know that most of our lady volunteers prefer to help out with the costumes, but do you think you'd be interested in doing some work on the sets?”
“Well,” Cecily answered with a polite smile, “as I mentioned to Bev yesterday, aside from some acting, most of my admittedly limited experience was in the scene shop.”
“Oh, right, yes.” Susan mumbled, flushing scarlet. “Of course, I remember that now.”
Cecily noticed the woman's beet stained cheeks with equal parts amusement and disbelief. It was not every day that she made anyone feel self-conscious, and especially not someone as put together as Susan Monroe. Cecily's loose cashmere cardigans, designer skinny jeans, and knee-high equestrian boots cut a fine-enough figure with the suburban ladies-who-lunch crowd, but she'd grown accustomed to being overlooked and underestimated fairly regularly by everyone else. Especially successful working women.
There had been a time shortly after marrying Chet that she could hold her own around those career types. She'd hosted endless parties when her husband was trying to make partner at his firm, but it had been several years since she'd had to do so regularly, and she'd grown to dread it more and more. The female lawyers h
e worked with had been more understanding when Tyler was a baby, but now they mostly made her feel inferior as they wrinkled their noses at the idea that anyone would continue to be a stay at home mom once their child outgrew infancy.
So, yes, it felt nice to be respected for a change. Cecily Parker, Patron of the Arts.
“Mrs. Parker?”
Cecily emerged from her musings and it was her turn to blush. How easily her mind wandered lately. She had no idea what Susan had said. Cecily used to blame motherhood for her inability to concentrate when only grownups were speaking, but at seventeen, Tyler was nearly an adult himself, yet full brain function still eluded her. Surely 'mommy brain' wasn't a permanent debilitation. More likely her brain had just given up trying to find anything remotely interesting in all the blandness of suburban Connecticut and had developed a nasty habit of going rogue.
“About the casting,” Susan repeated. “I was just saying that we're so fortunate with this production. A Streetcar Named Desire is a bit of a departure from our usual musical theater repertoire, but we're really trying to raise the Oakwood to the next level. Between our actors and designers, we've recruited some amazing talent. Even an Academy Award winner!”
That last part surprised her. It almost certainly wasn't one of the actors. She’d heard rumors that a big name celebrity, Bailey Carter, would be joining the cast in the role of Blanche DuBois, the iconic lead of Tennessee Williams' play. Cecily wasn't familiar with the actress's work, but had her reservations, given that this Bailey person was a former reality television star. Perhaps it was a designer, or the director, who'd won the award. She'd have to find out, as Tyler would be thrilled. He loved all things Hollywood.
Susan bit her lip nervously. “It's just that when you mentioned acting, well, the managing director who was here before me had a habit of casting major donors and...”
“Heavens, no!” Cecily snorted at the ridiculousness of the idea. It was no secret that in the past, anyone with a generous enough checkbook could buy a leading role, but that held no interest for her. “I have no illusions about getting up on stage, don't worry about that. A paintbrush and a hammer will be just fine with me.”
Susan smiled. “Well, that's a relief. Not all our patrons have been so understanding.”
Cecily could think of one donor in particular who was probably causing trouble. “Well, for the record,” she said with a conspiratorial grin, “the day I heard Polly Schroeder finally got turned down for a part in Westside Story was the day I tripled my regular donation to the Oakwood.” The half smile on Susan's lips when she said Polly's name told her she'd guessed correctly. “I mean, seriously, a forty-nine year old Maria? There's not a checking account in the world large enough to make that okay.”
Polly was the mother of one of Tyler's classmates, and for years she and the rest of her Mean Mom Brigade had kept Cecily in a constant state of high alert. To write off their malicious gossip and pettiness as the foolishness of idle women was a mistake. They wielded real power with their words, and had ruined marriages and careers all over town. They preyed on insecurity, and Cecily had enough of that to go around. So far she'd avoided being too much of a target for them, but it was only a matter of time. Escaping those women was half the reason Cecily had chosen to volunteer at the theater instead of one of the other organizations she supported. There was no way that Polly would step foot in the Oakwood again after her Westside Story humiliation.
Susan entered a code on the keypad next to the scene shop doors. “Please, come inside and let me show you around.”
Cecily took in the empty shop with the same sense of awe she'd experienced the very first time in college. It was a massive space, loosely divided into several smaller workshops. In the carpentry area, stacks of fresh lumber were piled high along one wall beside several hulking machines. She was fairly certain she could still remember most of their names and uses, maybe even operate a few after a quick refresher. A welding area was just visible on the other side of the space. Cecily doubted she would spend much time there since she'd left the theater program in college before she'd had a chance to learn. Her stomach clenched as the memories she'd worked so hard to shove away threatened to come bubbling back up yet again.
No sense dwelling on the past right now.
She gave her head a shake to clear it, focusing instead on the vast expanse in the center that would soon start to fill with all the components of the set. She smiled at the thought of watching the magic of it all coming together. She'd been good at this once, and enjoyed it. Since giving up her dreams of the theater, her years had been filled with doing what everyone else needed her to do, until it had nearly extinguished the part of her inside that felt like her. And while those obligations weren't likely to change, doing something for herself, even for a few hours a week, might make the rest of her time easier to bear.
It took Cecily a moment to realize that the shop was not as deserted as it’d first appeared. A slender woman clad in head-to-toe black stood beside a stocky man in paint-splattered overalls at the far end of the assembly area. Their backs were to the doors where Cecily and Susan had entered. The woman held a sheet of paper in one hand, making a sweeping gesture toward the cavernous space with the other. Her fingers were long and graceful. Familiar. Cecily's heart thumped and her own fingertips began to tingle with a sudden jolt of adrenaline that coursed through her at the shock of recognition. Surely it couldn’t be…
The woman stopped talking, as if aware that guests had joined them in the room. She began to turn, revealing a creamy bronze face, and just a hint of freckles sprinkled across prominent cheekbones like a fine dusting of cinnamon. Her eyes shone with the brilliant blue of an Alaskan glacier in the afternoon sun.
In truth, the room was drenched in shadows and not a single detail of the woman's appearance was the slightest bit visible. It didn't have to be. Cecily saw it all vividly in her mind just the same. She knew without a doubt, once she managed to will her heart to stop racing and forced her eyes to look up, that the face looking back at her would most certainly belong to Rorie Mulloy.
Cecily silently cursed her luck. What were the odds? The very first time since college that she'd dared to venture backstage at a theater, and she found herself face to face with the reason she'd left it in the first place.
2
Louisiana, 1998
The fluorescent lights above Cecily's head turned off with a loud click, plunging the scene shop into darkness. Startled, she cried out.
“Hello?”
There was another click and her surroundings became visible again as one of the lights spluttered back to life. Row after row of tools hung from pegs in the storage closet. Cecily studied them and sighed. Even with the lights back on, she still didn't know what the hell she was looking for. Footsteps echoed out in the corridor, coming closer.
“Hello?” called a rich alto voice, “Anyone there?”
“Yes, back here in tool storage!”
The door to the closet swung open and a woman's head peeked in through the opening, forming a light oval against the darkness of the deserted shop. A mass of curly, raven-black hair was perched higgledy-piggledy atop her head, held in place by a set of chopsticks and a vintage silk scarf in a psychedelic print that would be blinding in brighter light. Long, graceful fingers with short, practical nails curled casually around the door jamb. Other than the scarf, she was clothed entirely in shades of black, melting into the shadows, except for two kohl-outlined eyes of glacier blue. Cecily stared at them, transfixed. She found herself wondering how eyes could generate their own light.
“What are you still doing here? The last class ended an hour ago.”
There was silence for a moment, and then the glowing eyes blinked. Released from their hold, Cecily found her voice again. “Oh God, is it really that late?” she squeaked, panic making her throat constrict. “Oh no! I'm going to fail this class for sure. It's my first day, and I'm already going to fail!”
“Okay, keep ca
lm,” the woman said. “What are you trying to accomplish? Maybe I can help.”
“My professor sent me back here to get a wood welder, only I have no idea what it looks like, and now class is over and I'm going to fail.” Her words tumbled out in a rush. Part way through her explanation the stranger had pressed her hand over her mouth, a move that had not quite suppressed the chortling sound that escaped her throat. Cecily stared at her in confusion. “What? What about that could possibly be funny?”
“Really? You honestly don't know?” The woman slowly shook her head. “What I want to know is, what the hell did you do?”
“What do you mean what did I do? I didn't do anything!”
“Trust me, you did something. Look—what's your name, anyway?”
“Cecily DuPont, from Baton Rouge.”
“Rorie Mulloy, from here and there and some other places.”
“Nice to meet you, Rorie Mulloy. I don't think I've ever met anyone named Rorie before.”
“It's Irish.”
“Really? You don't look Irish.”
The woman stiffened slightly. “Yeah, well, I am. And, anyway,” she added defensively, “you don't sound like you're southern.”
“Really?” Cecily's face lit up in delight. “I've been working on that. All I watch on television is the news, every single night. I practice repeating everything, just like how they say it.”
“You only watch the news?” she repeated, clearly dumbfounded at anyone who could choose to live that way.
“Uh-huh. Well, and Melrose Place. Of course.”
“Naturally.” Rorie shook her head in amusement. “Good lord. But back to my earlier point. You definitely did something to piss off your professor today. You know how I know?”
Cecily shook her head.
“Do you know what welding is?” Rorie asked, and Cecily nodded. “And you know what wood is?”