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  Their stage door guard, Jimmy-they were all called Jimmy-greeted her with, "Welcome back, Mrs. Baynor."

  "Thanks, Jimmy. All's well?"

  "It is indeed. There's catering tonight-a bank sponsor I think. Very good crab puffs."

  "There's your bailout. Instead of millions, you get crab puffs."

  "Don't I know it." He smiled after her, as far as she could tell, content with his world. A long-ago actor, he sported a badly mended hip that limited his mobility. But he guarded the stage door with ferocity and could be relied upon to share gossip-especially the kind an actor wanted to know before crossing paths with producers, directors or backers.

  She headed for her small but adequate dressing room. The below stage area wasn't opulent, but it was brightly lit and clean, and she'd learned not to take either of those things for granted. On the way past makeup she popped her head in long enough to say, "Ready when you are," to the two artists already working on the bit players. The curtain went up in three hours. Even after two months of practice, it was always a last-minute rush to get everything done. But that was the theater. It wouldn't be the theater if backstage wasn't frenzied.

  The dresser-Rudy, they were all named Rudy-swirled into her dressing room saying he had replaced a pair of shoes that had started giving her blisters. He whisked them onto her feet, had her walk two steps, and whisked them off again.

  "I can scuff the soles," Helen said.

  "So can a monkey," he answered. Before the door closed behind him he added, "Sorry, I meant to say understudy."

  He had no sooner departed than the director-Nancy, and so far Helen only knew of one director named Nancy-knocked and hurried in. "The bank sponsors bought the entire balcony as some kind of reward. I told you about it last week. Anyway, could you be a perfect dear and come out to say a few words around six fifteen?"

  "I'd be happy to," Helen said. "If I get some crab puffs first."

  Nancy looked like her head would burst with yet another detail to cover. But she left without disagreeing and a few short minutes later there was a knock. A shy intern-it was no use learning their names, they were never around long enough-delivered a plate of four delectable looking crab puffs. Perfect.

  Thereafter, the dressing room door didn't stay closed for more than two minutes until six o'clock, when Helen put up her Do Not Disturb. For ten minutes she pulled herself into a quiet state of mind, following a simple visualization of a deserted beach with only the sound of the surf. Some might have called it meditation, but for her it was simply a calming ritual. At ten after, the dresser knocked, helped her into the wonderfully tailored 1930s His-Girl-Friday-style suit, and left again. She took one last look in the mirror.

  For a moment she was Helen, hidden beneath lavish eye makeup and a tight wig of black curls. She blinked and was Moxie Taylor, determined reporter with a story and a man to catch in less than two hours, with one fifteen-minute intermission. She reached for her cell phone, texted, "Love you. Time for the show," to the kids as she always did, then she tucked it-and the last of the Helen who was a mom-into her purse.

  The bank people were effusive, and that never hurt the ego. She waved off hugs and smooches with a gesture at her costume and makeup, promising dire retribution on them all if either got mussed. No food, no liquid, and lots of banter with her co-star, the dashing Neil Fortney. Her gaze flicked to the clock as she listened for the time warning. At six forty-five the ushers firmly urged all the bank people toward the balcony. Six fifty the lights dimmed once. She checked her costume, walked the floor to make sure the new shoes were firmly on. Six fifty-five the lights dimmed twice.

  At seven precisely, they took places. The audience was quieting. The stage manager crossed directly behind the curtain saying in a low voice, "Curtain in three. There are no announcements. Curtain in three..."

  There was quiet on the stage. Neil, like her, preferred it. The quiet let in the murmur of the audience and the hum of the lights.

  That hum ran down the back of her neck, and over her shoulders, down her arms. Sounding in her ears was a deep drumming of a kind that she never felt at any other time. She loved her life, loved her children, knew she enjoyed many privileges. In between each thump of her heart she reminded herself she was blessed. But this…

  When the curtain twitched downward in warning, she knew that the rest of her life was a holding pattern, waiting for this moment. The curtain rose. Light flooded her skin.

  She was alive.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Backstage was an ocean of kisses. Air smooching yet another cheek, Helen reflected-not for the first time-that it was small wonder colds and flu went through the theater community more quickly than gossip.

  "Did you hear that ovation?" Neil Fortney mopped his collar, then shook another backer's hand. The bank people were milling about again. Crab puffs and champagne circulated freely.

  "The crowd was ready to be pleased, that's for sure," Helen said. She thought the pacing had fallen off a little right after the intermission. Neil and she had both stumbled on lines twice, but had steadied. By the time the mobster's hysterical ex-girlfriend had climbed atop a desk to scream out her need to be hidden, all had been well. The prop people had gotten the big safe door working again. It opened smoothly when it was supposed to and stayed shut the rest of the time.

  "Helen, I don't think you had a chance to meet this evening's sponsor." Tiffany-they were all named Tiffany in P.R.-touched Helen's arm lightly. "This is Eugene Masterson of First Union Mortgage Bank."

  "A pleasure to meet you," Helen said. The name rang a bell as did the sandy-haired good looks. Given the state of the financial world, perhaps she'd heard it in conjunction with an indictment or congressional hearing.

  "The pleasure is certainly all mine," he answered. He wasn't making any effort to hide his admiring glance and against her will, Helen found herself welcoming it. So she was going to be fifty next month. Heads still turned.

  Her smile was perhaps warmer than it should have been as she asked, "Did you enjoy the show?"

  "Absolutely. It's so well constructed, and traditional, too." At her raised eyebrow, he continued, "No big show-stopping numbers for each primary member of the cast, no one flying around the stage on a wire. Just terrific delivery of a great script with imaginative use of the stage and fabulous costuming."

  "You're quite the critic," Helen observed with a smile.

  "I've seen a lot of theater. I saw you in Pygmalion."

  "Off-Broadway? My goodness, that was ages and ages ago." Just after her return to New York, she thought, after that disastrous stint in Hollywood. Well, not that disastrous-she'd met Justin, Senior. She had a family and home she loved as a result.

  "I went with my then wife," he was saying. "Your performance was unforgettable."

  She expressed her thanks while reflecting that he was wearing a wedding ring now, and, in her opinion, standing a little too close. "Theater is more fun when you're with other people. Talking about it afterward is part of the experience." Eugene Masterson... He was the CEO of his bank, she thought, and her spotty memory was suggesting that he had indeed been called to answer for his bank's lending practices. The kind of tall, handsome, successful man, she supposed, who was used to his way in all things.

  "I have to admit I've been a fan ever since. Will you be joining us for the after-party? We've taken over Birdland."

  "That's such a fun club and the jazz is always good. But I'm sorry, it's not possible. I only flew back from the West Coast this morning and I need a good night's sleep to survive the rest of the week." She could tell he was going to persist so she quickly added, "I like to get back to my place in time to check in with my kids."

  Children, she had learned, were the proverbial cold shower.

  But not so for Mr. Masterson, it seemed. "Just for a cocktail? I've looked forward to this evening and meeting you for quite some time. I'd put you in a cab the moment the last drop was gone."

  "I really am sorry, but it's just
not possible." Helen could feel her mental heels digging in. Had he really spent a fortune on a block of theater seats to arrange a casual introduction to her? She didn't find that flattering, actually. It wasn't his money and she'd been around this town too long not to suspect he was a collector of objects. Anything he felt he'd bought and paid for was a thing, not a person, and his forever.

  "Perhaps another time," he said, disappointment plain in his eyes.

  "Perhaps," she agreed. But not likely, she added to herself, even if a tiny part of her was flattered that he did find her so attractive.

  She retired to her dressing room shortly thereafter, and scarcely sixty seconds later her dresser knocked and collected her costume and wig. Clad in only her slip, she rubbed some reviving gel into her hair, which was mashed to her scalp, then she scrubbed off the pancake and greasepaint that started at her forehead and ended at her collarbone. Just as she leaned forward to look closely for any remnants she saw her face flush bright red. Then her forehead beaded and she felt sweat trickle down her back. Her stomach turned into a furnace so hot she looked to see if it was glowing.

  She was drenched, head to toe. The gel she'd just applied melted off her hair like the Wicked Witch under a bucket of water.

  Thank God that hadn't happened onstage! Or outside in the reception. She doused a washcloth into the pitcher of ice water on the dressing table and mopped at her face. She found herself mopping the rest of her body as well. She already needed a shower-the stage lights made it unavoidable-and that was the one thing her dressing room didn't have. The Olympic was too old and simply not that posh.

  She did the best she could, all the minor glow she'd gotten from an admiring man's glance long gone. Hot flashes-she was old, old, old, damn it. The last thing she needed was to have one during a performance. There was always a blogger looking for the insider tidbit, and wouldn't that be a tasty one. Helen Baynor is hot! Flashing, that is...

  At least she was no longer the color of a raspberry. She scraped her hair back and pulled on her emergency disguise Yankees cap. Tonight she was sliding out unnoticed. That's right, skulking off into the night like a used up old rag, she told herself.

  Before she left she fished out her phone and turned it on. She felt instantly better reading texts from both kids. Justin had gotten a 95% on his advanced chemistry test. Julie had loved dinner and said Chef Laura had been all over the world and was interesting to talk to. It was such welcome news.

  They were getting older, and so was she. She couldn't stop time, she told herself. She had Helen Hayes and Angela Lansbury for her role models, and thank goodness her career wasn't built solely on her looks. No matter how lined she became, she'd always have her talent, and she would always be a handsome woman. And that mattered.

  She pulled the cap down over her eyes, huddled down into her trench coat and went out the main doors, quickly losing herself in the crowds.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Ten o'clock in the morning seemed like a decent hour to arrive at the Baynor house to look over her kitchen and take inventory. Laura hadn't wanted to disturb Grace before she was ready, but she felt she did need to assert herself as capable of running it for the four days she'd be there as well as the three days she wouldn't. It wasn't that she wanted to avoid scrutiny-she wanted to avoid meddling. A turf war was useless, so she would do her best to win Grace over and earn everyone's trust.

  She was also belatedly anxious about the facilities. She supposed she ought to have asked to see the kitchen before agreeing to the job, but it had never crossed her mind that the kitchen would be anything less than acceptable. She was being asked to cook for four to five people and she was certain that Helen Baynor's estate home had a reliable heat source, quality cookware, consistent refrigeration and counter space. And that was really all she needed.

  Grace didn't look annoyed when she answered the door, but she didn't look welcoming either. "You can park your car around the side. There are several bays and one is always empty," she explained. "It will be easier to bring in the groceries from there. The kitchen is this way."

  Laura followed her to the left of the foyer, through a charming but chilly little sitting room. The front parlor of a bygone era, she supposed, where a formal and hopefully short visit with an unwelcome guest would be carried out in dreadfully correct-and unheated-circumstances. The chill would encourage anyone to take their leave. It gave way to a small mud room with a door to the garden and garages and then, finally, to the kitchen.

  What a kitchen it was.

  It had been remodeled recently, she could tell, and the appliances were all retro antique with steel feet and scrupulously clean baked white enamel exteriors. What at first appeared to be an old-fashioned countertop oven, circa 1940, was actually a microwave. Seasoned oak paneling hid both refrigerators.

  And the stove, oh the beautiful stove... The stovetop was an Imperial, finished in copper, with eight gas burners ranging from small enough for a saucepan to large enough for a stockpot. It also boasted a grill and an overhead vent in copper, with big brass fittings. Under it on the left was a full-size oven. On the right was a unit with two wide but short ovens, the top ideal for small tasks like a pie or a half-sheet of cookies, and the bottom oven for thawing or warming with a temperature gauge that went as low as 110 degrees.

  She resisted the urge to hug it.

  Forcing her rapturous gaze away from the stove orgy-waiting-to-happen, she was almost as delighted to see that the long kitchen island had a sink, knife rack and a selection of cutting boards at one end. The other end was surrounded with comfortable bar stools. Over it was a rack of pots, skillets and pans, all beautifully seasoned and admirably battered from everyday use. Looking at the copper bottoms she was quite sure she'd find matching quality mixing bowls and utensils in the many cupboards and drawers.

  The floor was light gray flagstone, with cabinetry a retro enamel-white underneath the counters and seasoned oak above. Gray-green granite countertops completed the muted tones, and her gaze was ultimately caught by scattered throw rugs of vivid yellow that reflected the sunny yellow glow from the ceiling paint and lighting. She followed the path of the rugs to the deep bay window at the far end with an unobstructed view of the gardens.

  Like something right out of a Florentine or Milanese villa, the landscaping was manicured, complete with winding pathways around a central fountain of a Venus de Milo-esque figure pouring water from a Roman vase. Two umbrella-shaded tables, with chairs, flanked the fountain. A large outdoor patio heater was ready to be lit at any moment. The hedges at the rear separated the garden from what she could see was an expanse of green grass large enough for football scrimmages.

  A well-scrubbed oak farmer's table that could seat eight was positioned in the bay window-at last she knew where the family ate most of their meals. And that, as far as she was concerned, was the center of the house.

  She loved the room. This was a room where a family gathered and shared food.

  Grace may have mistaken her silence for some kind of disapproval, because she firmly said, "I'm afraid if you find something lacking, you'll have to make do. This is exactly as Ms. Baynor wants it."

  "I wouldn't change a thing," Laura said. "It's a scrumptious room."

  Conquering her awe, she set down her purse and notebook. "I'll just bring my car around and then I'll do some inventory."

  Looking anywhere but at Laura, Grace gestured at the pantry. "We have all the staples, you'll find. Shopping and filling the cupboards seems to have been the last cook's greatest skill." With that Grace left the room in the direction of the front parlor.

  Laura wasn't going to let the woman's standoffish manner take anything away from her enjoyment of her new playground. Who knows-maybe Grace hadn't worked closely with a black person before and thought she didn't know how to act. She did a quick exploration and found, to her delight, a cupboard that was actually the pass-through that allowed the transit of food from the kitchen into the dining room, cleverly hidden on
the dining room side by paneling. She peeked through the crack to see the room where she'd first served Helen food she'd made. How beautiful was that?

  The pantry was walk-in and the shelves were crowded with bags of flour, sugar, cereal, rice, potatoes, onions and other staples. Next to the pantry was narrow rollout shelving no wider than two Mason jars. There were four rollouts in all with eight shelves in each, housing the spices, canned goods, boxes of pasta, more flour and sugar-it was very poorly organized, she thought. Short shelf life products were stored behind long-life staples, for starters. No one who had worked in a commercial kitchen had organized this mess. Boxed pasta? With all the time she'd have to devote to making one meal a day, there was no reason not to make fresh and leave a supply of fresh for Helen to cook if she wanted.

  She had a big job ahead of her. In order to take an inventory she needed to be able to find things.

  First things first. She moved her car into the carport nearest the side door, careful not to block any of the three garages that exited into the same driveway. It looked like the far end of the garage structure was actually a separate residence, probably where Grace lived. It looked spacious and there was even a fenced area creating a private yard for it.

  She paused briefly to crumble some of the leaves from the rosemary that grew semiwild on the far side of the driveway and then inhaled the scent off her fingers. Now she wanted some toasted Italian bread with roasted garlic and rosemary-infused butter spread all over it. Some day soon, she promised herself. Using the side door, she carried in a small bag of groceries with the building blocks of her own lunch. If Grace appeared, she was happy to share the makings with her. She'd also stopped to buy fresh bread and real Monterey Jack cheese-dinner could be anything if she had those two ingredients at hand. Spaghetti, omelets…

  Mentally girding her loins for battle, she flicked on the electric kettle to boil water for tea-such an undertaking needed the proper fuel. Then she rolled up her sleeves and started making notes about the contents of the pantry. There was so much in it for a family of four that she doubted its freshness. A couple of the canned goods hidden in the back of one shelf weren't brands that were dye-free. Perhaps a chef who planned inventory this poorly would resort to an emergency can of something thinking it wouldn't matter once in a while. She'd ask for a box and put these in it for the local food bank, along with the near-expiration goods she was sure she'd uncover.