A Tale of Two Centuries (12 page)

Chapter Twelve

“The string goes
where
?” I ask incredulously, dropping the garment from my fingers as if it holds the plague. My heart pounds in my ears, its pulse already heightened from my shocking meeting with Austin earlier and the crowd in this land of chaos my cousin calls a mall. It is Saturday, apparently the day teenagers descend upon this enormous building, and we are shopping for clothes for me that will somehow strike a balance between what she calls dorky and what I call common courtesan attire.

“You heard me,” Cat says with a wicked smile and a pointed look to the scrap of fabric. Heat creeps into my scalp, and if it were possible for hair to defy all wisdom and burst into flame, mine would. Holding this conversation in public as people bustle past us is horribly and wholly improper.

“It’s called a thong,” she clarifies with glee, “and by putting the string up
there
, you avoid ugly panty lines. Trust me, no one wants to see that business.”

I take a hesitant step toward the overflowing bins, peering down at the perplexing items again. “But surely it is uncomfortable to be lodged…in such a…spot?”

Cat shrugs. “You learn to live with it.”

That is where my dear cousin is wrong. Despite my agreement to wear modern attire, I certainly do
not
plan to learn such a lesson.

Nevertheless, I cannot keep my twitching fingers from lifting another offending thong, either, this one with the words
No Chance
emblazoned across an area no one should have access to read. I wrinkle my nose.

“But if it does not even cover the entire, um, bottom area,” I say in a choked voice, “why bother wearing one at all?”

Cat laughs and snatches the thong from my hand, replacing it with a brightly colored one with (thankfully) a tad more material. This latest selection declares the wearer to
Love Pink.

“Less, I know you don’t have this stuff where you come from, and I get it. That was a big adjustment for me, too, when I was in your time—walking around commando. But here’s the deal: if you don’t want to inadvertently cause a Britney Spears TMZ incident, these things are a must.” Then she grins again and lifts an eyebrow. “Just remember: corset.”

Again with her self-declared new mantra. Ever since we stepped foot inside this land of chaos
,
she has been repeating it, reminding me of the constrictive undergarment she had to wear while visiting
my
time, and brandishing it as her one-word form of instant guilt.

I roll my eyes but clasp the thin fabric. The intimate item is unbelievably tiny. And handling it in view of the other patrons is without question inappropriate. But as I rub my fingers along the delicate fabric, I must admit it feels luxurious.

“Very well,” I say, snagging a nail on the wide lace band. I disentangle myself, then grab a few pairs in bright animalistic patterns. “I shall wear the undergarments. As long as they remain hidden by something much more appropriate for public viewing, you shall win this round. But,” I quickly add before she can gloat much more, “I refuse to wear
that
.”

Her gaze follows my pointed finger to a headless human form wearing a pair of dark trousers similar to the ones I was in when I first arrived, but these appear to have met with an unfortunate dagger incident. They are ridiculously short.

“Yeah, I already figured that one out. Don’t worry—I have a whole other store in mind for your Pollyanna attire. We’re just working from the inside out. A little faith, if you please, Miss Forlani.” She grins and with a playful shove, steers me to the front of the store where a small line has formed.

Two girls stop chatting to sneer at my “dorky” attire, and I fidget with my sleeve. My cousin’s cool hand closes around my squirming fingers, and I recognize the squinty, overprotective look in her eye. It is the same look from my vision in the courtyard, when I imagined her confronting the disloyal Marco and wretched Novella.

A jolt of pain lances through my chest.

Could that really have happened only two days ago?

I wince at the memory, and Cat’s fingers tighten around mine. I cannot bring myself to tell her the true reason for my distress, so I watch, somewhat guiltily, as she waves her free hand dismissively at the girls in front of us, leans toward them, and hisses like a cat in their faces. “Turn. Around.”

Their collective eyes bulge, and their heads snap forward.

Cat winks and continues as if nothing happened. “I’ll spare you the dressing room experience here—I’m pretty sure I can guess your size, and Lord knows if you get spooked seeing yourself in this stuff, I’ll never get you in the mall again.”

The woman behind the booth calls, “Next,” and the girls in front of us leap in their haste to get away. Cat’s amused gaze meets mine, and I stifle a giggle. It is comforting to find my fearless cousin audacious as ever.

After several hours and rejecting more than a
bazillion
selections, we at last make our way home, bags brimming with a half dozen dresses and an array of ankle-length skirts. Our quest to find items that cover both my calves and elbows proved to be a tad time consuming, but the true reason for our extended excursion was my complete and utter awe over the vast display of ready-made clothing. Modern women no longer have a need to select fabrics and patterns and hire a tailor—they simply step inside a store, choose an item off a
rack
, and bring it home. Preparing for a ball or dinner party in this era would be effortless. It is too bad I cannot bring this marvelous improvement back with me.

Traipsing through the atrium of Cat’s beautifully modern decorated home, I slurp the final remains of my creamy beverage and grin. On the way home, my cousin insisted that she needed a “sugar fix,” so our kind driver stopped at a building with bright yellow arches filled with all sorts of delectable delicacies. A chill seeps down my throat, and I close my eyes at the blissful sensation.

This is a recipe I must have Cook try to copy.

Of course, thoughts of Cook turn to thoughts of Mother. And Father. And Cipriano. How much they would enjoy this modern delicacy and how much I wish they could be here experiencing this with me. My longing for them is the one thing hampering my joy. It feels as though it has been forever since I left home—so much has happened, yet it has been merely a couple days.

A warm, enthusiastic voice calling my name pulls me from my homesick ruminations.

“Yes, Marilyn, she’s right here.” Mr. Crawford holds out the telephone, eyebrows lifted and smile matching the one splitting my cousin’s face. From their mutual expressions, I decipher that the gatekeeper of my one and only dream calling is a good thing, but I hesitate to take the device from his outstretched hand.

I have never used a phone before—other than to play one of Cat’s magical movies during her time-traveling jaunt, that is. But when Mr. Crawford’s eager smile turns curious over my hesitation, I gather my wits, figuring there is no time better than the present to learn. With a nervous glance in Cat’s direction, I mimic what I have seen her do so many times before and speak into the air, “This is Alessandra.”

As if by magic, Ms. Kent’s voice rings in my ear, saying words I never thought I would hear. “Congratulations, Miss Forlani, you have been selected to play Juliet in this year’s winter workshop!”

If Shakespeare himself had delivered this message, I could not be any more shocked. Or elated.

Only my family’s noticeable absence keeps this from being the best moment of my life.

If only I could share this accomplishment with them. I close my eyes, and it’s as if I can actually hear Cipriano’s booming, euphoric laughter. I can imagine Father’s face glowing with pride. And as I wrap my arms around my middle to hold my warring emotions within, I can almost pretend it’s my mother’s slender arms clutching me in delight.

The rest of the conversation flies by in a blur of dates, requirements, and information. I learn that I am to return to the Playhouse in the morning to retrieve my script and be fit for my costume, and that Reid Roberts, an up-and-coming—whatever that means—teen actor, will be playing opposite me. I hand the phone back to Mr. Crawford in a daze of disbelief, and my cousin grabs me in a bone-crushing tackle hug.

My eyes close as profound gratitude, awe, and happiness overwhelm me.

Chapter Thirteen

The next day, I sit up tall in the soft leather seat that begs me to slump and meet my cousin’s jubilant grin with one of my own. We are on our way to my first official task as an actress, and it is difficult to tell which of us is happier. Cat presses a button to raise the barrier behind the driver for privacy and asks, “You’re sure you don’t want me to stay?” My triumphant grin fades into a grimace at the touch of wishful interest in her voice.

It is not that I don’t want Cat to stay. Along with the support she always gives, I could certainly use her backbone. For all of Kendal’s wicked behavior at school and at the audition Friday, she read her lines flawlessly. There is no doubt in my mind that she earned a part and I will be graced with her presence today. But at least I can count on one friendly face to be there.

Shortly after hanging up with the director, the Crawford phone rang again, this time with the name
Michaels
appearing on the caller identification box—much to Cat’s and my shared astonishment. For an out of town—and out of
time—
guest, I certainly felt popular.

After exchanging pleasantries, which consisted of
me
being pleasant and Austin being, well, Austin, he informed me that Jamie would be playing Ophelia in the workshop (huzzah!), and then declared he would be picking me up for the commencement of our agreed-upon week of adventure directly following today’s meeting.

Cue the butterflies of anxiety—a whole swarm of fretful, restless,
dancing
butterflies.

I shake my head, willing the remaining insects to shoo, and squeeze my cousin’s hand. “It simply does not make sense for you to wait through all the costume fittings and rehearsal announcements and then return home alone. Go to the mall with Hayley as you planned, and I promise to tell you about everything the moment I return.”

Cat sighs. “Fine, I guess that’ll have to do.” Then she nudges me with her elbow. “I’m teasing. Really, I’m still shocked you’re getting Austin Michaels to bring you to a library, and on a Sunday when the sun’s out and the waves are killer. You must’ve worked some kinda mojo to get him to study on a day like this.” Then she pins me with a worried, maternal look. “But no mojo was exchanged, right? You two just studied yesterday?”

And therein lies the main reason Cat cannot stay today.

She is unaware of my Austin Challenge.

If I were to share this portion of my gypsy adventure with her, I know what would happen. She would say that I don’t know Austin. That it is unsafe to gallivant around town on a whim with a practical stranger, engaging in whatever
un
sheltered, exciting proposition he may suggest. She would attempt to talk me out of it…but I need this.

Cat is wonderful—a loving force unrivaled—but she treats me as if I am still the younger cousin she left behind and not the equal that I am today. Though truthfully, my overwhelmed behavior since my arrival has not aided my cause.

But Austin does
not
treat me like a child. Even with his ill manners and boorish behavior, he treats me as an equal. No different from any other person he shows contempt to, and certainly not like someone who requires gentle handling. And I know that I
am
safe with him. Austin Michaels has many faults, if my own witness and Cat’s testimony are to be believed, but I know instinctively that he would never let anything happen to me.

My mind flashes to the feel of his warm chest beneath my palm and the length of his arms caging me in against the counter. A full-body tingle explodes across my skin.

Our car pulls to a stop outside the theater, and the driver walks around to my door. I turn to Cat with a feeling of seasickness churning in my stomach and force a smile. “Wish me well.”

“Nah,” she says, shaking her head, her lips pursed. “Break a leg.”

Ignoring our sweet driver’s proffered hand, I reach beside me, slam the door he just opened, and ask, “
Excuse
me?”

Cat laughs and playfully bumps my shoulder. “It’s a showbiz expression, Less. Actors are crazily superstitious creatures, and for some random reason they believe wishing someone good luck will actually bring
bad
luck. So instead, they wish the opposite.”

I wrinkle my nose. “Such as breaking a leg?”

“Exactly.” Cat pauses. “Now that I think about it, it
is
pretty barbaric.”

I nod in complete agreement and rap on the window of my door. When our driver opens it again, wearing an expression of exasperation, I shrug and slide out into the cool, January morning air.

“Perhaps I should add
break a leg
to my yellow tablet of words,” I say, turning back with a grin. “You know, now that
I’ve
mastered all the others.”

Cat rolls her gaze toward the heavens.

Standing on the sidewalk, I watch as the car drives away, the darkened back window growing smaller and smaller as it travels down the road. It turns a corner, and panic spikes in my blood.

Why have I never asked for a cell phone of my own so I can call them back?

For the first time since those frantic, terrifying moments outside the theater of etched handprints, I am alone again in this foreign, new world…not to mention outside another frightening theater, only this time for an entirely different, yet equally distressing, purpose.

“You look lost, gorgeous.”

Pulled from disturbing visions of me winding up scared and alone in this confusing city, I twist around and stare at a boy who could be from my own.

He smiles, flashing a set of straight white teeth, and bows regally. “By chance I gazed out yonder window and glimpsed your ravishing beauty.” He straightens from the waist and winks. “So I felt I best come out and introduce myself. Reid Roberts,” he says, holding out his hand. “Your love-struck Romeo, Lady Alessandra.”

I look from his outstretched hand to the line of his broad shoulders, clothed in a remarkably accurate dark brown doublet. I dare a glance at his toned legs encased in matching tights, confirming the costume department’s impressive knowledge of historical fashion.

Returning my Romeo’s grin, highly amused at considering myself history, I accept his hand and fall into a curtsy. The excuse to converse in my natural manner is just too tempting to ignore.

“Ah, good pilgrim, you flatter too much, for I am no ravishing beauty.” Standing again, I attempt to withdraw my hand from Reid’s grasp, but the firm pressure from his own increases.

I raise my eyes and see mischief sparking in his gaze. The distant rumble of a car engine brings into sharp awareness the fact that the two of us are outside alone, without a chaperone. Every word of warning Mama ever gave me about situations such as these swirls in my head. “And may I ask how you knew who I was, my lord?”

Reid runs his free hand through the spikes of his dark blond hair and grins as if he were a child caught sneaking a marzipan cake from the cook. “I may’ve asked around.” At my wide-eyed look of disbelief, he laughs. “Okay, I totally asked around. But hey, anyone who has Marilyn Kent saying things like, ‘raw, natural talent’ and, ‘find of the year’ deserves my Mystery Machine skills.”

He gives me an expectant look, and when I fail to recognize the reference, scratches his chin. “Scooby-Doo? Band of teenage detectives and their adorable, treat-loving dog? No? All right, then.”

At his look of bafflement, I vow to add
Scooby-Doo
to my list of modern lingo. At this rate, the list will soon become a book.

“
Anyway
, since everyone else is pretty much accounted for inside, I took a chance that the lovely lady stepping out of the black Mercedes was Alessandra Forlani,
aka
my Juliet.” Reid pauses. “And you were wrong, by the way.” I squint, and he strokes his thumb over my knuckle. “You
are
beautiful.”

Unaccustomed and embarrassed from the unexpected compliment and attention, I lower my lashes. Reid chuckles softly.

“After you, milady.” I look up to see him wave his hand toward the theater doors. He lifts his chin, indicating that I should lead the way, and I bolt toward them.

Although my costar seems perfectly amiable—
and quite
charming—
sixteen years of parental lectures on never permitting myself to be alone with a flirtatious suitor (and remembering how badly the stolen moments with Matteo turned out) are difficult to ignore.

Quickening my steps, I cover the remaining distance to the entrance of the theater at a near jog, hearing Matteo’s deceitful claims of love with each footfall. I know now he never loved me—though in truth, I do not know that I genuinely loved
him
, either.

In preparation for my role, I’ve been reading more of
Romeo and Juliet
, and in response, thinking a lot about true love. I believe it was the hope of Matteo I loved more than the man himself. The dream that our union would quiet my growing discomfort with the role and skin I had been born into, the idea that a man could honestly care for me, not out of duty, but for who I was as a woman.

My heartbreak is not over Matteo’s betrayal. It is over the death of that dream.

Blinking away the burn of tears, I throw open the double doors, eager for the diversion of the bustling crowd. Across the sea of bobbing heads amassed in the lobby, Jamie catches my eye and grins.

I sidestep my way through the assembled actors and meet my friend in the middle of the floor, the center of a world of chaos and excitement. “You ready for this?” she asks, eyes wide as she bounces on her toes.

I was born ready,
I think, letting the moment settle over me. Aloud I answer, “As ready as I’ll ever be.”

Jamie laughs and opens her mouth to say something, then shuts it abruptly as her gaze transfers behind me. Turning, I find Romeo—er, Reid, near my shoulder.

“Sorry to interrupt, ladies, but I have to change.” He motions to his costume with an exaggerated frown. “Sadly, as sexy as I make this look, they won’t let me bring it home. But come find me after your fitting, Alessandra. There’s something I need to ask you.” His head dips down to meet my eyes, and I nod mine in promise. He grins. “Don’t go disappearing on me, Juliet.”

Reid disappears down the long hall, leaving me curious as to what he could possibly have to ask me. Watching his retreating backside, Jamie sighs. “That boy is scrumptious.”

A snicker erupts behind us. “And way out of your league.” I need not turn to know who the vile voice belongs to, but I do so, anyway. And when I do, I find a sneering Kendal, looking me over from head to toe. “So I hear
you
got Juliet.” I nod, and she sucks in a breath. “What other work have you done?”

Jamie taps my foot, I assume in solidarity, and I answer truthfully, “Besides one minor, exclusive performance”—
if a meadow performance with an audience of three can be considered as such
—“
this
will be my first role.”

At that, Kendal’s jaw drops, and if it were possible for steam to escape one’s ears, it would be pouring from hers now. Perhaps honesty is
not
always the best policy. In shocked, punctuated phrases she asks, “And
you
…got the main role….over
me
?”

I nod, torn between glee and trepidation. Though the workshop will consist of several scenes from Shakespeare’s most iconic plays, roughly all the same length,
Romeo and Juliet
is the understood main performance.

And according to my cousin, Reid and I are the understood main stars.

For a moment, Kendal appears to be shocked speechless—a noteworthy event. But alas, the incident is short-lived. “What did you do?” she asks, hitching a blond eyebrow, arrogance returning to her sharp eyes. “Sleep with the fat, bald guy?”

Horrified at the thought and implication to my virtue, I shake my head and gape, unable to find words. I look around us and notice that while the flurry of activity has not stopped, it has indeed slowed down. Several pairs of eyes are watching our exchange, and though the majority of my fellow actors and actresses appear either unfazed by Kendal’s slanderous remark or mildly amused—Jamie is noticeably incensed—a few of them cast curious glances in our direction.

I want to tell her—to tell them—that I earned my role because I was better, that Marilyn said I have
raw, natural talent.
But under the weight of the amused, doubtful gazes trained on me, my coherent response dies.

How did I
really
get the Juliet role? Did I truly earn it because of my glowing performance at the audition? Or is my proud achievement merely a fortuitous blend of Mr. Crawford’s nepotism mixed with a gentle touch of Reyna’s gypsy magic?

A clipboard-holding woman barks Kendal’s name. Reluctantly, and not without apparent disgust for my lack of response, she follows in the woman’s wake. For everyone else, it seems as though the fleeting curiosity over how I obtained my role is lost in the excitement of scripts as interns start passing them out. A young man calls my name and hands me mine. I run my fingers over the cover and release a ragged breath.

“Chica, that girl is the founding member of the bitch patrol, and everyone here knows it. Do not let her ruin this for you.” Jamie puts her hands on my shoulders and shakes them back and forth. “Come on, this is gonna be awesome. We’ll hang out at rehearsals and practice at my house—whenever Austin’s not being an ass. We’re totally gonna be besties. And let’s not skip the fact you’re paired with Reid Roberts, arguably one of the hottest celebrities in existence. That’s the reason Kendal’s so pissy. If I know her—which I unfortunately do—she expected to hitch her wagon to his megawatt star and ride on into glory. You totally stole her thunder!” A rather evil-sounding laugh escapes her throat before she quickly sobers and says, “I swear I’m not a bitch. I just hate that girl.”

Smiling at my new friend’s boundless enthusiasm and refreshing honesty, I lean in and confide, “I believe I despise her, too.”