The True Love Quilting Club (12 page)

“I just thought you should know right up front.”

“Thanks for telling me.”

So everything wasn’t all merry cherubs and comfy quilts and town square “howdies” in Twilight. Good
to know some people had dark, torturous secrets. It made Emma feel more normal, and very curious about what other mysteries and secrets might skulk in this town.

“Here he is now,” Nina said as the outer door to the theater creaked open.

The Beau Trainer she vaguely remembered had grown into a tall, straight-shouldered man who said very little to her beyond hello. She wondered what it was like to have messed up so badly that the majority of the town turned against you, and she decided that if he was truly contrite, he had a pretty big cross to bear. She imagined how tough it must be to walk down the street with your head held high when you knew people were mumbling about you behind your back.

Beau was a particular kind of rugged-Texas good-looking, of the Dennis Quaid, Patrick Swayze, Tommy Lee Jones ilk, but he was nowhere near as handsome as Sam—who, if it weren’t for the scar pitted deep into his forehead, was drop-dead gorgeous. Beau had a nose that was slightly too big for his face and a hard, unyielding chin. In that chin, Emma saw the things that had orchestrated his downfall—stubbornness, anger, pride. But his dark, soulful eyes belied the chin. In those eyes lurked a man tormented by the demons who’d driven him to violate his moral code. She felt at once sympathy and wariness.

“Well then,” Nina said with forced cheeriness. “Let’s get started.”

She led Emma and Beau into the main part of the playhouse, flipping on switches as they went. Replicas of period chandeliers and wall sconces lighted the auditorium. One look around told Emma little had changed in the five-hundred-seat theater since it was
first built in 1886. The white stone walls were exposed. The white-painted doors, molding, and balcony rails were original, and the authentic needlepoint seats evoked a bygone era.

There was a plaque on the wall at the entrance proclaiming that, along with the whole town square, the Twilight Playhouse was listed in the National Register of Historic Places. A second plaque declared it a charter member of the League of Historic American Theatres.

And then there was the legend.

Rumor had it that John Wilkes Booth was not hunted down and killed for assassinating President Lincoln. There was even evidence to suggest that he came to Twilight under the alias John St. Helen, and if that was true, he’d performed Shakespeare at the Twilight Playhouse. Emma cast a glance at Beau, who was standing beside her, staring at the stage. Perhaps Nina was continuing the theater’s reputation of providing redemption for bad boys.

Along with the John Wilkes Booth legend came a ghost. Several people swore there was a resident ghost who could be heard at odd times, pacing the balcony. Those who claimed to have seen him said he wore a long-sleeved white shirt, dark pants, and tall, heavy boots.

The musty smell of history transported Emma back in time. Not to the nineteenth century, but to her childhood. She was fourteen again, sneaking in through the side exit with Sam, climbing up the stage steps, kissing in the overhead loft. The memory sent a sweet shiver running through her. This was where she’d first whispered to Sam her aspirations of becoming an actress, of being a star. This place was where
he first kissed her; where she’d first fallen in love with both a boy and a dream.

Nina climbed the stage steps, her heels echoing smartly against the old wood. She disappeared from sight for a few minutes. Emma slid a look over at Beau and discovered him staring at her. Tension filled the space between them.

“She tell you about the bridge and the motorcycle shop?” he asked in a deep, rumbly voice.

“She tell you about the guy I half castrated?”

His grin was unexpected. “She did.”

And with that, the awkwardness between Emma and her leading man vanished.

The curtains opened and Nina reappeared, carrying three scripts. They joined her onstage. She passed scripts to Beau and Emma, and kept one. “You two are going to carry the play. Most of the extras will be played by acting students from Tarleton State University in Stephenville. We have some locals, but the bulk of it rests on your shoulders. Let’s run lines.”

Before they could get started, a quick knock sounded on the side door and it opened to reveal Sam’s housekeeper, Maddie, with Patches trotting beside her.

“Come on in.” Nina waved Maddie up onstage.

Sam’s housekeeper climbed the steps.

Patches bounded ahead of her, headed straight for Emma, his head lowered, his eyes trained on her feet, his lips curled back, revealing a flash of deadly white teeth.

A high keening sound escaped Emma’s lips and she stumbled backward, desperate to get away from the dog, terrified she was going to trip and fall and he’d be on her, ripping her throat out before anyone could stop him.

“Stand your ground,” Maddie said.

But fear had a strong hold on her. Emma spun around, heading for the stairs that led to the loft, but it was as if the Border collie read her mind. Faster than she could breathe, he whipped around in front of her and seemed to give her a wicked, doggy smirk that said,
Go ahead, make my day
.

He slunk toward her, his intense blue eyes never looking away, never blinking.

Dread built a dam in her throat. She took an uneasy step backward, raised her palms in a defensive gesture. Every muscle in her body tensed, on alert. All she could think about was how much it was going to hurt when he sank his teeth into her tender flesh. Fear cleaved through her, axe-sharp as all her concentration narrowed on that black and white dog.

Snap out of it. This is important. Think tough-minded thoughts. You’re Joan of Arc, Madam Curie, Maria von Trapp. Nothing stands in your way.
She tried to convince herself, but her usual mantras weren’t working.

“Patches,” Maddie said sharply. “Leave it.”

The dog looked from Emma to Maddie and back again. He took another step toward Emma.

“Leave it!” Maddie commanded. “Come.”

Reluctantly, Patches turned away from her and sidled over to Sam’s housekeeper, but he never took his stare off Emma.

“I’m sorry.” Maddie yanked a leash from her pocket. “He doesn’t obey me the way he does Sam. The dog has a one-track mind. When he focuses on something, he’s focused.”

Just my luck, he’s focused on me like I’m a redheaded pork chop.

Emma inched away from the dog.

Patches snarled.

Emma stopped in her tracks, blood chugging restlessly against her eardrums. “Back off, Cujo,” she said, bravely raising her chin in a desperate bid to overcome her rubbery knees.

“She’s shaking,” Beau said. “Nina, Emma is really scared of the dog.”

“Emma?” Nina sounded very far away, even though she was in touching distance. “Are you all right?”

She opened her mouth to speak but no words came out. Was this how Sam’s son, Charlie, felt? Rendered speechless by high anxiety? Empathy washed through her. Poor little kid.

Come on, push through this
. “I’m fine,” she lied.

Maddie marched over and clipped the leash to Patches’s collar. “It’s okay, I’ve got him.”

Nina put a hand around Emma’s shoulders. “Let’s go sit down.”

Numbly, she nodded and allowed Nina to lead her off the stage to the auditorium seating, while Maddie took Patches outside. Beau shrank back behind the stage curtain, presumably waiting in the wings. Emma collapsed into the chair, closed her eyes, and drew in a deep breath.

Nina sat beside her. “I understand what you’re going through.”

“You do?”

“I used to have a dread fear of bees. When I was a little girl about six years old, I climbed in a peach tree, and just as I reached for that juicy peach, dozens of stinging insects swarmed my face.”

“Omigosh that must have been horrible.”

“They stung me everywhere. On the eyelids, up in
my nose, inside my ears. Stingy with their peaches, those bees.”

That made Emma laugh, which was clearly Nina’s intent.

“I found out I was quite allergic to them and my throat started closing up. My parents rushed me to the emergency room and they were told that if they hadn’t gotten me there when they did, I would have died.”

“That must have been terrifying.”

“It’s the primary memory of my childhood. After that episode, I developed a paralyzing fear of bees. I wouldn’t even touch honey. I was convinced they’d come after me because I liked honey in my tea.” Nina smiled. “I’m guessing that something equivalent must have happened between you and dogs.”

“Yes, but nothing like that.”

“I let that fear run my life for many years. Once, when I was doing Shakespeare in the Park—
A Midsummer Night’s Dream
—a bee started flying around the lighting. In a panic, I went running off the stage. I got fired for unprofessional behavior.”

“That was harsh.”

“Well,” Nina said, and patted Emma’s hand, “not every director is as understanding as I am.”

“Thank you.”

“But this phobia is something you need to address. It’s holding you back. Not only professionally, but personally. Whenever we let fear take hold of us, we give up our power.”

“I take it you’re no longer afraid of bees.”

“Not in the least.”

“And honey?” She grinned.

“Drink it in my tea every morning.”

“How did you conquer your fear?”

“That night after I was fired, I did some soul searching and realized I’d let my past experiences with bees dominate my current frame of mind. So I sought out a bee expert and learned as much as I could. Then I auditioned for a role in a movie featuring a female beekeeper and got it.”

“I saw that.
Never Too Sweet
. You were great. No one would ever guess you were afraid of bees.”

“Thank you. I’m pretty proud of that role, if I do say so myself. Also, I always carry an EpiPen around with me.” She reached in her pocket and pulled out a syringe preloaded with epinephrine. “I’m forewarned and forearmed.”

“What if I can’t do it?” she asked, feeling like a big weenie even as she said it. If Nina could get over a fear that had the potential to kill her, she could darn well get over her dogaphobia.

“You can do it. You have to do it. Jon and Rebekka’s meeting hinges on the Border collie. A dog has to be in the play.”

“So it’s either me or the dog?”

Nina slid the EpiPen back into her pocket. “Let’s not assume the worst. I’m more than confident you can learn to love dogs. Or at least work with them.”

“But how?”

“We’ll contact Sam. He knows more about animals than anyone else in town. He’ll know what to do with you.”

“Dr. Cheek, there’s a Miss Emma Parks here to see you.”

Sam was getting ready to perform surgery on a six-month-old Great Dane who’d swallowed a tennis ball. He was washing up at the stainless-steel surgical sink, vigorously scrubbing his fingernails with a Betadine solution. At the mention of Emma’s name, his head went up and a bolus of pure heat shot through his bloodstream. His receptionist, Delia, stood at the doorway behind the red line painted on the floor.

By disposition Delia Franklin was a determined girl who took her work seriously. He’d hired her right out of high school—she’d been valedictorian of her class—and she’d worked for him since he’d opened up his practice. She’d grown up in one of the run-down trailer park communities on the unsavory side of the Brazos, and she possessed a deep yearning to do better
than her loutish parents. To help her achieve her goal, he was paying for her basic courses at the community college in the neighboring town of Weatherford.

“I told her that you were about to go into surgery, but she says it’s really important.”

Curiosity got the better of him. What did Emma want? “Show her back, Delia.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“You’ve never allowed anyone back here that’s not an employee.”

“First time for everything,” he said, raking the scrub brush down his arm in a methodical pattern.

“Okay.” She sounded dubious and disappeared.

A minute later she returned with Emma trailing behind her. “You can stand here and talk to him,” Delia said, “but do not cross the red line.”

“Got it.” Emma nodded. “Thanks.”

Delia folded her arms over her chest and eyed Emma distrustfully.

“You can leave us alone, Delia,” Sam said.

Delia had an expression on her face that told him she thought he was making a big mistake by letting this big-city interloper intrude on their territory, but she turned and slowly drifted away.

Sam ran his soapy arms underneath the water faucet controlled by an automatic sensor eye. “What’s up?”

“I desperately need your help,” Emma said.

He liked the sound of that. Was it stupid to like the fact that she needed him? “Okay.”

“I’m in trouble and apparently you’re the only one in town who can save me.”

“What? Did you swallow a tennis ball?”

“Excuse me?”

He waved a hand. “Inside joke. I’m about to operate on a Great Dane who swallowed a tennis ball.”

“The tennis ball swallowing I’ve managed to avoid.”

“Then what’s got you tied up in knots?”

“Mental ropes. I’m going to lose my job if I can’t get over my fear of dogs.”

“Nina said she was going to fire you?” He raised his arms up, elbows held over the sink so the water could drain down off them.

“Not in so many words, but her implication was clear.”

“Then I guess we better get you over your fear.”

“You’ll help me?” The sound of her relief filled the small room.

“I’ll help you.”

“Thanks, thank you so much. So, um…how do we go about this?”

Sam stepped away from the sink, his arms still raised, and headed for the suite where his surgical assistant waited to gown and glove him up after his scrub. He put his back to the door of the suite to enter butt first, but paused before he pushed the door open. “We can start by having you come into surgery with me.”

“Insanity, thy name is Samuel Cheek.”

“Played a little Shakespeare, did you?”

“Every actor does.”

“I’m not joking, come into surgery with me.”

She eyed him nervously. “You mean it?”

“What better place to start than with an unconscious dog.”

“You gotta point, Doc.”

“Delia,” he called out.

His receptionist popped back into the room. “You bellowed?”

“Show Emma how to do a scrub and get her gowned up. She’s coming in to observe.”

“Seriously?” Delia looked at him like he’d lost his mind and looked at Emma like she’d caused it.

“Seriously,” he confirmed, and disappeared into the surgical suite where his nurse was waiting to gown and glove him. A jovial mood settled over him, and he wasn’t quite sure why, but he felt like smiling.

By the time Emma edged into the surgical suite, her eyes growing larger as she checked out her new environment, he had already started the incision. She wore a surgical mask, and all he could see of her face were those wide green eyes the same color as Charlie’s.

He cocked his head at his nurse, who was regulating the flow of anesthesia to the dog. “Linda, this is Emma. She has a fear of dogs so I invited her to see Scooby Doo at his most vulnerable.”

“Welcome, Emma,” Linda said.

“His name is Scooby Doo?” Emma asked.

“Some people aren’t terribly original.” Sam reached for the forceps Linda offered that he didn’t even have to ask for. She’d worked for him since he started his practice and they’d fallen into a comfortable rhythm. “How are you at the sight of blood?”

“I’m good if I channel a medical character.”

“What does that mean?”

“Like right now I’m pretending I’m Meredith from
Grey’s Anatomy
. She’s tough and spunky. Nothing freaks her out. Well, at least nothing gory. Relationships freak her out. She’s not very good at relationships.”

“I’ve never seen the show,” he said.

“That’s too bad. It’s really great. A little soap opera–ish at times, but still the romance sizzles. What shows do you watch?”

“Anything on Animal Planet.”

“Ah, that makes sense.”

“Emma’s an actress,” Sam explained to Linda. “She’s playing Rebekka Nash in the Founder’s Day play.”

Linda eyed Emma with admiration. “Impressive. What shows might I have seen you in?”

“She’s a Broadway actress,” Sam said as he carefully probed Scooby Doo for the tennis ball.

“That’s not really true. I never made it to Broadway. I have a few off-off Broadway productions under my belt and I was in several commercials.”

“Really? Which ones?”

“I played the big toe in a commercial for an athlete’s foot ointment. I was the only toe with speaking lines,” Emma said proudly.

“I’ve seen that one,” Linda exclaimed. “That was you?”

“Five of us were smashed together inside this goofy foot costume. We wore harnesses and dangled from this overhead rack.”

“I bet it was fun.” Linda handed Sam a retractor.

“Fun? Not really. We all ended up at the chiropractor afterward.”

“Ouch.”

“But the residuals I get on that commercial were worth the pain. It’s the most lucrative bit of acting I’ve ever done. Seems the more you’re willing to humiliate yourself, the better it pays.”

He envisioned Emma in New York, struggling in a cutthroat business in a cutthroat town to make her
mark. How complicated her world must be. A stark contrast to his life here in Twilight. She was so full of energy and courage. She was so much bigger than this place. He thought of all the things he admired about her—how quick she was with a flip quip, how she was drawn to things that were intense and out of the ordinary, how she could see the beauty in things other people would easily overlook. Her courage and resilience took his breath. She was one of a kind. He’d never known anyone like her.

“So if you’re Meredith Grey,” Linda mused, “does that make Sam McDreamy? He’s got the hair for it.”

“Mac who?” Sam asked, alarmed to find that Emma and his nurse were ogling him speculatively.

“Or McSteamy,” Emma added.

“Who?”

“Nah,” Linda said. “He’s Finn the veterinarian. Honest, kind, steady, true blue. Just like Sam. Meredith was too screwed up for Finn anyway. He needed a woman with less drama in her life.”

Sam could feel Emma’s gaze on him, but he did not look up from his task. He had no idea what they were talking about, but by comparing him to this Finn character they were making him sound like a Labrador retriever.

“Right,” Emma said. “I forgot about Finn. When was he? Season three?”

“I think so,” Linda said to her, and then to Sam she said, “Do you need some suction?”

“Yeah, suction would be great.” He tried to focus on his task, but couldn’t help casting a sidelong look Emma’s way.

Emma cocked her head and studied the unconscious dog. “He looks so sad with his paws tied down
and that tiny little blood pressure cuff around his forearm.”

“You can touch his head,” Sam said. “Go ahead, reach under the drape and pet him.”

She held back.

“He’s out cold, and even when he’s conscious, Scooby’s gentle as a lamb,” Sam reassured her.

“He’s bigger than me,” Emma said, tentatively sliding her hand beneath the green drape that shielded the dog’s face from the sterile area. “Ooh, he’s so soft. I didn’t expect his skin to be so soft.”

Sam looked up, met Emma’s eyes over the tops of their surgical masks. Her breathing slowed, and he realized they were inhaling and exhaling in an intimate, tandem rhythm, like familiar lovers cuddling after great sex.

He blinked, dropped his gaze, surprised by the direction of his thoughts. He didn’t need to be thinking things like this. He’d invited her into the surgical suite to help ease her fear of dogs, nothing more. Maybe it was because she looked so mysterious behind that mask. Maybe it was because she was the first girl he’d ever kissed. Hell, maybe it was simply because he’d been a long time without sex. Whatever the reason, he needed to get his head in the game, keep his focus on his job. Scooby’s life was at stake here.

“Got the tennis ball,” he gloated, and dropped the neon yellow tennis ball into the stainless-steel basin Linda extended toward him.

“Um…” Emma made a soft noise.

Sam looked to her again. Saw that her face was deathly pale and she was swaying on her feet. “Hey, hey,” he yelled at her because he was scared she would hit the ground and he couldn’t get to her without
breaking the sterile field. “No fainting. You’re Meredith, remember. Would Meredith faint?”

She shook her head and swallowed visibly.

“Don’t lock your knees,” he guided her. “Step back to the wall and slowly slide down it.”

Somehow, she managed to follow his instructions and end up on the floor, arms clasped around her knees, shaking from head to toe.

And it practically killed Sam that he couldn’t go over to wrap his arms tightly around her and tell her everything was going to be all right.

“I feel like a giant dork, getting all fainty on you,” Emma told Sam fifteen minutes later after he’d finished sewing up Scooby Doo and had come over to help her up off the floor. “I’ve never fainted before. I’m not a fainter. I don’t faint.”

“You didn’t faint this time either. You acted like a complete professional.”

“I did?”

“Meredith Grey couldn’t have done any better.” He headed for the door. Linda had already taken the Great Dane into the anesthesia recovery area, and Emma followed after him.

“You don’t even know who she is.”

“Doesn’t matter. You know. And apparently she’s too emotionally screwed up for Finn the vet, but she’s a kickass surgeon.” He stripped off his surgical gown, mask, cap, and shoe covers, and then stuffed them in the lidded hamper outside the surgical suite. “Sometimes the toughest people are actually the most vulnerable because they won’t let anyone in.”

Following Sam’s lead, Emma stripped off her scrub gear as well. He made a good point. “Do you think
it’s weird I pretend to be other people in order to get through tough times?”

“Who am I to judge? Whatever works, works. How you feeling now?”

“Okay.” She notched her chin upward.

“The color
is
back in your cheeks.”

“So, Scooby Doo. Is he going to make it?”

“Yes, simple tennis ball extraction.”

“You do this kind of thing every day?”

“Not every day, but fairly often, yeah. So do you think it helped with your fears?”

“I am feeling better about dogs. Tennis balls, on the other hand…” she teased.

He grinned, and she got the happiest feeling inside her stomach. “Are you ready for the next step?”

Emma canted her head. “Next step?”

“From an unconscious dog to conscious ones.”

She steeled herself, digging her fingernails into her palms. “Umm…”

“They’re in kennels,” he assured her.

“Oh, well then, okay,” she said.

“Any idea why you’re so afraid of dogs?” he asked, ushering her down the corridor.

She told him about the terrier that’d possessed a special kind of Charles Bronson vengeful streak toward her. “I swear that dog bit me at least two dozen times during the run of that play.”

“And the director just allowed it to happen?”

“It was his dog, and in his eyes Fluffy could do no wrong.”

“Fluffy?”

“Some people have no imagination.”

His eyes sparkled at her joke. “And no consideration for others apparently.”

“When I complained, the director threatened to fire me.”

“Does stuff like that go on all the time in your business?”

She rolled her eyes. “You have no idea.”

“Doesn’t seem worth it to me, working for someone who doesn’t consider the health and welfare of his employees.”

“Are you kidding me? It was one of the best acting gigs of my career. Other than the commercials, which while lucrative, let’s face it, are not great art.” She ran a hand through her hair, trying to tame it after it had been stuffed underneath the surgical cap. At the end of the corridor lay a set of double doors. Beyond it, she could hear barking.

“So you were the big toe, huh?” he asked, and she could tell he was trying to distract her.

“Are you making fun of me?”

“Not at all. What were your lines?”

“You
are
making fun of me.”

“You’re not going to tell me your lines?”

“Yow!” she said, “that’s some itch!”

His eyebrows shot up. “What?”

“Those were my lines.”

He started to laugh but stopped in the middle, sucking his mirth back up inside him so that it ended up sounding like a snort.

“Don’t laugh, those four little words earned me close to twenty grand in residuals last year.”

“Yow! That’s some scratch!”