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Authors: Cindy Myers

BOOK: The View From Here
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“Lucille! Where is Lucas?”
Cassie, face peony pink from too much blusher, leaned into the ticket window. “Where is Lucas?” she demanded again, and scanned the tiny office, as if she suspected Lucille of hiding the boy.
“Isn't he backstage with the rest of the cast?”
“No, he is not.”
“Then I'm sure he'll be here shortly. I know he's been looking forward to the play.” He couldn't enter a room this past week without declaiming his opening lines, accompanied by various dramatic gestures.
“He's late. I told everyone to be here an hour before the curtain.”
Lucille leaned closer, studying the black fringe around the older woman's eyes. “Cassie, are you wearing false eyelashes?” she asked.
“What if I am?”
“Nothing. I'm sure they'll look great from the audience.” Though some people might wonder at the town's founding matriarch's resemblance to an aging cheerleader.
“When you see Lucas, you send him right backstage. We don't have a minute to waste.”
“I will.” Lucille tried to push aside her uneasiness. Lucas was usually a very responsible boy. What if something had happened to delay him? What if he'd fallen on his bicycle in the rain or a driver hadn't seen him . . . ?
“What time does the show start?”
A man's deep voice pulled Lucille from her reverie. She forced a welcoming smile for the imposing figure in front of her. He was tall and broad-shouldered, with closely cropped dark hair and an erect, military bearing. “The play starts at seven. Give or take a few minutes. We're pretty informal around here.”
“I just didn't want to be late.” He pushed a five-dollar bill toward her. “One ticket, please, ma'am.”
Odd that, a young man by himself choosing to attend a small-town play. “Are you in town just for the festival?” she asked.
“Not really.” He returned his wallet to his back pocket and accepted the ticket. “I came here to look up a friend.”
“Oh. Who—” But the young man had already moved away, his dark head barely visible in the crowd flowing into the auditorium. Lucille stared after him, the hairs on the back of her neck standing at attention. Something about him had been so familiar . . .
“I hate to see a pretty woman frowning. Is there anything I can do to help?”
The bass voice had a radio announcer's smoothness, with just enough gravel to add sincerity. The voice's owner smiled at Lucille—a gentle smile framed by a neatly trimmed goatee frosted with silver, beneath sparkling blue eyes. “Thank you. I . . . I'm fine.” She fumbled with the roll of tickets, flustered.
The man kept his eyes fixed on her. “One ticket, please,” he said. “I'm a visitor here and thought it would be interesting to learn more of the town's history.”
“Are you by yourself?” she asked, then wanted to take the words back. It really wasn't any of her business.
“For the moment, yes.” He looked down at her hands. Was he checking for a wedding ring? The idea made her warm all over. “Gerald Pershing.” He reached through the window, she thought to take his ticket, but instead he grasped her hand. “May I ask your name?”
“Lucille Theriot.” She disengaged her hand from his, reluctantly.
“Perhaps I'll see you again, Lucille.”
Then he was gone, replaced by two teenagers from town, and an Asian family who wanted seats in the balcony. Lucille sold them their tickets, in a fog as she counted their change. Had the handsome stranger—Gerald—been flirting with her? She couldn't remember the last time that had happened. Amazing!
“What are you smiling about? You look like you just got away with something.” Olivia stepped up to the window, Dan Brewster in tow.
“Nothing in particular.” She tore off two tickets for her daughter and Dan. “Have you seen Lucas? Cassie's been looking for him.”
“I'm sure he's backstage somewhere. When I saw him this afternoon he said he didn't need a ride, that he'd peddle over on his bike.”
“Maybe something happened in the rain. An accident or—”
“You worry too much. He'll be fine.” She took the tickets and moved away, arm looped in Dan's as if she was afraid he might decide to run away.
“You don't worry enough,” Lucille murmured. But if anything had happened to Lucas, someone would find her and tell her. It wasn't as if people didn't know where to find her. That was one of the beauties of being mayor of a small town—people kept track of you.
At seven on the dot, an usher pulled shut the doors to the auditorium and Tamarin Sherman came to relieve Lucille at the ticket window. “I know you want to see your grandson's big debut,” she said.
“Then he did show up?” Relief washed over her.
“Did who show up?”
“Lucas. He's here?”
“Well, where else would he be?”
“Earlier, Cassie said he hadn't shown up yet.”
“Oh, you know Cassie. She's always in a tizzy about something.”
Lucille slipped through a side door into the auditorium. She thought about searching the crowd for Gerald, but the house lights were already down, so she slipped into the first vacant seat she spotted near the back. The auditorium was small enough that even from here she had a good view of the stage, and the set painted to look like Eureka circa 1890, a collection of wooden false-fronted buildings lined up along a single dirt street.
The actors were in their places: Doug Rayburn in the center, resplendent in a black frock coat and striped morning trousers; Cassie beside him, furiously twirling a parasol and blinking rapidly, false lashes fluttering like insects trying to find a place to light; Toby Mercer and Bob lounged to one side, wearing the flannel shirts and suspendered canvas pants of miners.
Lucas had the first lines of the play. Lucille leaned forward in her seat. She hoped Olivia had remembered to bring a camera. Or maybe Rick or Maggie would get a shot for the paper and she could get a copy.
“Gold! Gold! Old man Haney's struck gold!”
But instead of Lucas, Doug's daughter, Sylvia, blurted these words from the side of the stage, then ducked back into the wings. Doug struck a pose and began declaiming as Festus Wynock and the play was off.
Lucille sat back, deflated, and more worried than ever. Where was Lucas? Should she rush out of the theater and look for him? But where? Again, she tried to comfort herself with the knowledge that if something had happened, the sheriff or someone would come to the theater and tell her, but what if no one knew yet? What if . . . ?
Laughter from the audience signaled the arrival onstage of Toby Mercer, in the role of “Jake.” “There's a lot more valuable things in these hills than gold.” He leered at Cassie and the crowd roared.
As Toby continued his comic monologue, Cassie sent him looks that would have felled a weaker man. Her face was redder than ever and she clutched the parasol like a club. Lucille wouldn't have been surprised if she clobbered Toby with it. Meanwhile, he was clearly ad-libbing and stealing the show.
Bob took over now, showing off a nugget as big as a doorknob. Lucille knew it was, in fact, a large wad of aluminum foil, spray-painted with gold radiator paint. Lucas had several like it in his bedroom—rejects Cassie had deemed unacceptable for one reason or another. Where was that boy?
Thank God Doug was making his final speech—the one about founding a town and naming it Eureka. Of course, Cassie wouldn't let him get away with the last word. She twirled the parasol and stepped up beside him on the makeshift dais in the center of the street and declared Eureka would be a place of learning and education and blah, blah, blah.
Just as most of the audience had begun to murmur and shift in their seats with restlessness, Bob strode to the center of the stage. “Enough of that pontificatin',” he declared. “If you're gonna found a town, then you ought to start with a celebration. And I say we ought to do it in style.”
A cheer rose up from the audience, and from Doug and Toby onstage. Cassie glared at all of them and opened her mouth as if to protest, but about that time a deafening
Boom!
shook the building, and a cloud of black smoke poured in from offstage.
Stunned, the audience stared as the smoke billowed their way. Then someone up front stood and shouted “Fire!” and the stampede was on.
Chapter 24
F
rom her seat in the front row, Maggie could see figures backstage wrestling with what looked like a large wooden crate—the source of the acrid smoke. She tried to get closer to investigate, but the smoke drove her back.
Behind her, the theater was in chaos, though Rick and some of the other men were doing a good job keeping everyone calm, directing them to exits. She listened and didn't hear the crackling of flames or the crash of falling timbers, or feel any heat, so maybe there wasn't a fire after all. Maybe this was just someone's idea of a prank.
She started toward the stage again, intending to mount the stairs on the sides and duck into the wings for a closer look, but just as she set her foot on the bottom step, a pair of strong arms pulled her back. “Where do you think you're going?” Jameso's face was very close to hers, the creases around his eyes deeper than she remembered, his voice a menacing growl.
“What are you doing here?” she asked, struggling against his iron grip. “I thought you left town.”
“I'm back.” He loosened his hold but didn't release her completely. “Just in time, it looks like. Come on, let's get out of here.”
“I want to see what's going on.” She started up the stairs again and once more he pulled her back.
“No, you don't. One spark and this whole place could go up.”
She started to argue there was no fire, but at that moment Bob raced by, carrying a fire extinguisher. “Don't worry, folks,” he shouted to no one in particular. “We'll have her out in a jiffy.”
Reluctantly, Maggie let Jameso lead her out a side door into the street, where most of the audience still milled about, studying the building for signs of flames. By this time, most of the smoke had dissipated.
Jameso stopped Toby as the actor ran past. “What happened?” he asked.
“Bob thought it would be a kick to set off fireworks at the end of the show. He said he had it all under control—a lot of noise and some confetti and glitter and a big finish. Go out with a bang, you know? But I guess he overloaded the charge. That black powder can be kind of touchy.”
“He's lucky he didn't blow up the whole place,” Jameso said.
“Aww, it's all right.” Toby shrugged. “Cassie's a little upset, I guess. She ran home, but Bob said he'd fix things with her. Other than that, though, the play went real well, I thought. See ya.” With a wave over his shoulder, he plunged back into the milling crowd.
Maggie finally shook free of Jameso's hold. She faced him, arms crossed, fury overwhelming her earlier relief at seeing him. “Where the hell have you been?” she demanded. “And why did you leave without saying a word to me—or to anybody else?”
His expression grew sullen. “It wasn't anybody's business where I was going and what I was doing.”
“Oh, it wasn't? Did it ever occur to you there were people who might be worried about you? Did you ever think of them, or are you so self-centered you couldn't be bothered to concern yourself with anyone else's feelings?”
“Who were all these people who were so concerned about me?” His gaze bore into her.
“Danielle was asking about you. And Rick and Lucille . . . and lots of people.”
His lips compressed into a tight line. “So nice to know they care.”
“Jameso! You're just the person I need. And, Maggie, you can help, too.” Lucille was out of breath. She clutched Jameso's shoulder, leaning on him a little.
“What's wrong? What do you need?” Jameso put his arm around her, holding her upright.
“It's Lucas. No one's seen him since this afternoon. He didn't show up for the play and he'd been looking forward to it for weeks. I'm afraid something has happened to him.”
“Where could he have gone?” Maggie asked, alarmed. Children went missing in big cities, not in little mountain towns.
“I don't know.” Lucille twisted her hands. “When I saw him at the ball game, he was eating hot dogs and talking about the Hard Rock competition.”
“Do you think he ran away?” Jameso asked. “Back to where he lived before?”
“Why would he do that? He was happy here. And there was no one at his old home he ever talked about. He's still in touch with Olivia's former boyfriend, but D. J. is in Iraq. Lucas would know he couldn't go there.”
“Did he say anything when you saw him last?” Jameso asked. “Did you see him with anyone you didn't know?”
“He wasn't with anyone. And he didn't say anything special.”
“He was talking about mining.” Olivia joined her mother. Dressed in a pale blue tank top, her hair pulled back in a ponytail, she looked very small and very young beside her tall, broad mother.
“I remember he asked about the French Mistress,” Maggie said. “He was fascinated with mining.”
“Maybe he went up to the mine,” Jameso said.
“The French Mistress? But it's so far.”
“He might have hitched a ride part of the way with someone,” Jameso said.
“But there's a gate over the entrance,” Lucille said. “Jake told me he had one installed to keep out trespassers.”
“A boy Lucas's size might squeeze through the bars,” Jameso said.
“We've got to find him.” Olivia's face was pale, her voice tight.
Jameso pulled keys from his pocket. “Maggie and I will go in my truck. The rest of you stay here in case he shows up. He might have gone somewhere with a friend, or decided to take a nap, or stuck his head in a book and forgot to keep track of the time.”
“Yes, I'm sure he's all right,” Lucille said, no conviction in her voice.
Maggie squeezed her friend's shoulder. “We'll call as soon as we know something,” she said. “I'm sure he's fine.” Then she hurried to catch up with Jameso's long strides. He was the last man she wanted to spend time with at the moment, but Lucille was right. For all his faults, Jameso was a man you could count on in a crisis.
 
Cassie sat bolt upright in her grandmother's rocking chair in the corner of the parlor, lights out, tears streaming down her face. She made no move to wipe them away. She was too paralyzed with fear and shame. All these weeks she'd worked so hard to present her family's story to the town in a dignified manner, and she'd been made a laughingstock. A fool! Festus was probably rolling over in his grave, and her grandmother—if her grandmother were alive, she'd probably never speak to Cassie again.
“Cassie, open up!” The sudden pounding on the door made her jump, as much from the recognition of Bob's voice as anything else. She glared at the door, which shook with the force of his blows. “I've come to apologize, but I can't do it proper if you won't open the door.”
More pounding. He was going to break the door down if she didn't stop him. “Go away!” she called. “I don't want to talk to you.”
“You're going to have to talk to me. Open up or I'll find my own way in.”
“You wouldn't dare. I'll call the sheriff.”
“He won't come. He and everybody else are off looking for Lucille Theriot's grandson, who's gotten himself lost or kidnapped or something.”
“Lucas was kidnapped?” She'd been furious when he hadn't shown up in time for the play, but it had been unlike him.
“Well, probably not kidnapped, but he's off somewhere and everybody's trying to find him. Now, let me in.”
Reluctantly, Cassie stood and went to open the door. Bob was still in his miner's costume of bright flannel shirt and canvas trousers held up by leather suspenders. He held a broad-brimmed hat in one hand, his white hair ruffled. “I can't apologize proper if you don't let me in,” he said.
She stepped aside and he strode into the living room past her. “Looks like a museum in here,” he said. He looked back at her. “Maybe you ought to give tours. You could charge admission.”
The thought of strangers filing through the rooms where her family had lived made her shudder. “This is my home,” she said. “Now say what you have to say and get out.”
“I'm sorry about the explosion,” he said. “It wasn't supposed to come off like that at all. It was just supposed to be a little boom, then a shower of confetti and glitter. It was gonna be real pretty.” He looked glum.
“What happened?” she asked.
“I think I measured the black powder wrong. Or else the proportions were off. I'll have to experiment a little to get it right next time.”
“There won't be a next time,” she said.
“Why not? Except for the little fuss at the end, I thought it went really well. People liked it.”
“They laughed.” She would never forget the sound of that laughter washing over her.
“Only at the funny parts. They liked it. And they learned a lot about Eureka's history, thanks to you.”
“Toby Mercer put in all those extra jokes—they weren't in the script.”
“He was just trying to help out—improvising, they call it in the theater world. And it fit well with the character. It's the kind of thing Jake would have done.”
“Damn Jake!” she said, and burst into tears.
Bob stared at her, blinking, and she thought he might bolt back out the door. She wouldn't care if he did. She didn't want to cry like this, but she couldn't help herself. It was all too much.
But instead of running, Bob pulled an oversize red bandana out of his back pocket and shoved it at her. “I thought you were a mountain woman,” he said.
She stiffened, then snatched the bandana and loudly blew her nose. “You know good and well I've lived in these mountains all my life,” she said.
“Then why are you carrying on so over a worthless cuss like Jake Murphy?”
She could have denied she was crying about Jake at all, but what was the use? “You wouldn't understand,” she said.
“I sure as hell don't. What was Murph to you that you'd be carryin' on so when he's been in the ground four months?”
She sniffed and dabbed at her eyes. One of the false lashes came off and lay against the bandana like a dead centipede. “I thought Jake was cremated.”
“So he was. And what does that have to do with anything?”
“You said—”
“Never mind what I said. It's time you toughened up. If Jake treated you bad, well, he treated a lot of people bad, not the least of which is that daughter of his you've given such a hard time.”
“Maggie and I have made our peace.” Sure, Jake had been a lousy father to her, but what he'd done to Cassie was worse. “You don't understand,” she said again.
“You already said that. Are you going to explain things or keep blubbering about it?”
“I'm not blubbering!” she protested, even as more fat tears slid down her cheeks. She blew her nose again. “Jake took advantage of me,” she said at last.
“What does that mean, exactly?” Bob squinted at her.
“He . . . he had sex with me and he . . . he was my first.” Her face grew hot, but she managed to hold back a fresh flood of tears.
Bob frowned at her. “Did you tell him you were a virgin beforehand, or just let it be a surprise?”
“What difference does that make?”
“It makes a hell of a lot of difference. A man likes to know these things.”
She'd been too embarrassed to admit to Jake that he was her first, afraid he might reject her if he knew how inexperienced she was. “He figured it out after—well, during.” She stared down at the floor.
“And he couldn't handle it.”
“I thought he'd be pleased. Instead, he left and never spoke to me again.”
“What did you expect?” Bob looked at her with disdain. “He took what you offered, thinking you'd have a little fun—and right in the middle he finds out you've been saving yourself for nigh on fifty years and he realizes this means a lot more to you than it does to him. He can't handle the responsibility.”
“What kind of man runs away from a woman like that?” The words emerged as a wail.
“The kind of man Jake was. He'd already left one woman and a baby, so why should he treat you any better?”
She knotted the bandana in her hand. “It was a horrible thing to do.”
“You springing that surprise on him wasn't such a great thing either, Cass.”
She lifted her chin. “I didn't set out to trick him, if that's what you're implying.”
“All I'm saying is there was sin on both sides. It's time you grit your teeth and get over it.”

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