Cynthia Thomason

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Stagestruck: The quiet, Midwest family learns of the inheritance left to them
and what it will mean to their lives.

The attorney twisted the waxed end of his moustache and placed his hands on his knees. “I represented Eli Willoughby, your mother’s brother,” he began. “In the last year of his life, Mr. Willoughby made some interesting, and if I may say so, daring financial decisions...”

“Oh, my yes. Quite daring,” Lillian repeated.

Gwen was not at all surprised that her mother couldn’t keep her silence during Mr. Cavanaugh’s explanation. Lillian Barlow lived to embellish a story.

“Remember, children, when I went to see Eli last fall? He was very excited about a business venture,” she expounded. “He wouldn’t give me the details, said he wanted it to be a surprise, but oh, my, he was like a young lad again.” Lillian’s eyes sparkled with a fond remembrance.

The attorney cleared his throat with a pointed stare at Lillian. “As I was saying, Mr. Willoughby risked his significant savings on a venture I would have advised against had I been his counsel at the time. But it seems Eli was audacious to the end.”

“He always loved to amaze people,” Lillian said.

Another pointed look from the attorney. “Yes, Eli marched to his own drummer. Of course, to his credit, he didn’t know he would become the victim of a most curious accident and die before his investment could come to any sort of fruition...”

Lillian heaved a great sigh and shook her head. “Poor Eli, God rest his soul. Children, Mr. Cavanaugh has been kind enough to explain some of the particulars of Eli’s death. I still can’t believe it. Bludgeoned by a heavy piece of equipment falling on his head.”

“Yes, poor Eli,” Cavanaugh echoed and focused his attention on Gwen and Preston. “I had serious questions about the incident when it happened, but the constable in Hickory Bend investigated and declared it was an unfortunate accident. Anyway, I’ve come here about Eli’s will...

“Yes, tell them about that,” Lillian prompted.

“Eli ordered the thing made, brand new, from the bottom up. Spared no expense...”

“In writing his will?” Gwen questioned.

“No, not that,” the attorney said. “He demanded the latest in theatrical technology and architectural design. Not my taste of course, but having just seen the thing before coming here to tell Mrs. Barlow, I must admit, it is impressive in its ostentation.”

Lillian pressed her hands to her cheeks. “Yes, indeed. My dear Eli had a flair for the fantastic.”

Gwen’s jaw dropped in dismay. What in the world were these two talking about? She’d known, of course, that Eli had died in a freak accident, but what was all this talk about theatrical technology? A quick glance at Preston convinced her that her brother was no less baffled than she. “Mr. Cavanaugh, please, what are you saying? Did my uncle purchase a theater before he died?"

The attorney chuckled at some secret levity. “Nothing as substantial as that, Miss Barlow. No, not a theater per se. And since he was never married and had no children, it seems that your mother is the sole beneficiary of Eli’s rather imprudent middle-aged recklessness.”

Lillian rushed to take her children’s hands in each of hers. If it were possible to witness sky rockets in someone’s eyes, Gwen saw them now in her mother’s gray orbs. “Isn’t it thrilling?” Lillian asked.

“I don’t know, Mama,” Gwen said. “I still don’t know what we’re talking about.”

“Allow me to conclude, Mrs. Barlow,” Cavanaugh said. “Miss Barlow, Mr. Barlow, your uncle spent his last dime building a...”

Lillian whirled on him. “No! Let me tell.” Turning back to her perplexed children, she clasped her hands under her chin and announced, “Eli left me a floating palace. A showboat! My dears, we’re going into show business!”

Rosalie Campano's first encounter with the man she once loved when
he comes back to town.

She’d been standing for several awkward moments hoping her senses would return along with enough intelligible words so she wouldn’t sound like an idiot. She shook her head, trying to clear her mind. What had he said? Something about seeing her at the high school. Hunching one shoulder with feigned indifference, she said, “I was there. Canfield wanted all the faculty to witness...”
    She stopped, knowing she was about to finish the sentence with a biting example of sarcasm.
     “...the spectacle?” Bryce filled in for her.
    “I wasn’t going to say that.” Sure she wasn’t. That was the exact word that had popped into her mind.
     He chuckled. “Well, that’s what it was. Only an appearance by the Wildcat marching band could have been worse.”
     “Obviously your return is viewed as a miracle by some people around here. Who better to take over for Bucky than a home town football hero?” A shudder rippled down Rosalie’s spine. She really hadn’t meant to sound so unkind. A better plan would be to appear totally indifferent to Bryce.
    “I guess we’ll see about that,” he said.
     “Miss Rosalie!” The call came from a few yards away.
    She stood on tiptoe to see over Bryce’s shoulder. “That’s Juan over by my truck. He must have my order together.”
    “I’ll give him a hand."
     Bryce stood aside as she walked ahead of him to the pickup where her order was stacked on the pavement. Knowing he was behind her made the skin at the nape of her neck prickle. Her footsteps felt leaden, the distance of only a few yards, like the length of a football field.
    A line of trucks and trailers had started to form behind her. “We’d better hurry and get this loaded,” she said. “You have other customers.”
    The three of them filled the cargo area. Rosalie quickly consulted her list and wrote a check. When she tore it out of the book, she hesitated, looking first at Juan and then Bryce. “Who do I give this to?”
     “Give it to Juan,” Bryce said. “He’s the boss. I’m just here to do what I can.”
     She handed over the check and opened the door to the truck. “I suppose your father is happy you’re back.”
     “He seems to be. I hope I can be more of a help than a hindrance.”
    She climbed inside the truck, shut the door and started the engine. Bryce leaned on her open window. “Funny, but as soon as I got out here among the harvest this morning, it all came back to me,” he said. “I suppose produce is in my blood.”
    “And football,” she said.
     “Yep. And football.”
     Rosalie stared out her windshield. All she had to do was put the truck in gear, and this whole anxiety-inducing episode would be over. She’d survived a face to face with Bryce. Maybe she could even walk by him in the halls of Whistler Creek High School without dissolving into a mass of insecurities. Not risking another look at his face, she lifted her hand. “Well, see you. Say hi to your parents.”
     “I will. Give my regards to Claudia.”
     “Sure thing.” Eyes straight ahead. Lips tight. Truck shifted into drive. Now just take your foot off the brake...
     “Oh, Rosalie,” he said, his arm still on her door.
      She swivelled her head slightly, just enough to see him out of the corner of her eye. “Yes?”
      “You want to get together?”
       Now her eyes snapped to his. Criminy. He actually appeared sincere. “What?”
      “I’m only working until noon today, just until the out-of-area orders are loaded on trucks. Maybe we could meet at the Whistler Inn for lunch.”
      “Lunch?” She gripped the steering wheel and resisted the urge to slap her forehead. She was an English teacher for heaven’s sake, and all she could muster was monosyllabic responses.
      He chuckled. “Yeah. It’s the meal in the middle of the day. Most people eat it.”
     She glowered at him. “I can’t do lunch.”
      “Are you sure? I thought maybe I could catch up on fifteen years of Whistler Creek gossip.”
     “Bryce, your parents can fill you in on what’s happened around here.”
     “They could I suppose, if all I wanted to know about was the sixty-something country club set. But I never cared much about those people when I lived here."
     Right. You much preferred the simple earthiness of the Campanos. Well, not any more. “Look, I just can’t. I’m working at the stand today.” That was a lie. Saturday was Rosalie’s errand day. She did chores while Danny helped Claudia at the stand. Now she had to hope Bryce didn’t stop by.
      “Some other time then?"
       She eased off the brake, gratified when the truck slipped away from him. “Maybe. Who knows?” she said.
     “Rosalie?”
      She gingerly stepped on the pedal, slowing the truck to a crawl. “What?”
      “I still miss him, too.”
       She hit the accelerator and drove off. When she looked in her rearview mirror through burning eyes, she saw Bryce standing there, hands on hips, watching her leave.

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A STRANGER, SAM KELLY, OFFERS TO STAY AT CHADWICK FARM AND HELP ABBY REBUILD AFTER A TORNADO KILLED HER FATHER, LEAVING HER WITH 6 ORPHANS

Aware of movement on the rise, Abby turned from the clothesline and watched a man come down the path. When her heart beat a little crazily at the recognition of the lean frame and dark hair, she attributed it to concern over the circumstances that had brought Sam Kelly back.
    Drying her hands on her apron, she walked toward him. "Mr. Kelly, has something happened? Did you have trouble on the road again?"
    "Nothing like that," he said. "I came back on my own. I've decided to stay and help you."
    She blinked her confusion. Obviously she hadn’t heard him correctly. Why would anyone, especially a stranger, suggest such a thing? "What did you say?"
   "I’m going to stay here," he repeated.
   She huffed a disbelieving breath. There was nothing wrong with her hearing, so the mistake had to be with Sam’s words. “I don’t understand,” she said.
   “You need help. I can give it.”
    Despite the fact that nothing this man was saying made any sense, an unexpected, unfamiliar, but not unpleasant sensation quivered deep inside her. But Abby's innate skepticism won out over all other warring emotions. From behind the stern mask she'd fixed on her face, she said, "I don't recall asking you to do that."
    "You didn't, but you seem to possess considerable common sense, and I doubt you'd be foolish enough to turn down willing assistance."
    A few moments passed while Abby contemplated the many implications of Sam's announcement. What exactly was he proposing? There was only one way to find out, so she finally said, "And just why are you so willing, Mr. Kelly? Why would you want to offer your services to Chadwick Farm?"
    "You act as though you suspect an ulterior motive, Miss Chadwick, and there isn't one. All I want is to help your family out in exchange for a place to stay. I need to think some things through for myself, and your farm looks like a good place to do that."
    Assuming the pose that almost always quieted the children, she planted her fists on her hips and scowled at him. "What is it exactly that you need to think about?"
    "Nothing in particular," he said a little too quickly. "Just things in general. Duncan doesn't really need me any longer, and I don't have anywhere I have to be for a while."
    “You’re deliberately avoiding my question, Mr. Kelly. Did Mr. Walthrop fire you?"
    "No."
    She narrowed her eyes suspiciously. "Are you wanted by the law?"
    "No."
    "But you are in some kind of trouble?"
    "If you mean am I hiding from somebody who's going to show up here one day and blow my head off with a shotgun, no to that too."
   Abby took a step closer to Sam and openly appraised the clear, charcoal eyes set in his handsome face. He seemed to mean every word he said, and yet he was proposing a situation which most people would consider absolute folly. "Don't you have family somewhere who will be wondering about your whereabouts?"
    A dubious glimmer flashed for just a second in Sam's eyes, and Abby suspected that a secret lay buried inside him, but he shook his head without giving her a clue as to what it could be. "Nobody's wondering about me at all," he said.
    Abby finally reminded him of the situation she knew would make him turn tail and run as fast as he could. "You do realize, Mr. Kelly, that I'm raising six orphans on this farm?" She pointed to a blanket hanging on the laundry line. "And every one of them is as different from the other as the patches in that quilt."
        Sam stood his ground and didn't even blink. "If you're trying to scare me, Miss Chadwick, you'll have to pick something more terrifying than children."
She sighed in frustration, but inside, a small flicker of hope flared where only desperation had been. Still, she couldn't quite accept that this man, who barely knew her, was willing to help scratch an existence out of what was left of her farm.

Richmond-bred lady, Nora Seabrook, first reaches Key West, Fl. in 1859. This excerpt is from her graceful trip down the ship gangway and her rescue by infamous shipwrecker, Jacob Proctor.

A slim woman in a dark green traveling suit climbed the stairs to the gangway, took hold of the rope guide and cautiously took her first steps toward land.
    Though the woman made an interesting picture heading toward shore, Jacob's keen gaze darted to movement on one of the mooring lines attached to the stern of the Star. A Key West wharf rat, one of many renowned for their acrobatic skills, had jumped onto the rope from the dock and was racing toward the gangway in the center of the ship. The single-minded rodent no doubt intended to make its way to the galley for a snack, and would be no happier to come face to face with humans than they would be to meet him.
    Jacob anticipated the inevitable encounter. He jumped up from his chair and leapt over the railing separating Teague's from the harbor. He intended to warn the woman called Eleanor of a possible trauma to her delicate sensibilities should she be the squeamish type as most women were when it came to nine inch rats. What he didn't count on was the reaction of two additional members of the animal kingdom, both of whom were every bit as aware of the rat as he was.
    It all happened in the blink of an eye. Dogs snapped and yapped in feral excitement. A woman screamed. Eleanor in the green suit stopped half-way down the gangway. A pair of furry cannonballs propelled themselves from the screaming woman's arms. The rat did exactly what it wouldn't have done if it had been thinking clearly, which of course it wasn't in the midst of all that racket. It leapt onto the gangway in front of the woman in the green dress.
    The woman, to her credit, maintained her dignity and her footing. She appeared to have made the wise choice to let the rat have its run ahead of her to land. The dogs however had another plan. They streaked toward the woman, their cockles raised and the fur around their yapping faces laid back as if they were caught in a hurricane.
    Running one on each side of her, both dogs disappeared momentarily under the hem of the lady's dress. Their forward speed was great enough that the fabric obstruction barely slowed them down. They emerged on the other side of her skirt still blazing after their prey. And Eleanor went down on her rump.
    She grasped one of the rope guidelines with both hands, which caused her to swing to the side. It was this motion, and the moisture on the gangway which proved her undoing. She slid entirely under the rope, and with feet and arms flailing in the air, she plummeted to the sea. And the female still on the Southern Star, now dogless, screamed even louder.
    The billowing skirt of a green dress spread over the water at least two dozen yards off shore. Jacob knew the Gulf was no deeper than the woman's chin at this point, however she appeared not to be aware of it. She waved her arms frantically and choked and sputtered the distressing fact that she couldn't swim.
    "Bloody hell!" Jacob swore as he tore off his boots. Then he jumped off the dock and swam for her.
    She wasn't easy to save. When he reached her, the water lapped at his chest, but the victim failed to notice he was standing. She balled the front of his shirt in her fist and tugged with all her might, nearly pulling him under.
    "Blast woman, hold still!" he shouted.
     Her fingers dug into his shoulderblade like sponge hooks, and she squealed in his ear. "But I...I can't swim!"
    "You can stand, can't you?"
    The question calmed her, or more likely shocked her, and she clung to him and stared with large, confused eyes. AWhat?"
    "Madam, it's not deep. Look at me. I'm standing."
    Logic registered somewhere in her mind and in fact even forced something like a giggle up from her throat. Her feet found the bottom of the harbor, and her grip on his tortured body lessened. "Oh. I see," she said.
    He pointed toward the shore. "Shall I walk you to Key West, madam?"