Aspen Gold (34 page)

Kit sat forward, absorbing the scene. The thud of feet on the boards resounded from the stage, the echo stirring. The dancers advanced, shoulders shunting at provocative angles, hands twitching imaginary skirts, the bawdy tune from the piano filling in the rest. Hair flopped onto sweatbands already soaked while sweat rolled. The smell was theater.

The music built to a close and stopped, the dancers frozen in their final poses, knees bent, arms outflung, chins pointed at shoulders, torsos heaving in labored breaths. Caught up in the magic, Kit wanted to applaud.

But the choreographer's voice stayed the impulse. "Again. From the top."

There were a few grimaces but not a single groan. That required energy, and energy, like breath, needed to be conserved. The dancers broke and moved to their starting positions.

Kit leaned back in the seat and whispered to Bannon. "Can't you just see it? Low-cut dresses in red satin trimmed with naughty black lace, feathery plumes in their hair, and garters flashing on black stockings, a saloon set behind them."

Glancing sideways at him, she saw the amused look in his eyes--and she saw it fade, his eyes darkening with longing and something more. In the same second, she discovered his arm was draped across the back of her seat, the ends of his fingers lightly touching her arm. She didn't want to remember all the other times they'd sat close like this in darkened places, sometimes innocently, sometimes not. His gaze drifted to her lips and she felt that old ache come back, just as intense, just as heady as before.

His hand lifted as if to touch her. She caught the glint of his wedding band, the one Diana had placed on his ring finger, and looked back to the stage. Her heart seemed to knock against her ribs for an instant. Then Bannon was withdrawing his arm from her seat back, raising it over her head, and lowering it to the armrest between them.

Conscious of his profile sharply etched in her side vision, Kit stared instead at the stage's red-velvet curtain and the gilded and curved cornice above it. The brass rails on the ornately embellished side boxes flanking the stage gleamed softly, reflecting the glow of the work lights, as did the multiarmed, brass- and silver-trimmed chandelier overhead. But the graceful curve of the auditorium's balcony remained in deep shadows.

To break the heavy tension she felt, Kit said,

"Mother used to bring me here a lot. I always thought it was the most beautiful place in the world--and that was before it had this last four-and-a-half-million-dollar facelift," she added, then went back to her original thought. "Before the lights went down and the curtain went up, I'd sit and imagine how grand it must have looked to the people who came a hundred years ago. I'd close my eyes and pretend I was there--silk and taffeta gowns rustling around me, perfumed handkerchiefs fluttering and scenting the air with myriad fragrances, my hands clutching a white-satin program," she murmured, letting her voice trail off. "Then the curtain would go up and I'd dream that someday I would be one of those actors on the stage."

"Maybe it'll happen yet."

"Maybe," she echoed with a touch of old wistfulness, then mused, "When you think of all the years the Wheeler stood empty, boarded up after fires gutted the stage area, it's a miracle no one ever tore it down."

"I hate to count how many times Dad has told me about my grandfather's efforts to help put out those two fires," Bannon remarked, punctuating it with a silent, laughing breath.

"Endless, right?" Kit flashed him a smile, relieved that they had again made the transition back to an easy camaraderie and away from that dangerous tension, charged with past feelings.

"Endless," he confirmed, then nodded at a silhouetted figure slumped in one of the front-row seats. "That's Max sitting there, isn't it?"

"I think so." The burly shoulders, the challenging tilt of his head, and the bushy shock of hair looked familiar, but Kit couldn't see enough of his profile to be sure. Then he used the point of a finger to push his chin up higher, the distinctive gesture removing all doubt.

"Yup, that's Max," she declared softly, watching the chin come down and the point of his finger press in the tip of his nose.

The music stopped. A crushing silence swept from the stage. "Good," the choreographer pronounced and signaled the dancers to take five.

They scattered, grabbing up towels and mopping perspiration from their faces, necks, and shoulders as they sagged to the floor in casual heaps, flexing and unflexing legs, massaging calf muscles, and drooping in exhaustion. The choreographer, a slim, wiry man, turned to face the man slouched in the front-row seat. "What do you think?"

As Max Davis started to rouse himself, Kit spoke up impishly, "Looked good to me."

Max turned in his seat and glared into the shadowed house. "Who's out there?"

"One of the few people who ever had the nerve to talk back to you," Kit replied, rising as Bannon shifted into the aisle to let her pass.

When he saw her moving toward him, Max almost broke into a smile, then caught himself and glowered in mock menace. "You mean the only one stupid enough to sass the director, don't you, Kit Masters?"

"Let's just say I was green," she offered in compromise.

"You were green all right, and you had more talent than you knew what to do with," he declared, then wrapped her in a bear hug before pushing her back to take a good look. "But you're wrong about that routine. It drags."

"It won't--not once they're in costume, the orchestra's playing, and the props and set are in place," she retorted.

His gaze narrowed sharply. "Haven't you learned not to argue with the director?"

"Not when the director is you." She planted a quick kiss on his ruddy cheek, then breathed in the familiar scent of his after-shave. "The grandkids are still buying you English Leather for Father's Day, aren't they?"

"And my birthday and Christmas." He nodded, his mouth forming a wry smile. "I probably have a lifetime supply by now." He spotted Bannon behind her and jerked his head in his direction. "I see you're still keeping good company." He winked.

"Do you think so?" She pretended to give the matter serious thought.

"I know so," Max replied in a decisive voice and pushed a chunky hand at Bannon.

"Good to see you again, Bannon."

"Same here, Max." He stepped up to briefly grip the man's hand, then leaned against the brass-railed divider that separated the seats from the orchestra pit.

"I haven't had a chance to thank you, Bannon, for all the lobbying you did to get some affordable housing in the area," Max said.

"I wasn't the only one."

"No, but you did some damned effective arm-twisting," Max replied, then glanced at Kit. "I'll bet he didn't tell you about that."

"No," she admitted. "He only mentioned that housing had become a problem."

"That's an understatement," Max declared. "Last winter, the repertory company had to cancel its season because they couldn't find housing for the actors."

"I didn't know." Kit frowned, surprised by the news. "Dad never mentioned it."

"Now you have an idea just how critical the shortage has become," Max stated. "A lot of people were shocked when the season was canceled, but at least it woke everybody up to the problem. Now the town's taken over some housing units to rent out cheap to teachers and employees. Unfortunately, there're still over two hundred names on a waiting list." He paused, a twinkle entering his eyes.

"While we're on depressing subjects, remember Garth Turner?"

"Of course." She smiled, instantly recalling the actor she'd worked with so many years ago. "How's he doing? The last I heard he'd gone to New York."

"He's back. In fact, he's

backstage."

"You're kidding," Kit protested in a mixture of surprise and delight.

Max cupped a hand to his mouth and shouted at the choreographer, "Hey, Chris. Holler at Garth and tell him there's someone out here to see him."

He waved an acknowledgment and exited stage left. Bannon straightened from the rail.

"Sounds like you're going to be having a reunion, and I've got some calls to make," he said, glancing at his watch.

"Good to see you, Bannon." Max lifted a hand in farewell.

"You, too," Bannon replied, then nodded to Kit.

"See you," she managed to say an instant before Garth Turner burst onto the stage, followed by a half dozen other members of the cast, mostly young.

"Looks like Chris dropped your name," Max observed when he saw the others. "There's nothing that gets an actor's juices up quicker than having a star in the house."

"I can't believe I'm hearing that from you,"

Kit chided. "The first foot of film isn't in the can."

"But you've got what it takes to make it."

He paused and ran a measuring eye over her.

"You're still a little too soft, a little too trusting, but you'll toughen up."

She didn't like the sound of that, and tried to laugh it away. "You know me, Max. I have the proverbial heart of gold."

"So does a hard-boiled egg," he countered.

She was saved from coming up with a reply to that as Garth descended on her, catching her hand and swinging her around to face him. "As I live and breathe, it is Kit Masters in the flesh. And what gorgeous flesh it is, too." The little-boy devilry in his eyes diluted the leer of his look.

She laughed, then sighed. "God, it's been ages, Garth."

"It has." His fingers briefly tightened their grip on her hands. "Did you come slumming or what?"

"This is hardly slumming." She lifted her gaze to the lush interior of the richly gilded opera house.

"True." He grinned, then turned to the group hovering in the background. "I want you to meet some of our illustrious cast."

Shy, eager, wary, self-conscious, hopeful, reserved--Kit saw one or more expressions reflected on the faces of the four actors and two actresses Garth introduced to her, confusing everything by including the names of the characters they were playing.

She gave up any hope of keeping them straight and simply smiled and shook hands with each in turn.

"Garth told us he did some summer theater with you," the last one said, an older man in his fifties. "We all thought he was just bragging again."

"It's no brag; it's a fact," Kit insisted, smiling at the sandy-haired actor.

"We had a lot of fun, too."

"Yeah, it was a regular barrel of laughs working with her," Garth declared in a tone that suggested otherwise. "Or have you forgotten the dirty trick you pulled?"

"Are you by any chance referring to the time I switched all the lines of dialogue you'd taped on various props?" she asked in mock innocence.

"You know damned well I am."

"You should have been there. It was hilarious," Kit said to the others. "Garth didn't have his lines down for this scene in the third act, so he'd written them out and taped them inside book covers, on the bottom of ashtrays, inside vases, everywhere.

Somehow he managed to convince Max that he interpreted his character as being an inquisitive sort, always examining things."

"And Max bought it, too," Garth inserted, flashing Max one of his boyish grins. "Then Kit discovered what I was doing and hung around after rehearsal and mixed them all up. The next day we were doing a final run-through before dress rehearsal."

"I'll never forget the panicked look on his face when he opened a book and realized it was the wrong line inside. He ad-libbed something and started moving all over the set, trying to find the right one."

"You did some dandy ad-libbing, too," he accused, then inserted in a falsetto voice,

""Darling, what's the matter? Are you at a loss for words?"' I could have cheerfully killed you."

"Only because Max chose that moment to unleash the ripest stream of expletives anyone had ever heard," Kit said in an aside to the others.

"You can bet I had those lines memorized before dress rehearsal," Garth added, smiling now at the memory.

"Doris McElroy was in that play, wasn't she? Where is she now? Do you know?"

"I think she got married and moved to ...

Texas, I think it was. Remember Bill Grimes? He's a news anchor at some little station in Nebraska." They spent a few minutes catching up on news of others they'd worked with that summer, then Garth remarked, "You're the only one of our old bunch that's made it into the big time."

Taking that as a cue, one of the actresses--the ingenue type--asked, "When's the filming going to start on your movie?"

"Not for a few more weeks yet. I don't think a date's been set."

"Will they be holding local auditions?"

"I don't know. I would think so."

"I hope you told them what a terrific pool of talent there is here," Garth said lightly, almost jokingly, but the look in his eyes was serious and hungry.

"John comes to Aspen a lot. I'm sure he knows." Kit smiled in understanding.

"The next time you see him, whisper my name in his ear," Garth said. "I'm versatile. I can be anything--a ski instructor, ma@itre do', concierge, a rich man, a poor

man--"

"Yeah, you'd be good at that, Garth," one of the actors joshed.

"Can you imagine how it would look on my credits if I could list a John Travis film?" a handsome and eager young actor declared, then raised clenched fists. "God, I'd kill for that."

"Talk to them, Kit. Tell them they've got to use us."

"You're wrong if you think I have any influence there." The whole scene was a repeat of a dozen other encounters she'd had with actor friends and acquaintances in L.a., all of them hitting on her, hoping she could get them a part in the movie, small or large, anything just as long as they had lines. It was a situation she found more awkward than irritating.

"I'll bet John Travis would disagree with that." The young actress gave her a knowing look.

"Yeah, Kit. You don't want to forget your old friends," Garth chided. "You've got your big break. Now help us get ours."

Max cut in. "All right, let's break up this conversation and get back to work. In case you've forgotten, we're here to rehearse, not stand around all day talking."