Back in the Game: A Stardust, Texas Novel (6 page)

Breeanne put a palm to her mouth. It
had
to be the same woman. “Did she say anything about the trunk? About me?”

“Nope. Just wanted her dollar.”

Breeanne stared at the trunk, feeling a bit disoriented, the way she had when she’d found the hope chest.

“Well?” Suki held out the key. “Aren’t you going to try it? The suspense is murderlizing me.”

Breeanne took the key from her sister and together they knelt in front of the trunk. She reread the enigmatic warning engraved into the lid.

Treasures are housed within, heart’s desires granted, but be careful where wishes are cast, for reckless dreams dared dreamed in the heat of passion will surely come to pass.

“Here goes nothing.” Moistening her lips, Breeanne inserted the key into the first lock.

Suki lightly touched her shoulder. “Don’t forget to make a wish.”

She felt a bit silly, but how was this any sillier than wishing on birthday candles, falling stars, wishing wells, or pulley bones?

The old woman’s words of warning floated in her head.
Be careful what you wish for, because you will get it. Once the wish has been cast, it cannot be undone.

Suki snapped her fingers in front of Breeanne’s face. “What’s the holdup?”

At that moment, Callie the calico cat, a Hurricane Sandy survivor that Suki had rescued when she attended NYU, dropped down from the bookcase overhead, landing solidly on the lid of the trunk with a loud
thunk.

Suki let out a high-pitched squeak, and Breeanne jumped.

Callie gave them a smug gotcha-again expression, swished her tail, and narrowed green eyes in her Queen of All She Surveys mien. The cat loved pouncing on unsuspecting victims. The left half of Callie’s face was solid black, the right half orange. Her chin and chest were fluffy white, while her left forearm was orange and her right forearm was black. The back of her body was a swirly blend of black, orange, and white, giving her an exotic, one-of-a-kind appearance.

Suki picked up Callie, stroked her fur. “Go for it.”

Briefly, Breeanne closed her eyes. Made her wish. She twisted her wrist, but the key didn’t budge. She let out a shaky laugh. She’d actually thought it was going to work?

Just for the hell of it, she tried the key on the second lock. It did not open. Nor did the third lock.

Or the fourth.

She was so certain that the key was not going to open the fifth compartment that she almost forgot to make her wish, but just as she turned the key, she silently whispered,
Please let my writing career take off.

The key turned. The lock clicked. The compartment cracked open.

Suki hooted. “It worked!”

Touching the tip of her tongue to her upper lip, Breeanne eased back the hinges. Inside the compartment lay a second box. This smaller box was square, about three inches all around, and an inch deep. Carved into the lid of this box was another odd saying.

Two pieces split apart, flung separate and broken, but longing for reunion; one soft touch identifies the other, and they are at last made whole.

“What’s it mean?” Suki asked.

Breeanne didn’t know. She lifted the lid, and the faint smell of cloves drifted out.

Inside the second box lay a cheetah-print scarf folded into accordion pleats, and bound with raffia. The instant she spied the cheetah print, she thought,
Rowdy
, and a defenseless smile spread across her face.

Attached to the raffia was a yellowed piece of paper the size of an envelope label. On the label, written in the faded, flourishing script of quill pen ink, were the words: “Touch Me.”

Breeanne stared at it.

“So touch the scarf already.” Suki nudged her with an elbow. “Or are you too scared?”

Breeanne untied the raffia and picked up the scarf. The cloth rippled through her fingers, smooth and rich as warmed butter. “Wow.”

“What is it?”

“This is amazing material.” Breeanne rubbed the scarf between her finger and thumb. “It’s softer than expensive cashmere.”

“Could be vicuna yarn, but it looks too silky for that. Pass it over.” Suki put out a hand.

Breeanne pulled her arm back, holding the scarf away from her sister. A foreign sensation pushed up through her chest and into her throat.

“Sheesh. I’m not going to hurt it,” Suki said.

Breeanne hesitated. Why was she feeling like a jealous lover? Reluctantly, she forced herself to hand over the scarf.

Suki made a face like she’d inhaled a sunflower seed husk, and jerked her head around to stare at her. “Ha ha. Very funny.”

“What are you talking about?”

“The softest material you’ve ever felt? That’s rich. When did you turn snarky?”

“It
is
soft,” Breeanne said, more sharply than she intended.

“This is the scratchiest thing I’ve ever touched. I’d rather wear burlap.”

Breeanne reclaimed the scarf and rubbed it between her palms. If anything, it felt softer now than when she first took it from the box. With a stubborn tilt of her chin, she tied the jaunty cheetah print around her neck.

“What exactly did you wish for, a soft scarf? Because a delusional self-fulfilling prophecy is the only explanation I can come up with for why you think this thing is soft.” Suki’s laughter bounced around the bookstore, spiky and too loud.

“For your information, I wished for a successful writing career.”

“I can’t imagine how a miserably prickly scarf is going to help with your writing.”

At that moment, Breeanne’s cell phone rang. Lightly touching the scarf at her neck, she pulled her phone from her pocket and checked the caller ID.

Kip Miller. Her agent.

Her entire body went numb, and she broke out in a sweat. It couldn’t be. Could it?

The phone rang again.

“Who is it?” Suki asked.

“My agent,” Breeanne whispered.

“I just got chills.” Suki shivered, and hugged herself. “You wished for something to happen with your writing career, and
boom
, the agent who’s snubbed you for over a year calls out of the blue, and on a Saturday afternoon to boot.”

“What do I do?”

“Answer the phone! Hurry. Before he hangs up.”

Breeanne tilted her head, and managed to answer coolly despite the fact she was trembling all over. “Hello?”

“Breeanne,” her agent’s cheery voice boomed. “Kip Miller here. I’ve got a golden opportunity for you.”

She transferred the phone to her other hand, wiped her sweaty palm against her thigh. “What is that?”

“Ever heard of the baseball pitcher Rowdy Blanton?”

Her stomach flipped. “Of course I have, he’s from my hometown.”

“I know. That’s why I’m calling. Jackdaw Press signed him to write his autobiography, and he’s in the market for a ghostwriter. I pitched your name, but they weren’t all that impressed with your credentials. However, Blanton’s contract gives him final approval on the ghost and he’s auditioning writers on Monday. If you’re smart you’ll get over to his place and convince him you’re the woman for the job.”

CHAPTER
5

Don’t let the fear of striking out hold you back.

—
B
ABE
R
UTH

Dipped cone.

Breeanne sat in her eleven-year-old blue Nissan Sentra that was parked in front of the private locked gate outside Rowdy Blanton’s property. Dead center in the middle of her crisp white blouse, just below where her cleavage would be if she had any, was a big blob of melted chocolate. Every day after lunch for the last six weeks, since Breeanne’s cardiologist told her that she needed to gain ten pounds, she had pulled up to the drive-through at Dairy Queen and ordered a chocolate dipped cone. In all that time she’d gained only a measly half pound.

But no one had sympathy for a skinny girl who couldn’t gain weight. Or, for that matter, a clumsy girl who dropped waxy dipped cone chocolate onto the front of her crisp white blouse when she was on her way to persuade the biggest celebrity in town to hire her as his ghostwriter.

Dammit.

Why couldn’t she have gotten a regular soft-serve cone? Or better yet, an M&M’s Blizzard in a cup? A cup was much safer than a cone. Then again why had she stopped for ice cream in the first place? Why hadn’t she driven up to his house first thing this morning?

Why?

Because she’d heard through the trusty Stardust grapevine that Rowdy Blanton liked to sleep until noon. He might be grumpy if she awakened him too early, and she would blow her chances straight off the bat.

Really? She was spinning fibs for herself?

Frankly, as badly as she wanted this writing gig, after her encounter with Rowdy on Irene Henderson’s lawn, he scared the living daylights out of her.

The man was as devastating as a mudslide, breathtaking as a forest fire, daunting as gale-force winds. Major league baseball should have nicknamed him Force of Nature instead of the Screwgie King, although he was arguably the best screwball pitcher ever to take the mound.

Sweat broke on her brow.

How easy it would be to smack the Sentra into reverse and burn rubber all the way down the hill to Stardust. Normally, she was a people pleaser who preferred the path of least resistance, but this was her writing career. The one thing she wanted most in the world was within her grasp. All she had to do was reach for it.

She would not chicken out. Chocolate or no chocolate, she was going in there and ask for the job. This was her big break. No excuses.

Okay. Resolve strengthened. She could . . . no, she
would
do this.

But how to camouflage the chocolate stain, and how to get through the locked gate?

Whenever she faced a health-related challenge, her parents loved to say,
Don’t worry about trying to eat the whole enchilada at once. Take it one bite at a time.

Right. First things first. Deal with the stain.

She leaned over, popped open the glove compartment, and found a couple of napkins. On the floorboard in the backseat she located a plastic water bottle that had a tablespoon or so of water left in it. She wet the napkins, dabbed at the chocolate blob, watched the stain smear, and widen.

Nut bunnies.

It wasn’t working.

What now?

She gnawed the corner of a thumbnail. Stopped. Sat on her hands. Remembered the cheetah scarf in her purse. All weekend, she’d taken the scarf around with her, bugging everyone she met to feel the material, anxious to see if anyone else felt the softness she did. But family and friends, neighbors and acquaintances all said exactly the same thing. The scarf was scratchy, rough, abrasive, coarse.

How was it possible that when she touched the scarf it felt like rose petals, Callie’s fur, and chenille throw pillows combined?

Hmm. If artfully draped, could the scarf hide the stain? Blowing out a tight breath, she tied the scarf strategically around her neck and checked her reflection in the rearview mirror.

The chocolate stain disappeared.

Whew. Crisis averted.

One problem down. Now for the second. She approached the ornate wrought-iron gate, searching for an intercom box or a doorbell or something that would grant access, but she didn’t see anything.

What did she expect? An open gate, a “Welcome Breeanne Carlyle” sign?

She didn’t have an appointment because his phone number was unlisted, and her agent hadn’t known what his phone number was either, and that was why he’d told her to go up there in the first place. Rowdy Blanton was so famous he needed a fortress to discourage hangers-on, and looky-loos. She curled her fingers around the cool iron bars, and the gate simply swung inward.

Not locked after all.

Surprised but wary, she stepped back. She distrusted things that came too easily. When things came easily it usually meant strings were attached. Then again, in this situation, what was the worst that could happen? Rowdy would call the cops on her for trespassing? His burly bodyguard would toss her out on her ear?

Or Taser her.

Getting Tasered wouldn’t be much fun. And with her heart condition, what if it caused an electrical short-circuit and killed her?

Calm down.

No one was going to Taser her. The sky was not falling. Her heart was healed. How long was it going to take for her to adjust?

The two-minute drive to the top of the hill winded through East Texas pines and fields of vibrant wildflowers. A gigantic mansion constructed of Austin limestone sprawled like a lazy frat boy, overblown, overindulgent, and clearly over budget. Breeanne pulled to a stop in a driveway full of cars.

Rowdy had company.

She squeezed the spongy steering wheel cover. The blue veins at her wrist bulged against the pressure. Her mouth dried and tasted chalky, as if she’d eaten a green persimmon.

Steeling her jaw, she marched stiff-legged up the cobblestone walkway to the front door. She knocked with a confidence she didn’t feel, hung out her cheeriest let’s-be-friends smile, and mentally practiced what she was going to say.
Hi, Mr. Blanton, remember me? I’m the girl in the cheetah panties.

Good grief. No.

The door jerked open. The same domineering guy who’d chauffeured Rowdy to the estate sale in the Escalade stared down at her. His bulky shoulders filled the doorway, blocking her view of the foyer. He wore a small gold hoop earring in one ear, an expensive suit, shaved head, and those same Secret Service sunglasses that shielded his eyes.

He didn’t crack a smile, and hers evaporated. He slid the sunglasses down on his nose, his gaze slicing over her without a hint of recognition. Okay, she knew she wasn’t particularly memorable, but come on, it had been only a week since they last met.

“What do you want?” He grunted.

“Um . . . um . . .” The words that had been on her tongue rolled down her throat. “I’m . . . I’m . . .”
Spit it out, for godsakes.
“Job interview.”