Once Upon A Setup
A Wishful Meet Cute Romance
By Kait Nolan
Once Upon A Setup
Written and published by Kait Nolan
Copyright 2015 Kait Nolan
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form.
AUTHOR’S NOTE: The following is a work of fiction. All people, places, and events are purely products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual people, places, or events is entirely coincidental.
License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. The ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Cover design by Kait Nolan
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Once Upon A Setup
Can I Ask You A Favor?
Other Books By Kait Nolan
Excerpt from Be Careful, It’s My Heart
Once Upon A Setup
Myles Stewart had been driven by one, single aspiration since he was eight years old: Become Perry White. Upon the disappointing discovery that he could not, in fact, go work for The Daily Planet, he’d set his sights on The New York Times. The Chicago Tribune. The Boston Globe. His family had assumed he’d outgrow the desire and would fall in line with their expectations by the time he graduated college. They figured he’d tire of the life after he bounced from The Times-Picayune up to The Seattle Times, then over to The Philadelphia Daily News. But he never tired of the chase, of the quest to be the first in the know, of the pursuit of truth.
Then the bottom fell out of journalism. Every paper in the country experienced mass layoffs and downsizing. Realizing his days were probably numbered in Philly, Myles did something that baffled his big city colleagues. He came home to Mississippi and bought a struggling newspaper in a town where, his friends were convinced, absolutely nothing happened.
“Did you hear about the police chase in Lawley last week?”
“No. What happened?”
“This guy stole an ambulance and led them on a high speed chase out of town. Got up to eighty-five miles an hour. While he was driving, he took his clothes off and tossed ’em right out the window. I’m not quite sure how it happened, but he ended up stopping at the Mount Zion Missionary Baptist Church and walking in during the service. He’s buck nekkid, remember? The police tased him right there in the center aisle and took him to the nut house. Read it in the paper this morning.”
“My Lord. What is the world coming to?”
Myles smiled to himself. That one had been particularly entertaining to follow up on.
Okay. So The Wishful Observer wasn’t The Daily Planet. But unlike their metropolitan counterparts, small town newspapers were, according to some, still a viable market. So what if Warren Buffett couldn’t pull it off? He wasn’t a newspaperman. As owner/Editor-in-Chief, Myles intended to bring The Observer back from the brink, along with his whopping staff of three people, two of whom were part-time.
After two weeks on the job, Myles was willing to admit he might’ve bitten off a bit more than he’d meant to chew, but he loved nothing more than a challenge. Right now that challenge was rapidly immersing himself in the community in order to suss out his existing and potential audiences. So far that had meant multiple artery clogging breakfasts at Dinner Belles Cafe, where, praise God, he got his first properly cooked grits since he left for college.
“Your usual, sugar. Bowl of grits, two biscuits, and bacon.” The waitress slid the plate in front of him.
Myles offered her a broad smile, delighted that he’d graduated to having a usual. “Thanks, Corinne.”
“Can I top off that coffee for you?”
“Sure can.” She leaned over to fill his mug.
“So what’s your story?” he asked. In his two weeks coming in here, she’d been his waitress almost every day, and he’d formulated his own version of what he imagined her life was out of his observations. She worked in a greasy spoon, yet was painfully thin. A faint odor of cigarette smoke clung to her clothes. She was friendly with customers, downright flirtatious with the men, in a way that said she’d been used to male attention earlier in her life and expected it as her due. No rings. He was betting on former high school queen fallen on harder times. He wanted to know how much of it was right.
One carefully tweezed brow arched up. “My story?”
“Sure. Everybody’s got one. What’s yours?”
“Oh, nothin’ that interesting.”
“Everybody’s interesting,” Myles assured her.
“You’ve got me beat on that one, Mr. Big City Reporter. Lived all over and ended up here. I can’t imagine why you’d want to do that.”
“I wanted a different life. And good grits.” He spooned up a bite of his. “Mmm.”
“Well, we do have those. You enjoy now.” She headed off to check her other tables.
As he worked his way through the grits, Myles tuned in to the other conversations around him.
“Have you seen the new ER doctor?” The woman behind him almost purred it.
“We have a new ER doc?”
“Dr. Chad Phillips. I had to take my grandmother in for chest pains—she was fine, by the way—and he was the one on duty. I swear, he could give me a breast exam any time.”
Her companion snorted. “I thought you said he was an ER doc.”
“They’re supposed to be well-rounded.”
Myles wondered if he could get the good doctor to agree to a profile piece introducing him to the community. From the sounds of it, if he were single, that might result in him being mobbed by all the unattached women in town. But maybe the guy could wangle an endless supply of casseroles and pies out of the deal.
The bell over the door rang. A balding man Myles pegged to be in his mid-forties came inside, a stack of papers in his hand. He skipped the meet-and-greet so common with other patrons and headed straight for the counter. The kitchen door swung open and Myles’ favorite character ambled out. Mama Pearl Buckley was, he’d learned, queen of two things in this town—pie and gossip. Which was why he’d made Dinner Belles his informal bullpen. Almost nothing went on in Wishful without her knowing about it.
“What can I do for you, Nate?”
“I was hoping you’d put up a flier about auditions.”
“Sure. What’s the show this time?”
“White Christmas. And it may end up being our last.”
“How’s that?”
“The Madrigal is in hock up to its balconies. Mr. Stanton’s kids started looking into things after he passed a few months ago and the whole thing’s a mess. This show is our stay of execution. If we can raise enough, we might be able to save it.”
“You know I’ll help however I can.” She accepted one of the fliers.
Myles slid from his booth and walked over. “Excuse me.”
Both of them turned toward him.
“Hi. I couldn’t help but overhear. I might be able to help a bit myself. I’m Myles Stewart, the new editor of The Observer. If you’ve got a few minutes to sit down with me, I’d love to run something in the paper to let the rest of the town know what’s going on.”
“That’d be great. Mama Pearl, can I get a cup of coffee since I’m staying?”
“Comin’ right up.”
The two men retreated to Myles’ b
ooth. Myles pulled a steno pad and pen from his messenger bag, prepared to take notes.
“So, tell me about the Madrigal. I gather it’s a theater?”
“It is. Our community theater, over on Front Street. It was built back in 1912 as a home for vaudeville.”
“Seriously? In a town this size?”
Nate shrugged. “Wishful has always been a home for the arts. They ran live productions until the start of World War II. There was a brief stretch where it was almost converted to a movie theater, but then Edward Stanton bought it in 1958. He performed the first restoration and expansion because he didn’t believe that the people of Wishful should miss out on the arts just because it was small. Over the years, the Madrigal has earned a reputation as one of the best community theaters in the south. We’ve done everything from Shakespeare to Rogers and Hammerstein. I’ve been directing productions there for the past twenty years. It’s a real part of town history. But, like so many things around here, it’s seen better days.”
“I understand Wishful’s economy has been in a decline for the last couple of decades.” Myles had seen back issues of the paper talking about it.
“Probably a bit longer. It’s started to turn around under the leadership of the new city planner, but she’s just one person and can only do so much. Our best shot is to put on a show that’s sufficiently popular to bring in folks from the surrounding areas, raising enough revenues to pay off the debts enough to bring them current.”
“How much will it take?”
Nate named a figure that had Myles whistling. “Damn. You’ve got your work cut out for you.” He hoped like hell the actors in this community theater were better than most of the community level shows he’d seen. “The Observer is happy to help however it can. I’ll be happy to write a human interest piece to go in the next edition, as well as announcing auditions. Do you think you could make time later today to meet me and my staff photographer for a quick little tour? A pic of the stage would make for good front page imagery.”
Nate slid from the booth. “I can do that. Around three-thirty?”
“We’ll be there.”
“I appreciate your help, Mr. Stewart.”
“Myles, please.”
“Myles then.”
“I’ll do what I can to connect everybody to the plight of the Madrigal—whether they’re into theater or not. Really give them a feel for what they’d be missing if it closed its doors.”
“It’s a good start,” said Nate, heading for the door, “but the only way to truly experience the theater is from the stage.”
~*~
“Have you seen The Observer this morning?”
Piper Parish took a well-deserved two-minute break, dropping into a chair beside Shelby Abbott, the clinic office manager. They’d had a rush of stomach flu and the start of a scabies outbreak from the moment the doors opened at eight, and Piper’s dogs were starting to bark, even in the orthopedic shoes. “No, why?”
Shelby passed it over, tapping the front page.
Historic Madrigal Theater To Close?
“What?” Piper bent over the newspaper and devoured the article. “Oh, no no no no. This is terrible!”
The Madrigal was her second home. She’d grown up there. So many of her memories were tied up with that place, Piper couldn’t fathom it closing its doors or, worse, being turned into something else entirely.
“Looks like all hope isn’t lost. They’re doing a last ditch show of White Christmas,” Shelby pointed out.
If they were going to save the theater from financial ruin with this one last production, they needed to pull out all the stops. “Tyler has to come out of retirement for auditions.”
Shelby stared Piper down over the rims of her glasses. “You can’t be serious.”
“You know nobody in town can dance like she can.”
“It’s been eight years.”
“Have you thought about what this could do to her?”
Piper felt a prick of guilt. There were very good reasons Tyler hadn’t set foot on stage in the better part of a decade. But it was the right thing. It had to be. Tyler needed this as much as the Madrigal did. For closure.
“It’s not going to be traumatic. I’ve got a heart, for God’s sake. It’ll be good for her to get back on the stage and remember how much fun we used to have. She’s moved on.” Or she would, if she went through with the show.
“I hope you’re right,” Shelby said and turned back to their next patient.
Another two hours and most of a bottle of hand sanitizer passed before Piper could shake free for her lunch break. She raced across town to Edison Hardware, buoyed by an optimism that Tyler wouldn’t let the specter of one Brody Jensen keep her from doing her part to save the theater. She could see Tyler through the door, ringing somebody up. Shoving inside, she announced, “Dust off your dancing shoes, we have a mission.”
Tyler didn’t even pause in giving her instructions to Mrs. Van Buren.
Okay, going to be a tough sell.
The older woman grinned. “This is going to look so good! I’ll be sure to take pictures.”
“You do that. Be sure to tag us on Facebook!” Tyler called.
“I will!”
As soon as Mrs. Van Buren was out of the shop, Piper hopped up on the counter and swung her legs. “Did you hear what I said?”
With a bland stare, Tyler began stocking cabinet hardware. “I’m pretty sure you’re the only one who remembers I ever wore dancing shoes.”
Piper hated that Tyler had given up something she loved so much. “Not the truth and so not the point.”
“And what is the point? You know I don’t dance anymore.”
“You will for this. The Madrigal is in danger.”
Tyler paused, a drawer pull in her hand and that hesitation gave Piper hope. “That’s terrible! But what does it have to do with me?”
“They’ve agreed to let us make one last effort to raise the money to save it. To prove that it can be a sound investment. Nate is directing a production of White Christmas. And you’re going to unearth your dancing shoes from whatever graveyard you left them in to audition for it with me.”
“You used to dance?” Norah Burke, the new city planner, spoke up from her seat at the project table.
“I haven’t danced or sung since college.”
Piper hopped down and pointed an accusatory finger. “You lie. You’ve sung and danced with me as recently as last month.”
“What we do in the privacy of my living room under the influence of a pitcher of margaritas is between you and me and no one else. And wipe that considering smirk off your face, Norah.”
“What smirk?”
“The one that says you’re trying to figure out how you can use that in your next community development scheme.” She shoved plastic wrapped hardware into the Plexiglas bins.
“Oh, come on, Tyler,” Piper insisted. “It’s not like you’ve lost your chops. You’d be a shoe-in for Judy. And I would make the perfect Betty.”
“Give me one good reason why I should come out of retirement.”
Piper’s lips twitched. “Let’s just say, we’re doing it for a pal in the Army.”
One hand fisted on her hip, Tyler leveled a Look in her direction.
Unabashed, she shrugged. “What? It was appropriate. We’re doing it in the name of the good old days. Think of how many great memories we have of the Madrigal. Our first show. Our first lead roles. My first kiss with Robert Hudson in Meet Me In St. Louis. Where you first fell in love with—” Piper cut herself off. Nope, do not go there. “Okay, so maybe that one’s not good to remind you about, but you can’t hold his asshatishness against the Madrigal.”
“Whose asshatishness?” Norah asked
“He who will not be named,” Piper intoned, with a look that told Norah she’d tell all at the first opportunity. Away from Tyler.
“I’m not holding anything against the Madrigal,” Tyler said. Her expression shifted to
resignation before Piper could say prove it. “When are auditions?”
“Tonight at six.”
“Tonight! Piper, I’ve got to close. I’ve got nothing to wear here and no time to go home and get my shoes, not to mention I’ve got nothing prepared for an audition.”
“So tell me where your shoes are and what you want, and I’ll go by and pick everything up for you.”
“I still don’t have anything prepared.”
“Oh come on. As if you can’t sing every single number from the show in your sleep.” The pair of them had done sing-a-long viewings of the movie for the last twenty years.
“It’s not the singing part that has me worried.”
“Tyler,” Piper drew out the plea to five syllables and folded her hands in prayer, complete with the puppy dog eyes that had, over the years, successfully convinced Tyler to go skydiving, be in a bachelorette auction for a hospital fundraiser, and add a set of very purple, very unfortunate highlights to her blonde hair.
Tyler scowled. “You don’t fight fair.”
“It’s the Madrigal.”
“Fine. I’ll be there, but I’ll be a little late. We don’t close until six.”
Piper knew when to take her victory and run. “Fabulous! I’ll meet you there with your shoes and your outfit. Where are they?”
Tyler sighed. “Top shelf of my closet, in the blue box.”
Piper gave a squee and wrapped Tyler in a rib-cracking hug. “I’ll meet you there! Bye, Norah.” Without another word, she whirled and bounced out the door. She had just enough time to pick up Tyler’s shoes before heading back to work.
~*~
The Madrigal was a glorious old place. The kind of theater that told a story besides the ones being played out on the stage. As he stepped into the auditorium, Myles looked around, taking in the delightfully ostentatious woodwork and all the tiny touches remaining from an era when craftsmanship still meant something. Man, they didn’t make them like this anymore. What a delightful surprise to find somewhere like this in his newly adopted hometown.
A woman on the stage was running through “Count Your Blessings Instead of Sheep”. A more than passable rendition, he decided. At least on par with what he expected for community theater. He saw Nate settled a few rows back from the front, in prime position to watch all the action. Having no wish to interrupt, Myles headed about halfway down the aisle himself and slid into one of the plush velvet seats. He slid a notebook out of his messenger bag and began jotting down impressions of the building, observations of the hopeful players scattered around the room.