Grandmothers who got eaten by big bad wolves, but grandmothers who might turn the tables on the wolves, too. For grandmothers also read--and sometimes wrote--romance novels, and had once starred in a few sensual scenes of their own (or they wouldn't be grandmothers and supposedly beyond the socio-sexual fray, would they?). Grandmothers who were still earthy enough to enjoy being around handsome men young enough to be their grandsons, and canny enough to duck the issue when it came to confronting the underlying roots of their admiration.
Temple nodded as she worked. A fan could have killed Cheyenne, or any of these men. Someone like a Wardrobe Witch. Someone with outlandish fantasies? Someone spurned? It happened the other way all the time: much older men and young women who traded on their looks sometimes do-si-doed into messy situations where murder might out.
"Places, people!" boomed the speaker. "Now!" Danny sounded like Patton in a snit.
Temple took some last frantic stitches, triple-knotted the threat at ground zero, then patted the dressing-table top for the scissors. They weren't within reach.
"Scissors?" she asked, curt as a surgeon.
Lance twisted to look, nearly breaking the precious thread below the knot and undoing all Temple had redone, while she drew in an audibly appalled breath.
"Uh, sorry." He had to toss a brunette tress over his shoulder when he turned back. "I can't find the scissors."
Temple considered using her teeth, then decided that was above and beyond the call of wenchdom.
"The dangling thread won't show against the black," she told him. "You'll have to have it repaired again on a machine anyway." She took off her glasses and threw them into the gaping duffel bag.
Then she was up and running for the stairs, her skirts hiked almost as high as Quincey's. Lance thudded up the risers behind her, asking for little but reassurance.
"Thanks. Um, do you think it will ... you know, hold up for the show?"
She devoutly hoped that he was asking about her repair job.
"Time will tell," she huffed back to him. "At least you only have to do your act once. I have to do mine eleven times."
And she was supposed to be onstage before the first trio of hunks.
Temple flew into the wings, Lance and his once-flapping fly forgotten. Lacey and Quincey were nowhere around, which meant that they already had melted onto the dimly lit set as directed.
Temple raced until the moment she could be seen from the audience, then braked herself to a saunter. No audience awaited except Danny Dove and some hangers-on, but she had to pretend that there was a houseful of eager watchers.
In the murky light, the glitter of Lacey's seven veils entwined a pillar. Temple's skirts swished soft as surf against the fake-stone riser of her Gothic corner as she stubbed an unprotected toe on it, then stifled a wail. Beyond her nook, Quincey leaned Lili Marlene-like against the barn set's ersatz lamppost.
Temple swirled into place and settled against her own wall, gazing soul-fully out the arched windowslit, which offered an unwavering view of backstage curtain.
At stage left, three hunks thumped from the wings. If Lance was assigned to her, after all they'd gone through together; wouldn't it be a ... stitch? At least she'd know to discourage any costume-straining positions.
A Roman gladiator, oiled torso gleaming in his harness, hairy legs bristling, leather and brass slapping and ringing as he walked, headed for Lacey beyond Temple. She didn't like to imagine getting whacked by the gladiator's lethal costume during the pose-down.
A second figure eased around the stone wall encompassing Temple, shadowy in a short cloak and tights. Beyond her, Lance, a curled bullwhip slung over one shoulder, headed for Quincey. How romantic.
Temple, appropriately panting from her hundred-yard-dash upstairs, waited for the spotlights to illuminate the awful truth. Thank heaven she hadn't worn her glasses, which would be out of period anyway, but she knew the drilclass="underline" three lady models, thirty-three remaining Incredible Hunks, eleven each.
Entering male trios would move to the set appropriate for their garb and grab the proper girl for a minute or more of ersatz passion. The trick was to change positions and poses constantly, like cover models being photographed. Temple knew that Quincey and Lacey had huddled with their designated hunks to plan their routines. She had been busy with other matters, such as murder, and would have to wing it with whoever showed up on her doorstep.
She could only hope that Danny had chosen wisely and well.
And she only had to be pliant and malleable (the usual requirements for any medieval virgin-bride, she figured). Theatrical illusion would do the rest.
Although Temple should be able to hear whoever was standing in for the announcer introduce the candidates, the microphone blurred his voice onstage. That meant that her partners would always be as much as a surprise as their improvised routine.
The lighting slowly brightened as Temple's first hunk went to one knee before her, took her tenderly in his arms, then bent her back until her false hair pooled on the stage floor. If her hairpins didn't hold, her false hair would remain a blood-bright puddle on the stage floor.
The lights came up full. Against the blurry blazing suns of the spotlights, Temple squinted to decode the visage above her. . . the fine Italian face of a Fontana brother in Romeo disguise!
Piece of pasta! The hunk you know is always a better risk than the hunk you don't know.
Rico or maybe Armando or even Eduardo bent over her until the feather in his velvet cap nearly put out her unshielded right eye.
"Don't worry, kid. I will treat you like a sister."
"Fontana brothers don't have any sisters," she hissed back.
He shrugged, then began performing a cover tango while murmuring dolce far niente, or so the lyrics of some forgotten Broadway musical described sweet Italian nothings.
Temple murmured sweetly back, "Rigatoni, Ziti Pitti, Uffizi. Oh, Linguini!"
No one could hear them over the canned music that beat out Bolero-type rhythms suitable for seduction. She was finally deposited again on the window seat to simper pensively as her swain backed away, bowing.
The lights dimmed. Temple squinted to see if the departing Lance was still intact, as far as trousers went, but she couldn't tell. Nor could she decide which of her ebbing attributes to check first: her false hair, or her authentically plunging neckline. She decided to semi-recline on the window seat for the next suitor.
Her knight in shining armor clanked as he came. She barely registered the arrival of her neighbors'
gentlemen callers, she was so busy wondering how she would cuddle up to an ambulatory Swiss army knife.
With one hand he pushed back his metal visor, with the other he encompassed her waist. Then he picked her up and turned in a circle, nearly ramming Temple's foot into a mock-stone wall while her heavy false hair threatened to elope in the arms of centrifugal force.
The grinning Fontana brother in the plumed helmet reassured her. "Fear not, fair lady, I will not drop you."
She had nothing to fear but fear itself, so she caressed his chill silver-metal cheek and ran her hands up and down his chain-mail chest as he lowered her back to the floor, very slowly, because he really did not bend very well. How refreshing to have a male contestant compelled to "dip."
She was definitely getting the hang of a pose-down, especially since it mostly involved hanging off the hunk until he could move her into one or another contorted position. Then they did pretend kissy-kissy until it came precariously close to real kissy-kissy, but by then she was kissing him offstage.
She was also quickly getting exhausted from inventing something different that she was willing to do, and she did feel obligated to help her assigned hunks win. Besides, she knew that Quincey and Lacey were not holding back. To let two teenage Lolitas outdo a mature woman in her prime was unthinkable.