Page 40 of A Whim and a Prayer

“Oh, for Pete’s sake,” Mr. Davis plowed a hand through his hair.

“Can you move your toes, Thomas?” Mrs. Dunne asked.

He tried, then cried out again. “Yes, ma’am, but it hurts like the dickens when I do.”

“Oh, dear.” Mrs. Dunne rose to step away with Mrs. Cullen and Mr. Davis, her voice a whisper. “His left leg is really swollen, which is not good, so it likely took the brunt of the fall. I hate to tell you this, but I think he may have a broken leg, so we’ll need to get him to the hospital to find out for sure. I’ll go right now and call for an ambulance.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Dunne, so very much.” Mrs. C glanced over at Abby. “Sweetheart, will you please announce that we’ll take a twenty-minute break while we see to getting Thomas to the hospital? And please let everyone know there’s a water fountain out in the hall by the restroom and a vending machine by the cafeteria down the hall.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Abby bounded up the steps to the stage to make her announcement.

Mrs. C exhaled slowly as she locked gazes with Winnie, a deep crease of worry lining her brow. “Winnie, do you know of anyone in the crew or ensemble who would even remotely know Frank Butler’s lines?”

Winnie blinked, then swallowed hard, fully aware she was about to betray her best friend. “I do, Mrs. C,” she said with another heavy duck of her throat, “because Beck has a photographic memory, you see, so he’s been rehearsing various parts with me from the start.”

“Oh, sweet mother of Job!” She clutched Winnie’s arms like a vice, her voice hoarse and breathing ragged. “Do you think he’ll do it?”

“Maybe,” she said slowly, grating her lip as she picked at her nail, “if we both beg and cry and fall to our knees.”

“I can do that,” Mrs. Cullen said in a rush, and Winnie couldn’t help but give a tiny smile.

“It’s actually a talent of mine with Beck, Mrs. C, so between you and me, we should be good. But I’ll tell you right now …” She shot a quick glance at the seats where Beck was talking with the crew, their hushed tones and occasional glances at the stage a clear indication of their concern. Winnie turned back to Mrs. C with a worrisome sigh. “The boy won’t like it.”

Chapter Twenty-Five

For surely the thousandth time in his life, Beck questioned the wisdom of friendship with Winnie.

Okay, maybe not that many, but it had to be close. He yanked the hat and bandana off and all but hurled them against the bathroom wall, glaring at the Frank Butler costume hanging on the hook. The one Winnie had handed him with a repentant chew of her lip, pleading with those baby-blues that always took him down.

Muttering questionable words under his breath, he jerked the boots off and chucked them on top of the hat before ripping the flannel shirt over his head, buttons and all. With a rare growl, he balled it up tight and slammed it to the ground, fighting the urge to stomp it to pieces.

Winnie knew how much he hated being in the limelight! All it did was bring unwelcome attention he didn’t want to deal with. Like the time he was the lead in his senior play, earning him a fan club of bobbysoxers that pestered him half to death. It took Winnie pretending to be his jealous girlfriend that finally quelled the uproar, threatening every female within an inch of her life.

He sighed as he slipped on the beige shirt and leather vest.

If only.

He fiddled with the stupid tie string to get it right because if he didn’t, Little Miss Perfection would futz with it, and it was bad enough he had to play her love interest in the show—he sure didn’t need her hands on him, fixing his tie.

And lips?

His body stilled to stone, the realization that he’d be kissing Winnie in the last scene turning his blood to ice water … right before it flashed so hot, sweat broke out on his brow. A lump bobbed in his throat as he lapsed into a faraway stare, wishing more than anything he could have said no. But that was hard to do when you had two desperate women begging you with tears in their eyes.

And one was the girl you loved.

“I can do this,” he said with a clench of his jaw, putting on the fringed buckskin trousers and then the polished leather boots, “just a peck on the lips and let it go.”

Tap. Tap. “Beck—you almost ready?” Winnie’s tone held a tinge of apology, which wasn’t nearly enough.

No, I’m not! “Uh, yeah, almost.”

Pause. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

He grunted. Yeah, toss me a football so I can fall off the stage.

“Beck?”

“What?” His voice came off as a snarl.