Closer Encounters. Merline Lovelace

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СКАЧАТЬ shortly after arriving on Catalina, and really didn’t have time for a repeat visit. She’d traveled to the island on very private, very wrenching business.

      She should get on with it, she thought with a little ache just under her ribs. Once it was done, she’d take the ferry back to the mainland, fly home to Washington and start looking for another job.

      God knew she needed one. Her savings account was empty and she had less than two hundred dollars in her checking account. Thank goodness for credit cards, although she’d already maxed out two and was nudging close to the limit on her third. The finance company had repossessed her car last month, which had made getting back and forth to work a challenge. When she still had a job to get to, that is.

      Her boss should have understood, she thought indignantly. Or at least been more sympathetic to her situation. She’d worked her butt off for the guy for almost six years. And covered his butt on more than one occasion! Yet when her vacation time had run out and she’d been forced to ask for leave without pay, the bastard had told her to choose between her job and Jack.

      The ache just under her ribs intensified and seeped into her heart, drop by painful drop. She couldn’t believe Jack had really left her. He’d been the only man in her life for so long. Her only friend. Her only family.

      Racked by a loneliness that went bone deep, Tracy shoved her hands in the pockets of her pistachio-colored windbreaker and followed the cobbled walk that circled the harbor. November was a little too late in the year for swimmers, but a few determined sun-worshippers had spread towels on the beach and were soaking up rays. Other tourists strolled the pedestrians-only main boulevard. A blend of old Mexico and California chic, the street was lined with shops, restaurants and tall, swaying palms.

      Head down, shoulders hunched, Tracy barely glanced at the shop windows. Her destination was the stucco arch at the far end of Crescent Avenue. The arch formed the entrance to another paved walk. This path led to the casino, which stood in majestic splendor at the north end of the harbor.

      As Tracy had learned during her tour yesterday, the fabled Avalon Casino had nothing to do with gambling. The label derived from the Italian word for gathering place or festive area, and that’s certainly what this structure had been designed for. The spectacular first-floor theater could seat twelve hundred avid movie buffs. Twice as many couples could dance the night away in the magnificent upper-story ballroom. So brilliantly illuminated at night that it could be seen from the mainland, the Avalon Casino had lured visitors since it first opened in 1929.

      Just as it lured Tracy now.

      It was weird, this urge that pulled her back to the place. Almost as weird as the tune that kept drifting through her head. She’d first heard the slow, plaintive melody during the tour yesterday. So faint, she’d caught only a few bars. So sad, it had seemed to echo her personal misery.

      She’d thought at first the music had drifted up to the ballroom from one of the boats moored in the harbor below. Then she decided it was probably piped in as background for the tour, designed to evoke a feeling for the poignant ballads of the big band era.

      The odd thing was that no else seemed to have heard it. The rest of her group had trailed after the guide, oohing and aahing over the ballroom’s massive Tiffany chandeliers, art deco wall sconces and vast parquet floor cushioned by a resilient cork mat to ease the aching feet of four thousand jitterbuggers.

      Deciding it was just her overactive imagination at work, Tracy had finished the tour and walked back toward town. To her consternation, the melody accompanied her, wandering in and out of her head as if it were lost. Only this time, snatches of lyrics came with them. Something about waiting, about gathering dreams, about walking alone until…

      Until what?

      Haunted by the tune, she’d stopped at an Internet café and spent dollars she couldn’t afford to Google the phrases. One query led to another, then another.

      She now knew “I’ll Walk Alone” was both the title and the theme of a big band hit sung by all the great female singers of the late ’30s and early ’40s, including Billie Holiday, Dinah Shore and Trixie Halston—who’d died in a tragic accident right here at the Avalon Casino.

      What she didn’t know was why she couldn’t get the song out of her head!

      It was there now, calling to her, beckoning to her, luring her like the sirens of old had lured unwary sailors to their death. She could hear it as she stood in line at the box office to purchase a tour ticket.

      “You just made it.”

      Tracy blinked, sure the woman in the old-fashioned glass booth had spoken to her. Her lips had moved. Her smile invited a reply. But the music had drowned her out.

      “I’m sorry. What did you say?”

      “I said you just made it. The last tour of the day starts in two minutes.”

      Tracy slid her charge card through the opening in the glass and held her breath until it went through. She hadn’t maxed this one out yet, thank goodness. She signed the slip, took her ticket and turned—only to collide with the man in line behind her.

      “Sorry!”

      “No problem.”

      Too absorbed by the haunting melody to note more than an easy smile and gold-flecked hazel eyes, she nodded absently and joined the tourists now streaming into the casino.

      Yesterday, the lobby’s solid black-walnut wall panels and glorious red-arched ceiling had taken her breath away. Today she could barely contain her impatience as the tour guide explained the casino’s history and unique engineering. Once inside the theater, not even the immense proscenium arch and murals glittering with silver and gold foil could hold her attention. Nor could the booming notes of the Page pipe organ that had added drama to the silent movies shown in the theater drown out the song inside Tracy’s head.

      The music was louder now, the lyrics more distinct. She’d printed out a copy after Googling them up yesterday, and knew them almost by heart. Each note was a sigh, each word a promise. They called to her, urging her upstairs to the ballroom.

      Her heart pounded as the tour guide led the group to the set of spiral ramps so many eager couples had ascended during the swing era. The guide took the ramps slowly, in deference to the older members in the group, and paused at the lounge halfway up to let them rest and view the black-and-white photos of the bands that had played the Avalon Ballroom.

      Tracy’s pulse kicked up another notch as she skimmed over photos of bands led by Artie Shaw, Harry James and Russ Morgan. Suddenly, her breath stopped in her throat.

      There! That was Kenny Jones swinging a baton in front of his orchestra. And the woman at the microphone. Trixie Halston. Tracy recognized the singer from the photos she’d pulled up yesterday. As she stared at the slender chanteuse with her dark hair styled in a peekaboo sweep, the music inside her head grew louder, the notes more urgent.

      Determined to get the damned song out of her head, Tracy slipped away from the group and hit the next incline. Her breath came faster with each step. Her blood thundered in her ears.

      She took the last ramp at a near run and burst into the cavernous ballroom. The music swelled to an angry crescendo, pulling her across the parquet floor, past the empty stage and through one of the Moorish arches onto the balcony.

      Eyes wild, heart hammering, Tracy leaned over the stucco СКАЧАТЬ