26

For once Tara Lynn Greene had made it on time. She had risked a speeding ticket—one more and her license would definitely be suspended—and she had parked in the expensive lot down the street from the Walnut Street Theater. These were two things she couldn’t afford.

On the other hand, this was a casting call for Carousel and Marc Balfour was directing. The coveted role was Julie Jordan. Shirley Jones had played the part in the 1956 film and she had parlayed the role into a lifelong career.

Tara had just come off a successful run of Nine at the Centre Theater in Norristown. A local reviewer had called her “fetching.” For Tara, “fetching” was about as good as it was going to get. She caught her reflection in the front window of the theater lobby. At twenty-seven, she was no newcomer, and hardly the ingenue. Okay, twenty-eight, she thought. But who’s counting?

She walked the two blocks back to the indoor parking lot. A freezing wind whistled down Walnut. Tara rounded the corner, looked at the sign on the small kiosk and calculated her parking fee. She owed sixteen dollars. Sixteen frickin’ dollars. She had a single twenty in her wallet.

Ah, well. It looked like Ramen noodles again tonight. Tara took the steps down to the basement level, slipped into her car, waited until it warmed up. While she waited, she turned up the CD—Kay Starr singing “C’est Magnifique.”

When the car was finally warm, she put it in reverse, backed up, her mind a clutter of hopes, opening-night jitters, stellar reviews, wild applause.

Then she felt the bump.

Oh my God, she thought. Had she run over something? She put the car in park, pulled the hand brake, and got out. She walked behind the vehicle, looked beneath. Nothing. She hadn’t run over anything or anybody. Thank God.

Then Tara saw it: she had a flat. On top of everything else, she had a flat. And she had less than twenty minutes to get to her job. Like every other actress in Philly, probably the world, Tara waited tables.

She glanced around the parking level. No one. Thirty cars or so, a few vans. No people. Shit.

She tried to combat the anger, the tears. She didn’t even know if there was a spare tire in the trunk. The car was a two-year-old compact and she hadn’t ever had to change one of its tires before.

“Having a problem?”

Tara wheeled around, a little startled. A man was getting out of the white van a few spaces down from her car. He carried a bouquet of flowers.

“Hi,” she said.

“Hi.” He pointed at her tire. “Doesn’t look too good.”

“It’s only flat on the bottom,” she said. “Ha-ha.”

“I’m really good at these things,” he said. “I’d be happy to help.”

She looked at her reflection in the car window. She was wearing her white wool coat. Her best. She could just imagine the grease on the front. And the dry-cleaning bill. More expense. Of course, she had long ago let her AAA dues lapse. She had never once used it when she was paying for it. And now, of course, she needed it.

“I couldn’t ask you to do that,” she said.

“It’s no big deal,” he said. “You’re not exactly dressed for automotive repair.”

Tara saw him sneak a covert glance at his watch. If she was going to snag him for the task, it had better be soon. “Sure it wouldn’t be too much trouble?” she asked.

“No trouble at all.” He held up the bouquet. “I have to deliver these by four o’clock, and then I’m done for the day. I have plenty of time.”

She looked around the parking level. It was all but deserted. As much as she hated to play the helpless female—she knew how to change a tire, after all—she could use the help.

“You’re going to have to let me pay you for this,” she said.

He held up a hand. “I wouldn’t hear of it. Besides, it’s Christmas.”

Good thing, too, she thought. After she’d paid for her parking she’d have a grand total of four dollars and seventeen cents. “This is very nice of you.”

“Pop the trunk,” he said. “I’ll be done in a minute.”

Tara reached in the window, flipped the trunk lever. She walked to the back of the car. The man grabbed the jack, pulled it out. He looked around for somewhere to put down the flowers. It was an enormous bouquet of gladiolas wrapped in bright white paper.

“Do you think you could you put these back in my van for me?” he asked. “My boss would kill me if I got them dirty.”

“Sure,” she said. She took the flowers from him, turned toward the van.

“—gale,” he said.

She spun around. “I’m sorry?”

“You could just put them in the back.”

“Oh,” she said. “Okay.”

Tara walked over to the van, thinking that it was things like this—little kindnesses from total strangers—that all but restored her faith in people. Philly could be a tough town, but sometimes you wouldn’t know it. She opened the back door of the van. She expected to see boxes, paper, greenery, florist foam, ribbons, maybe a bunch of those little cards and envelopes. Instead she saw … nothing. The interior of the van was immaculate. Except for the exercise mat on the floor. And the coil of blue and white rope.

Before she could put the flowers down she sensed a presence. A close presence. Too close. She smelled cinnamon mouthwash; saw a shadow just inches away.

When Tara turned toward the shadow, the man swung the jack handle at the back of her neck. It connected with a dull thud. Her head rattled. Black circles ringed with a supernova of bright orange fire presented themselves behind her eyes. He brought the steel bar down again, not hard enough to knock her cold, just to stun her. Her legs gave way beneath her and Tara collapsed into strong arms.

The next thing she knew she was on her back, on the exercise mat. She was warm. It smelled like paint thinner. She heard the doors slam, heard the engine start.

When she opened her eyes again there was gray daylight coming through the windshield. They were in motion.

When she tried to sit up he reached over, a white cloth in his hand. He placed it over her face. The medicine smell was strong. Soon she drifted away on a beam of dazzling light. But right before the world went away, Tara Lynn Greene—the fetching Tara Lynn Greene—suddenly realized what the man had said back at the parking garage:

You are my nightingale.