“I’m sorry there’s not more, but the pantry was fairly empty and I don’t intend to do any shopping—I’m not going to be here any longer than I have to be.”
Micky reached out and snagged another piece of slightly stale bread. “It’s okay, El. Heck, this is more than we have back at home.”
Mike nodded, scraping the last of the potato salad from his bowl. “Yeah, this is a feast where I come from.”
Ella smiled shyly, ducking her head. She sat cross-legged on the end of the long dining room table, the last few bites of a cheese sandwich held daintily in her short, dirty fingers.
“So they dragged you all the way from Europe to take care of this mess?” Mike asked, settling back in his chair.
“Yes,” Ella sighed. “They did. I’ve been studying at Oxford for the last three years, and then I received a call two nights ago that my uncle had been arrested and that the family was appointing me to clean up the mess he left behind.” She turned her angry gaze to the wall.
“That’s not fair,” Peter said sympathetically.
“No, it’s not. So you can see why I want to get this done with as soon as possible.”
“Well, then, let’s get started,” Mike said, rising from his chair.
Ella glanced down at her watch. “It’s almost eleven, and I’ve been up since six. Let’s adjourn until tomorrow, shall we?”
The Monkees exchanged dubious glances; they all remembered only too well what had happened the last time they’d ‘settled in for the night.’
“On one condition,” Mike said sternly. “Whatever room you put us in has gotta be without revolving walls—”
“Or trap doors in the sofa,” Davy added.
“Or hands that reach out from behind a curtain and grab your ankles,” Micky said.
“Or nets that get thrown over your head,” Peter finished.
Ella raised a curious eyebrow. “I’d ask what that meant but . . . no, I can guess. Look, there’s no one else here, so you have nothing to worry about. I’m certainly not going to do anything like that.”
“Yeah, you don’t look like the kidnapping-mad-scientist type,” Micky said.
Ella suddenly leaped off the table and cackled evilly. “Not so fast, Monkees! Before the day is out, you all shall be . . . genetically spliced with . . . a carrot!”
Mike sighed wearily as Micky and Davy howled with laughter. “That was . . . a stretch, Ella.”
Ella shrugged. “I know. I guess I’m not very funny.”
“No, it was good,” Peter said, standing up and approaching her. “We’re just . . . well, still getting over what happened to us.”
Ella’s gaze turned serious. “I understand. I shouldn’t be joking about things like that.”
“No, it’s oka—:” Peter began.
“No,” Ella said forcefully. She shook off Peter’s gentle touch and turned away, the stiff cast of her shoulders and her gently tipped head warning him against any further advances. “I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable. Come on; I’ll show you to your room.” She walked away quickly with the Monkees scrambling to keep up.
~*~
“Man, she took that a little personally, didn’t she?” Mike said as he unbuttoned his shirt. The pajamas that Ella had unearthed for him lay next to Peter on the bed; the bassist lay on his stomach with his chin propped up on his palms as he stared into space, his expression still troubled.
“Yeah,” Peter murmured. “I wonder why?”
“Man, who knows what goes on in chicks’ heads?” Mike grumbled.
“Davy does,” Micky said, ducking as Davy hurled a pillow.
Ella had shown them into a spacious room on the second floor that was nothing like the dim, windowless chamber they’d occupied the first time. Two enormous double beds sat against one wall, with an aged blue carpet covering the floor. It obviously hadn’t been occupied in a long time, but Ella had swept through with a featherduster and changed the sheets, making it habitable.
“I’m going to go talk to her,” Peter said, crawling off the bed.
“Peter, wait a minute,” Mike called. “You sure that’s a good idea? She didn’t exactly look like she was in the mood to talk.”
“I don’t care,” Peter said resolutely. “The worst she can do is close the door in my face.”
“Or hit you in the leg with a sledgehammer,” Micky muttered as the door closed behind Peter.
“She didn’t hit you, Micky,” Davy pointed out. “You hit yourself.”
Micky stuck out his tongue as he buttoned the faded blue pajamas he’d been given. “Hey Mike, I don’t know if I trust her.”
“What do you mean, Mick?” Mike said as he flopped back onto the bed with a sigh.
Micky shrugged. “It just seems . . . too easy, you know?”
“Well, Micky, it doesn’t sound like she likes Dr. Mendoza any more than we do,” Davy said. “I guess she doesn’t have any reason to say no.”
~*~
Peter crept silently down the hallway to Ella’s stateroom. The ornate lights in the hallway did little to pierce the gloom around them and Peter had to bite down on his tongue to keep from crying out and running back to his room.
The door to Ella’s room was open; soft white light spilled out into the hallway as Peter looked in. Ella was sitting at a small dressing table, silently regarding her reflection in a dusty, cracked mirror. She was clad in a soft white nightgown that significantly softened her tomboyish appearance. Her small feet with their painted red nails were wound delicately around her chair as she combed her hair.
“Ella?” Peter said softly so as not to startle her.
She turned. “Oh, hello, Peter. You need something?”
“No, not really,” Peter said, slipping into the room and closing the door behind him. “I just wanted to see if you needed to talk about anything.”
“Really? Like what?” she said, her eyebrows arching slightly.
“Well, um . . . anything. Like . . . what happened before.”
She sighed and scratched the side of her head. “It was nothing, really. I made a tasteless joke and I felt bad, all right?” Impatience crept into her voice as she turned to face her reflection once more. “I don’t want you all to think that I bear any resemblance to my uncle.”
Peter approached her slowly and placed his hands on her shoulders. She tensed slightly at his touch, then relaxed. “It’s okay, Ella. We know you didn’t mean anything by it . . . and you’re not anything like your uncle. It was nothing, really.”
“Then let’s not talk about it,” she said.
“Okay,” Peter said amiably. “What should we talk about?”
She stared at him puzzledly. “What?”
“Well, you don’t want to talk about that, so what do you want to talk about?”
Her eyes narrowed slightly. “Why do you care?”
Peter stopped, hurt creeping into his eyes. “Well . . . I just wanted to . . . talk, I guess . . . ”
Ella shook her head and stood, leading Peter to the edge of her huge canopy bed. They perched on the edge of the mattress, Ella looking down at her hands. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that. It’s just that . . . well, I’m not used to having anyone—particularly members of the opposite sex—pay attention to me. I usually make my way alone.”
Peter could see and feel the loneliness radiating from her. He reached out and touched her hand gently; she responded with a smile so warm that he felt his cheeks flush. “Well, I’ll pay attention to you, Ella. I like you.”
She grinned nervously. “Well, Peter . . . I like you, too.”
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