"Clarice?"

Clarice glanced up from her seat on the tree limb only to see a familiar blond mouse waving to her. She ignored her and continued to watch the children below engaged in a snowball fight.

Gadget settled down beside her, slightly out of breath. "We were getting worried, so I decided to come look for you."

"Thanks." Clarice smiled a very tiny smile, but it soon disappeared. "Do you think Chip will even come to my show tonight?"

Gadget shrugged. "I don't know, Clarice. Why wouldn't he?"

She dropped her head. "I think I messed everything up again."

"Give Chip a chance. He's just trying to figure things out."

"You know him pretty well, huh?"

"Well," Gadget chuckled, "not as well as I'd hoped." She wrapped her arms around her knees. "I certainly didn't get the vibe that he was in love with me." Gadget didn't know why, but she didn't feel strange about talking about Chip's feelings about her with Clarice.

Clarice managed a weak grin. "I never had a problem—he was always so straightforward, no nonsense about it."

"He's like that about most things," Gadget agreed. "But not so much with his feelings. Except when he gets mad or frustrated," she added.

"That's obvious." Clarice smirked.

"He didn't mean to hurt you."

"And I didn't mean to hurt him."

Gadget stood and offered a hand to Clarice, who reluctantly accepted. "Let's go back and see what we need to do for today. Maybe there's been another lead." Shivering against the snowy gusts, the ladies trudged back to the warmth of headquarters.

They were greeted with hot chocolate and good news from Monty. Clarice almost jumped for joy when she heard that her manager was safe and sound and that Stella had been detained within the APF facility until a trial could be held.

"I guess I'd better get my music together; I'm sure Max will want to go over some songs before tonight's performance." Clarice risked a miniscule smile in Chip's direction which he refused to acknowledge. "Um, thank you all—what do I need to pay you?"

"Crikey, luv, don't worry 'bout it. Complimentary tickets to your big show tonight will do the trick." Monty winked, causing Clarice to redden slightly.

"Well, of course! You're all invited to the Acorn Club tonight. Eight o'clock sharp." She pasted a big smile on her face, then hurried to pack up her sheet music and additional belongings from the other room.

Before she left, she managed to catch Chip alone. He just stared at her, his gaze lifeless. "Chip, I really hope you can make it tonight."

He nodded, once. "I'll see if I can be there. No promises, though."

Her expression fell. "Sure. I understand." She edged away, hoping he would say something more, but he was still just staring at her with seemingly nothing in his eyes. "Thanks again." When he didn't offer anything else, she slipped out the door.

Clarice was putting the finishing touches on her makeup when a tap at the door startled her. She finished applying her lipstick, made sure her dressing gown was securely fastened, and then cracked open the door. A messenger boy held a bouquet of soft pink tea roses and read from a card. "Um, Miss Clarice?"

She nodded, opening the door further. He slipped inside, set the large, fragrant bouquet on an elaborately carved table next to her dressing bureau, and then waved a silent but respectful goodbye. She opened the card, her heart thumping with anticipation—Chip had sent her roses like these once . . . . Her hopes sank. The Rescue Ranger symbol was all that was imprinted in the card. She tossed it onto her bureau, trying not to feel too discouraged. Another knock at her door interrupted her thoughts.

"Clarice? Ten minutes."

"Thanks, Max." It was good to have him back. Although there had never been anything between the two of them, he had always given her a sense of security about her performances. She checked to make sure none of her makeup was smudged and ran a hand through her head fur before shimmying into her lavender gown. She watched her reflection in her three-way mirror, enjoying the sparkle from the intricately sewn sequins. Smoothing her hands over her hips, she gave the mirror a seductive smile and a wink.

"Five minutes!"

"Thank you!" Clarice misted herself with her favorite perfume, which, ironically enough smelled similar to the tea roses on the table. She took a deep breath, steadying herself and getting into performing mode. Throwing her shoulders back, she strutted out her dressing room door and stood in the wings of the stage as she heard the band being announced.

There was the drum roll, and Max speaking into the microphone. "And now, the lady you've all been waiting for . . . Clarice returns!"

The band struck up a vamp, and Clarice sashayed onto the stage to thunderous applause. "Thanks, boys," she cooed. "You know, I've wanted to come back to this club for a long time; it's where I made my big break." A few appreciative catcalls from the audience distracted her momentarily. She blew a kiss and waved, the lights so bright that there was no way to see who whistled. "So," she continued, "I figure I'll start with one of my original and most loved numbers. Hit it, boys!"

"My Destiny" began to play behind her. She swayed and crooned, really feeling the part of the girl that everyone adores. She added a few embellishments here and there, but stayed true to the song. To sing it as she once had brought back too many memories that she just couldn't handle on this night.

"My destiny is to be in love with you;

Makes no difference what you say or do—

I must stay in love with you . . .

That's my destiny;

It's the thing you can't control—

I belong to you both heart and soul

With a love beyond control!

They say nothing is sure;

Even the sea runs dry.

They're wrong, one thing is sure—

Love like mine can never die.

That's how it is,

And that's how it has to be—

You are everything in life to me . . .

You are my destiny!"

As she hit her last note, the audience cheered and clapped, hooting for more.

More classic nightclub songs followed, including the poignant Doris Day hit "Love Me or Leave Me," "New York, New York," "42nd Street," and "You're the Top." The latter song was a particular favorite, though still a touch bittersweet as she thought about the lyrics while she sang.

"At words poetic, I'm so pathetic

That I always have found it best

Instead of getting it off my chest,

To let 'em rest unexpressed.

I hate parading my serenading

As I'll probably miss a bar,

But if this ditty is not so pretty,

At least it'll tell you how great you are!"

At each chorus, she would cheekily point to a spot in the audience where her instincts told her was a drooling, ogling "fanboy."

"You're the top—you're the Coliseum.

You're the top—mmm,­ you're the Louvre museum.

You're a melody from a symphony by Strauss.

You're a Bendel bonnet, a Shakespeare sonnet, you're Mickey Mouse.

You're the Nile—you're the tower of Pisa.

You're the smile—on the Mona Lisa.

I'm a worthless check, a total wreck, a flop.

But if baby I'm the bottom, you're the top.

You're the top, you're Mahatma Gandhi.

You're the top—you are Napoleon brandy.

You're the purple light of a summer night in Spain.

You're the National Gallery,

You're Garbo's salary, you're cellophane.

You are sublime, you're a turkey dinner.

You're the time—the time of the Derby winner.

I'm a toy balloon that is fated soon to pop.

But if baby I'm the bottom, you're the top, top!

You're the top—mmm, you're a Waldorf salad—

Oh no, no let me say it—

You're the top—you're a Berlin ballad.

You're the nimble tread of the feet of Fred Astaire!

You're an O'Neill drama; you're Whistler's Mother—

You're Camembert.

You're a rose, you're Inferno's Dante.

But if baby I'm the bottom,

'Cause if baby I'm the bottom,

You're the top!"

As she neared the end of her act, she kept trying to peer through the lights to see her admiring audience. There was a particular face she had been trying to spot, but it was nearly impossible through the blinding brightness. Finally, for her last number, the lights dimmed a bit, helping her vision considerably. She was able to find the table with the Rescue Rangers—she noticed that Dale even attended—but Chip was conspicuously absent. She flashed them a bright smile and a wink in gratitude for coming; Max had personally told them they were welcome anytime, free of charge, with all drinks and snacks on the house. The music slowed into gentle piano arpeggios as Clarice began her closing.

"Well, fellas, I guess the night's coming to an end." She paused for about two seconds while the crowd verbally displayed its quiet disappointment. "But just remember—I'll be here for many more nights to come." She lowered her voice, almost conspiratorially. "I think I'm back to stay!" The audience cheered softly, already taken in by the subtle tones of the final song's piano intro. "And, if any of you ever leave—" she pointed into the audience, "just know . . .

"You can reach me by railway;
You can reach me by trail way;
You can reach me on an airplane;
You can reach me with your mind.
You can reach me by caravan;
Cross the desert like an Arab man;
I don't care how you get here—
Just get here if you can.

You can reach me by sailboat;
Climb a tree and swing rope to rope;
Take a sled and slide down slope;
Into these arms of mine.
You can jump on a speedy colt;
Cross the border in a blaze of hope;
I don't care how you get here—
Just get here if you can.

There are hills and mountains between us—
Always something to get over.
If I had the way,
Surely you'd be closer . . .
I need you closer . . . .

You can windsurf into my life;
Take me up on a carpet ride;
You can make it in a big balloon—
But you'd better make it soon . . . .

You can reach me by caravan;
Cross the desert like an Arab man;
I don't care how you get here—
Just get here if you can."

Tears began to fill her eyes as her eyes adjusted to the lights and she finally saw a lone figure at a table in the far left corner of the club.

"I don't care, I don't care—
I need you right here right now,
I need you right here right now right by my side, yeah,
I don't care how you get here . . .
Just get here if you can."

On her final word, the lights blacked out completely, insuring Clarice a quick and dramatic exit. Once offstage, she found herself shaking so violently that a stagehand asked if she was alright. She thrust her way to her dressing room, ignoring the calls of congratulations from band members and techies. Clarice hurriedly shut the door firmly behind her, indifferent to how rude she appeared. Laying her forehead and hands against the door, she heaved silent sobs. She couldn't remember crying so much in a two day span . . . well, since she left Hawaii those many years ago. Chip's words returned to haunt her.

"What did you come out here to do?"

She slipped to the floor, her thoughts jumbled. She'd had a valid reason to seek out the Rangers . . . . Why had she even tried to return to the past? What made her think that there could be anything more between her and Chip now? She had ruined the friendship between Chip and Dale again, and then had tried to reconcile with Chip. Was she insane? She was mindlessly picking at the sequins on her evening gown when she heard a subtle shuffling outside her door. Her ears strained, but she never heard a knock. Adrenaline running through her veins, she picked herself up and threw open the door.

"Wow—Miss Clarice! You're so aweso—"

The autograph hound, er, hamster, as it were, never got a chance to finish. The door slammed angrily in his face. "Geeze," he huffed, and slunk back out the "Stage Crew Only" door.

Back and forth. Back and forth. Clarice paced furiously around her dressing room. Ok. She had made some mistakes. But what right did Chip have telling her off, then sneaking into the very back of the club to secretly watch her act? Now who was being ambiguous? And why didn't he have the nerve to come and talk to her? She flung herself on the couch, crossing her arms bitterly. What a jerk.

After sulking for a few more minutes, Clarice finally rose and stared at herself in her mirror. Grimacing, she grabbed the jar of cold cream and energetically began to rub it into her fur. Snatching a few tissues from a nearby box, the makeup was removed with a few practiced swipes. She examined her now naked face closely in the mirror. What did Chip ever see in her anyway? A line here, a wrinkle there, her lips were far too thin . . . .

Two sharp raps at her door cut her self degradation short. Giving a world-weary moan, Clarice padded to the door. She ground her teeth, expecting either another autograph monger or a tirade from Max over her post-show behavior.

"Hi."

Clarice truly felt as though she would die. Here she was, no makeup, a crumpled silk and sequined gown, standing awestruck and weak-kneed in front of Chip Maplewood. The tuxedo-clad chipmunk's eyes darted about, unable to bring them to rest on the beautiful singer. He jammed his hands anxiously into his pockets, looking vulnerable, somehow. Maybe it was because he wasn't wearing his fedora.

The pair stood stock still in the doorway for a few seconds at most. Clarice pulled her wits about her with difficulty and opened the door wider, permitting Chip to enter. His eyes were immediately drawn to the bouquet of tea roses, his cheeks flushing briefly as he took a seat in Clarice's dressing table chair. Clarice sat as elegantly as possible on her plush sofa, her eyes focused on the floor. Silence hung heavily in the air.

Even though Clarice wasn't looking at him, Chip felt highly self-conscious. To be honest with himself, he wasn't even sure what he was doing. Something inside him had told him to attend her performance and an unseen force had directed him to visit her backstage. It hadn't been difficult; being a Rescue Ranger had its privileges—especially after he had worked so diligently on Max's kidnapping. Ultimately, it was Chip that spoke first.

"It was a good show tonight."

Clarice sneaked a quick glance at Chip to see if he was being truthful. Sure enough, he was now gazing intently at her, his eyes shining with sincerity. "Um, thank you," she managed to say. "I'm glad you decided to come."

"The others don't know I'm here."

"Backstage?"

"At the club at all."

"Oh." Clarice pursed her lips, unsure how to respond to that detail. "Well, do you think they'll be worried if they go home and you're not there?"

Chip shrugged, rather nonchalantly. "I don't think so."

Clarice didn't know why, but she began to feel a little more at ease. Perhaps it was the way that Chip was looking at her—or the fact that he was looking at her at all.

"You look better without the makeup."

"What?"

Chip gestured subtly with his hands toward his own face. "No makeup."

"Oh! Right." She laughed softly, relaxing a bit more. "So," she began, "what was your favorite part of the show tonight?"

Chip's eyes now moved to the ceiling as he thought back. "Probably . . . the tap dance with '42nd Street.'"

Clarice covered her face with her hands. "You've got to be kidding."

"Why?"

"It really wasn't that good!"

"Now you're kidding. You're the best since Canina la Fur."

"I am not! I didn't practice that number nearly enough."

Chip raised a skeptical eyebrow, but dropped the subject. "I enjoyed your piano player."

"He's nowhere nearly as good as you were—he can't play ragtime."

Chip smiled a modest, almost embarrassed smile. "I probably can't either, anymore."

"Nonsense. Chip, you had a true gift." She paused, weighing her words carefully. "I'd like it very much if you would come play for me sometime."

He ran a shaky hand through his head fur, contemplating her request. She sounded innocent enough, and he had to admit, the offer sounded surprisingly appealing. "Um, maybe when I've got some downtime," he mumbled.

Clarice nodded knowingly. "I understand—being a Rescue Ranger kind of keeps you occupied."

The pair sat quietly, having run out of polite conversation. Chip took a deep breath, then rose from his chair. "Well, I'd probably better get home." He thrust his hands deeply into his pockets once more, his shoulders slightly hunched. He walked toward the door of the dressing room.

Clarice got to her feet as well and padded after him, trying to smooth out the wrinkles in her dress. He had already gotten the door open and was halfway out when she found her voice.

"Chip?"

He turned, his head cocked questioningly. "Yes?"

Clarice felt very shy. "I just wanted to know if you'd like to stay for a cup of coffee or something. I'm sure they haven't closed the kitchen." As he hesitated, Clarice dropped her eyes and timidly rubbed her neck.

"Why not?" He flashed a crooked smile, and the two made their way into the now nearly deserted seating area.

As they waited on coffee and dessert, Clarice had to giggle softly.

"What is it?" Chip felt a little nervous and tugged on his bow tie to loosen it.

"Nothing." She giggled again, lightly. "It's just that . . . well, I though you were a real creep for not coming back to see me tonight. And then, all of a sudden, there you were."

Chip smirked at this as their orders were served. "I guess the more things change, the more they stay the same." He stirred a little cream into his coffee and stared deeply into his cup as he spoke. "It's pretty obvious I've had a hard time with this."

Clarice toyed with a bite of her cheesecake. "I know. I'm incredibly sorry about everything." She chewed her bottom lip for a moment. "I guess I really caught you by surprise, just showing up like I did. I—I just figured that I should come and see you face to face." Her cheeks flushed. "I knew there was a possibility that you would slam the door in my face, but I'm glad you gave me a chance." Chip still didn't look up at her, so she stuffed her mouth full of cheesecake so that she wouldn't have to say anything more for a few moments.

"Well," Chip began softly, "you know I thought about not talking to you at all." He caught her almost imperceptibly nodding out of the corner of his eye. "But I knew I couldn't do that." He knitted his eyebrows together. "For more reasons than one." He sipped at his bitter drink, trying to find the words. "Clarice, I still—"

"Stop." Clarice took his hands into her own, causing him to look up at her in surprise. She gazed into his eyes, searching them. "Don't say anything you might regret later." She gripped his hands tighter. "Just wait awhile."

He sat mutely for a long moment, and then nodded his agreement. Clarice reluctantly let go of his hands to cradle her own coffee cup. The warmth was soothing, but could not replace the warmth of Chip's hands against hers.

For a few minutes, nothing was said while they consumed the coffee and cheesecake. When the plates were clean and the cups refilled, they sat comfortably, admiring each other. Chip glanced at the clock and his face fell. Clarice noticed and patted his hand. "It's late," she murmured. "You'd better get some rest."

"Thanks for the coffee."

"Thanks for the conversation."

Chip smiled, broadly this time. "You too." He pushed his chair back, then hurried to handle Clarice's chair. She smiled demurely as she stood. Chip stood back a little, shaking his head with slight amusement. "Your dress is wrinkled."

She swatted at him playfully. "You're just now noticing?" She got up the nerve to tuck one arm snugly into Chip's and walked him to the exit.

Once they reached the door, Chip hesitated a moment before leaving. "So, I guess you got everything, right?"

She nodded, a smile touching her lips. "I'll be staying in an apartment upstairs for the time being. It's nice and roomy, so I'll be fine."

"Well, alright."

An awkward pause.

Suddenly, Chip gently but firmly grasped Clarice's shoulders and delicately brushed his lips against hers. Without another word, he darted out into the cold night, the door closing swiftly behind his retreating form.

A little dazed, Clarice brought one hand up to her face and tremulously touched her lips. She grinned, a little coyly; perhaps hope was not lost for her and Chip. She thanked her lucky stars that there would be perhaps more to come for them both.