by Jayne Denker
Niall called her back to his side repeatedly, claiming he needed another “Marsden translation,” but she always slipped away again. Kind of indicative of how elusive she was in every sense, he noted. It drove him crazy, but he wasn’t sure if it was in a good way or a bad way. Maybe a little of both. He liked a challenge—who didn’t?—but sometimes (most of the time) he just wanted to grab her, pin her to him, and show her just how much he wanted her.
He glanced at his phone sitting on the table on the arts-center stage. The Vagina Monologues had closed, so they’d taken over the auditorium. At the moment, however, it was still just him and Ray, and sometimes Celia, a table, the utility lights, and the video footage of everyone who had auditioned. Niall pushed aside the notes he’d taken the night of the auditions and checked his texts. No word from Trent. This was going to drive him crazy.
He was itching to contact his assistant to demand an update, even though the last time Niall had texted him, Trent had declared that nagging wasn’t going to make the negotiations among his camp, Tiffany’s camp, and the studio go any faster. He’d ordered Niall to concentrate on Marsden, Night of the Shooting Stars—and Celia—until he heard from him. Easier said than done.
Then again . . . it was pretty easy to concentrate on Celia. He watched as she surreptitiously clicked away. He smiled at her, but she said, “Don’t pose! Don’t even look this way.”
“That,” he informed her, “is impossible, when you’re there just begging to be looked at.”
“Oh hush. I’m not begging you for anything.”
“Which only makes me sad.”
His smile broadened as he watched the color rise in her cheeks. At least she was in a better mood than when she’d had to face her ex-husband and his pregnant girlfriend. She still hadn’t told him why she’d run out that night, didn’t know he already knew about Matt. It was a conversation for another time, apparently.
“Hey, Celia?”
She didn’t look up from adjusting her camera. “Mm?”
He waited till she did look up to see his fingers making devil horns behind Ray’s head while the older man hunched over his notes, oblivious.
“How old are you?” she scolded him.
“Thirty-four going on nine. And a half.”
She took a few more photos—but not until Niall put away the horns—then said, “I know you’re younger than I am, but that’s a bit extreme.”
“I am?”
“Not by much, but yeah.”
“Oh please, oh please be my cougar.” When she drew close enough, he hooked an arm around her waist and pulled her to him till she was nearly sitting on his lap. “Hold still. I need to count your rings and find out your real age.”
Celia laughed, halfheartedly pushing away, while Ray muttered, “Leave the girl alone, Crenshaw. We have work to do.”
“She’s here to help out, right? Well, I need her help.”
“I’ll bet you do. Leave her be.”
“No, I’m serious.”
Celia managed to remain standing and continued to push at him, but not hard enough to get away entirely. “And what, exactly, do you need me to do? Keep it clean, now.”
“I’ll think of something. Is it time for lunch yet? Maybe you could feed me some grapes?”
She sighed. “I’ll get you guys some sandwiches.”
The minute Celia was out of earshot, Ray turned on Niall. “About Celia.”
Uh-oh. Niall feigned nonchalance. “Great girl. Uh, woman. Person. Really nice.”
“She’s a peach. A good kid. Best employee I ever had, too.”
“Your point, Ray?”
“Hurt her, and I’ll kill you.”
Niall snorted. “Get in line, man.”
By the end of the day, he and Ray were heartily sick of each other. They couldn’t come to any conclusions about who their actual contestants were going to be. Niall cast his votes solely on talent, without the influence of town politics and generational shared history, while Ray did the opposite, pulling in decades-old interrelations, personality assessments, and especially personal judgments on each candidate. In the end, Ray had taken over the decision-making process and Niall had gone off into a corner to make some phone calls.
When Celia read the final list Ray slapped down on the table, a frown crossed her delicate features. “Where’s Laurie?”
“What?” Niall wasn’t sure he’d heard her correctly.
“Laurie,” she said again. “She’s a good singer—everybody knows that. You’ve got Nestor Otero, Brianna Carroll, Mr. D’Annunzio . . . but not Laurie?”
“Celia, honey,” Ray cut in, “she’s not in this. No way, no how.”
“What, because of . . . ? Ray, that’s crazy. And unfair.”
“It’s my contest. I make the rules, and I say no Laurie.”
“Put her on the list, Ray. I mean it.”
“But—”
“It’s okay.” And Celia reinforced her words with a grim smile. “Put her on the list.”
“I don’t even have a professional singer to match her up with,” he blustered, even though they all knew it was a flimsy excuse.
Celia called him on it. “You said you had members from all the church choirs to choose from, for the professional halves of the duos. You can find one more person.”
Niall slipped an arm around Celia’s waist again; she was stiff under his touch as he said softly, “You don’t have to do this.”
“I said it’s okay, and I meant it. Really.”
“I don’t like it,” Ray said, scowling and shuffling his papers busily. “We’ve got a good number of pairs right now. With two songs each, Crenshaw’s banter, the background reel, a nice long intermission for the food and drink vendors to make some cash, and then the awards at the end, the night’s the perfect length as it is.”
“Ray . . .”
Her old boss studied her. “Celia, nobody in this entire town would bat an eyelash at that . . . girl . . . not being included. They’d be more surprised if she was.”
“Then surprise them.”
“I intend to. I want this show to be edgy—memorable, you know? But we’re doing all that without Laurie.” Ray fidgeted again, turned his aggression on something else he could control. Eyeing Niall’s arm around Celia, he ordered, “You. Go put up posters.”
“What?” Niall asked, incredulous.
“You heard me. There’s a roll of posters over there. I printed ’em last night. Go down to Main Street and ask the business owners to put them in their windows.”
“Dude, that’s not really my thing—”
“It is now. Go on. Hurry up, or you won’t get to all the shops that close at five o’clock.”
Niall stared, speechless, while Celia offered, “I can help—” “Nope!” Ray interrupted immediately. “I need you here.”
“For what?”
“. . . Stuff.”
“Ray—!”
“Stuff, I said! Crenshaw, move your ass.”
Niall was certain Ray was just trying to put some distance between him and Celia, but he couldn’t find a reason to stay. “Fine. I’m going.”
Nora’s diner was remarkably barren when Niall slipped in, ostensibly to ask if he could put one of the posters in the window, but actually so he could take a quick break before continuing his interminable trek up and down Main Street in the blistering late afternoon sun. No one was out front, so he slipped onto a stool at the counter and waited for whoever was clanking around in the kitchen to wander out and take his order.
“Oh. It’s you.”
“Hey, Nora.”
“What do you want?”
“. . . Sustenance?” She grunted and waited for him to put down his menu. “You know,” Niall murmured, not making eye contact, hoping it would keep her from stalking away, “I don’t think I’ve mentioned it yet, but you’ve got a fine establishment here.”
“Just place your order, movie star.”
“I mean it.” He closed the menu an
d replaced it in the chrome slot at the far edge of the counter. “It’s really attractive. Vintage without being kitschy. And the food is excellent.”
“You’re not getting your ‘sustenance’ for free just by saying that.”
“Never expected to.”
“What do you want?”
“I think I’ll have a piece of pie.”
“Chocolate, blackberry, raspberry, or lemon?”
“I’ll try the raspberry.”
Niall watched as Nora pulled the pie out of the rotating display case at the end of the counter and cut a slice. Instead of disappearing back into the kitchen, she stuck around, watching him suspiciously as he dug into the pie.
“Oh my God. This is phenomenal. Just as good as one of George’s pies,” he said, his mouth full.
“It is one of George’s pies.”
“Really?” He shook his head as he dug his fork in again. “That is so weird. Don’t you think it’s weird?”
“What’s weird?”
“She’s . . . not really what you’d expect, when you think of the pie type, you know?”
“ No.”
“I mean”—he swallowed as he tried to find the words to explain himself—“when you think of someone who bakes pies, you think ‘cheerful and twinkly and fat and grandmotherly’ and everything. George is . . .”
“What?”
“Don’t tell on me.” Nora only gave him a noncommittal shrug. “She’s kinda . . . prickly. And . . . tough as a boot.”
As soon as he said it, he regretted it. What the hell was he doing, criticizing anyone in this town? It would get back to George in about a minute and a half if Nora decided to share the information with anyone else. And he’d never be able to qualify it with what he really thought of George, which was that she was intense, but interesting, albeit in a terrifying way. He shook his head and decided to enjoy what would likely be his last meal before he was thrown into the stocks in the town square—he’d bet anything they still had some from a few hundred years ago, lying around somewhere, maybe in the back of the town hall—when he heard a noise. A very foreign, unidentifiable noise. He looked up furtively from under his eyebrows. Nora was chuckling. He froze, not wanting to jinx it.
“Yes, she is, God love her.”
Niall relaxed as he watched Nora’s posture soften. She shook her head and wiped down the already pristine counter.
“And we do have a cheerful, twinkly, fat, grandmotherly type in town,” she went on. “She’s our resident pot dealer, though, not a pie baker.”
“Are you kidding me?”
“This might look like Mayberry, movie star, but nothing is. Not really.”
“I hear that.”
Niall thought back to Nora’s history and wondered if she’d been looking at the world through mud-colored glasses ever since. Not that he’d blame her. She must have been seriously, severely hurt if she was still carrying that weight after all these years. He wondered what it had been like for her when she’d first found out the love of her life, the man who was going to take her away and give her a new start, hadn’t bothered to make good on his promises.
He wondered if Nora had had the diner at the time, or if she’d built up her successful business in the aftermath of her failed love affair. Either way, she’d persevered, she’d survived. Even if she’d never gotten her happily-ever-after, never got her shot at stardom either—
“Hey, Nora? What are you doing the next couple of weeks?”
Chapter 19
Celia watched Ray pace on the arts-center stage and checked the time on her phone. “Ray, relax. Nobody’s late. It’s not even ten o’clock yet.”
“If they were taking this seriously, they’d be early.”
Shaking her head at his truculence, she turned her attention to her camera, ignoring the fact that she was jumpy as well, with butterflies in her belly at the thought of Niall marching through the doors any minute and filling the auditorium with his presence. It was awfully quiet in the arts center without him around, but not more peaceful.
Just . . . lonelier. Oh God. She was actually missing him, and it had only been twenty-four hours since she’d last seen him.
The singers trickled in gradually before Niall appeared, and she busied herself taking photos of them milling around in the orchestra pit, waiting for Ray to start the meeting. Even though she tried to stay unnoticed like a good photographer, everyone stopped to greet her. She smiled and chatted with each of them briefly but kept working, getting back into the groove of the art she’d been neglecting for too long.
Celia checked the composition of another shot and, once she was satisfied with it, started clicking away. The “professional” partners were looking a bit smug, the contestants profoundly jittery. Everyone was eyeing everyone else, sizing up the competition and wondering who they’d be paired up with. Celia wondered that as well. It certainly was an interesting mix of individuals. Laurie wasn’t among them, she noted.
“Okay, let’s get started,” Ray called out from the stage. “Have a seat, please. Nestor, don’t go that far back. Stay down front where I can see you.” He cleared his throat and announced, rather formally, “Welcome to the first annual Night of the Shooting Stars.” He paused, likely waiting for cheering. None came, so he frowned slightly and continued. “It’s going to be an incredible show. I hope you’re excited for it. And remember, no matter who goes home with the bragging rights and the thousand-dollar prize—generously provided by the Marsden Arts Center and subsidized by Smithson’s Hardware and Missy’s Hits for Misses—you’re all winners.” Here he nodded at Missy Preston, who beamed back and waved, her bangles clanking. Everyone else eyed her warily, obviously wondering if she’d bought her spot as a singing partner. It was a fair question. But not one that Ray or Missy was going to answer—not today, and quite likely not ever.
“Now,” he continued, “some of you are here in a professional capacity, and the rest of you are the competitors. They key is for each pair to cooperate with each other to do well. You’ll be singing two songs. We’re using karaoke tracks because Betty, the organist at St. Michael’s, is having her hip replaced and can’t be our accompanist.”
“She likes begonias, if anyone is planning on visiting her in the hospital,” Mrs. P announced.
Ray frowned again. “Thank you, Missy. Can we get back to the rules, here? Judges will be me and Niall Crenshaw . . .” He paused to wait out the inevitable starstruck flutter that rippled through the crowd as they craned their necks, looking for said celebrity. “Wherever he is . . . ,” he muttered. “And he’ll also be our master of ceremonies.” More fluttering, and Ray crossed his arms, getting impatient. “Yeah, yeah. Ooh, ah. Do you want to find out who the duos are, or what?”
That got their attention. Everyone quieted down, and Ray consulted his clipboard as though he didn’t have every pairing etched in his brain. “Nestor Otero,” he announced, “will be singing with Missy Preston.”
Celia backed up to get a shot of Nestor’s reaction and Missy’s merry wave at him—and immediately ran into something that was hard and soft at the same time.
“Hey. What’d I miss?”
She resisted the urge to rub her shoulder blades against Niall’s warm chest and purr like a cat, but she didn’t jump away, either. “Where have you been?” she whispered over her shoulder. “Ray’s been flipping out.”
“I had some business to take care of.”
“Again?”
“Ray will get over it. I’ve got another singer. At least, I think I do.”
“He’s already picked all the teams.”
“Well, we’ll have another team, then.” Niall turned his attention to the singers. “Who’s this Nestor guy, again?”
“He works at Casey’s place.”
“Yeah, I thought he looked familiar.”
“He hardly ever speaks, so when people realize he sings like an angel, he could win on shock value alone. If Missy Preston doesn’t steamroll him and hog the spo
tlight. She can be pretty forceful. Ray’s thinking she’s going to force Nestor to step up. I hope he’s right.”
Ray went on. “Next team: Lorenzo D’Annunzio, with pro Rachel Dwyer.”
Celia filled Niall in before he could ask. “Mr. D’Annunzio owns the deli on Main Street. He’s going to want to sing opera. He loves opera and show tunes. Rachel’s a good soprano; now we’re going to find out if she’s got the chops to get all melodramatic to keep up with Mr. D.”
“Next,” Ray announced, “Brianna Carroll—”
“Mr. Dubois?”
“What is it, Brianna?”
“I’m not sure I can do it.”
The pretty young girl was standing in the second row, fingers nervously working the edge of the seat in front of her. Everyone in the auditorium turned to stare at her.
“Of course you can!” Ray exclaimed, eyes widening, and Celia knew he was wondering if his plans were going off the rails already. “You’re very talented.”
“It’s not that.”
“I thought your summer classes at the community college were over with.”
“They are.”
“What, then?”
“Well, my dad—”
“I knew it!” Ray burst out, slapping the clipboard against his leg.
“What’s going on?” Niall murmured with interest.
Between taking shots of the drama, Celia explained, “Brianna’s father, Nate, and Ray have been in a feud for years. That’s gotta be behind this.”
Brianna said to Ray, “He’s not sure this is the best thing for me.”
“I’ll bet he doesn’t,” Ray growled.
“She looks awfully young,” Niall said.
“She is, but she blew everyone away in the high school production of Brigadoon. She can handle it. Nate just doesn’t trust Ray.”
“He doesn’t trust you,” Brianna told Ray at that moment, and Niall chuckled at Celia’s prescience.
“What!”
“Ooh, wrong thing to say,” Celia muttered, taking a photo of red-faced Ray.
“He wants to make sure everything’s fair—”