Picture This

by Jayne Denker

  “You’re not talking tomato salad, are you?”

  “Of a sort.”

  Holly pushed Celia out of the way, spread the curtains wide, and raised the window as high as it would go. Then she pushed up the screen as well. Celia pulled her back.

  “You are not throwing tomatoes at them.”

  “I got some overripe peaches in there, too. The zucchini might be a little hard, and tough to throw, but who cares? I say pitch ’em.”

  “They found me,” Celia whispered fearfully. “How did they find me?”

  Holly ignored her and reached for the basket of vegetables. Celia moved it away from her.

  “We should call the police.”

  “What? That’s no fun. How about boiling oil?”

  But before Holly could make a move to find her biggest cooking pot, a Marsden police cruiser eased into the driveway.

  “Looks like somebody beat us to it,” the older woman said, peering out the window. “Ah, nuts. It’s not Officer Billy. Too bad. I like him. Bedelia does, too. Keeps thinking he might go for Audra, put her on the straight and narrow.”

  “Audra’s ten years older than he is!”

  “But mentally, he’s more mature than her. Anyway, doesn’t matter—it’s Zoë. She’s all right—she’ll take care of these losers.”

  “I hope so,” Celia grumbled, peering out the window alongside her grandmother. “I don’t like being a prisoner. It might be bearable if you had cable, though.”

  “Hogwash. You’re itching to get out and see the movie star. As you should,” Holly tacked on before Celia could deny it, “now that Peroxide is out of the picture.”

  “I don’t think Tiffany was the real problem.” Her grandmother looked at her questioningly, so she went on, keeping her explanation sketchy. “It wasn’t that serious between them.”

  “So what’s the ‘real problem’?”

  “Different worlds, Gran. Just . . . different worlds.”

  “Hogwash again. Oh, looks like Bedelia called. She’s out there talking to Zoë now.” Holly leaned out the open window again and waved to her neighbor. “Thanks, B!”

  “They’re trampling my hydrangeas!” Bedelia shouted back. “Can’t let that stand. Gonna sue for damages.” At a rousing chorus of protests from the photographers, she snapped, “Ah, shut up, you vultures, before I start weaving you custom body bags.”

  Zoë, the police officer, spoke sharply to Bedelia about disrupting proper procedure; the woman snorted and crossed her arms but said nothing more while the officer ordered the paps off Holly’s property.

  After they’d shuffled to the edges of the lawn, Zoë stepped into the house to talk with Holly and Celia, followed by a curious Bedelia. Zoë explained the police were limited as to what else they could do as long as the invaders kept off private property.

  “They can’t block the sidewalks or the road, so if they do that, we can cite ’em,” she said. “We’ll try to drive by as often as we can and keep an eye on ’em.”

  “You’d better,” Holly snapped. “It’s not like Marsden is a hotbed of criminal activity. This could be the most fun you’ve had in years, if you play your cards right.”

  “Mrs. Leigh, we’re doing our best.”

  “See that you do. I don’t want my granddaughter hurt.”

  “Have they threatened either of you?”

  “Well, no, but you never know with these guys.”

  “Call us if there’s any trouble. Don’t take matters into your own hands, all right?”

  It was as if Zoë knew about the basket of vegetables up on her bed, Celia thought.

  “I can do what I want on my own property.”

  “Up to a point, Mrs. Leigh. Don’t muddy the waters.”

  “Zoë?” Celia interrupted. “While you’re here, can I ask a favor?”

  Chapter 26

  “What in the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  Celia jumped a mile at the sound of her father’s voice behind her, echoing in the acoustics of the arts center. “What are you doing here?” she exclaimed.

  And how had he found out she’d left the house? He must have been only five minutes behind her. Holly must have called him after she’d snuck out of the house by the back door while Zoë had distracted the photographers with a stern lecture about trespassing. She’d practically crawled through the neighbors’ adjoining backyards to get to the next street over, then Zoë had picked her up and given her a ride to the arts center in her cruiser. The officer was skittish about it—if word got out that she’d given Celia a ride, everyone was going to want to use the police as a taxi service. Celia had reminded her she was protecting a citizen—and keeping her from going stir crazy, being stuck in the house. But she hadn’t told Zoë that last part.

  “I told you to stay put!”

  “And I told you that you can’t ground me!”

  “I’m trying to keep you safe. You don’t know what those guys are planning.”

  “What in the world could a bunch of photographers do to me? Take my picture and steal my soul?”

  All activity in the auditorium stopped. Everyone was staring at them going toe-to-toe at the front of the house, below the stage. Had any of her fellow townspeople even heard her raise her voice before?

  “Haven’t you messed with my life enough already, Dad?”

  “Celia.” In one bound, Niall launched himself off the edge of the stage to stand beside her.

  Oh, thank God. “Niall, will you please tell my father I can come and go as I please—”

  He looked grim when he said, “Actually, I agree with your dad.”

  “What?” Celia and Alan blurted out at the same time. It was hard to tell who was more dumbfounded.

  “You shouldn’t be running around with the paparazzi after you. Take it from me—I know.”

  “I have a job to do.”

  “No, you volunteered to take photos of the competition, but it’s not necessary. I want you to let your dad take you home.”

  Celia searched Niall’s face for some sign that he was joking. But the man’s handsome features formed an impersonal blank. His eyes were dull, his expression leaden. Her stomach churned at the change in him.

  “Really?” she said, and this time she managed to keep her voice deadly calm and quiet. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Ray up on the stage, paying close attention to the whole exchange. She turned to him. “Well? Come on down, Ray. Put in your two cents. I know you want to.” Ray didn’t move. She turned back to her father and Niall, who were suddenly a united front. Against her. “No,” she said. “I’m staying in this. I don’t care about a bunch of paparazzi. And if you even dare to think, for one second, that it’ll reflect badly on you,” she snapped at Niall, “I will put you through that brick wall over there. Got it?”

  This kraken thing wasn’t so bad. It was pretty damn great, in fact. Even though she expected to pay for this moment down the line, with the two men—possibly three, if Ray joined in—giving her grief for acting foolishly, right now she felt a cool flood of something rushing through her. She realized it was relief. And a sense of freedom. She really liked it.

  “Celia, you have no idea what you’re talking about—” Niall tried to explain.

  “Don’t call me stupid.”

  “I didn’t—”

  “Oh, I think you just did.”

  Niall turned to Alan. “Take her home please, sir.” Alan nodded.

  “She’s staying.”

  All three of them looked up. It was Ray.

  “Celia’s right,” he said. “She has a job to do, so she’s staying. Marshall, if you’re so worried about your kid, make yourself useful for once and be her bodyguard. What the hell else have you got to do?”

  Alan spluttered and spit for a couple of seconds, frowning first at Ray, then at Celia, and back again. Finally he ground out, “Fine. I’m driving you here and home again. I’m staying here while you’re here. But you’re not going anywhere else, you got me? This is go
ing to wreak havoc with my schedule.”

  “What, your golf game?” Celia snorted.

  “What has gotten into you?” He appealed to Niall. “She was never like this. Not even as a teenager. I think she’s having a delayed rebellious phase.”

  “Careful, Dad. It might be permanent.”

  “Look, I’m sorry about . . . earlier. All right?”

  Celia dragged her gaze away from the side window of her father’s Buick to stare at him. It had been a very long day (and night) at the arts center; Ray, in what was turning out to be a perpetual state of panic during the last week of rehearsals before the competition, had kept everyone late. The singing duos had come and gone throughout the day, but everyone else had to remain the entire time. Celia had a couple of full data cards and aching calves to show for it, but it was a satisfying kind of fatigue.

  It would have been more bearable if Niall had talked to her. Or even looked at her. But he’d acted as though she wasn’t there most of the time. He had focused on his duties as host, coming up with jokes, discussing the order of the show with Ray, doing anything and everything other than spending one minute with her. During breaks, he’d disappeared into the rabbit warren of hallways and rooms under the stage, doing who knew what.

  “I know. I’m sorry too. It’s all just so stressful.” She was referring to the competition’s rehearsals, but she realized she really meant dodging the paparazzi and being ignored by Niall. Taking photos of the rehearsals was nothing compared to the other stuff.

  “I get . . . itchy, knowing you’re going through this and I can’t stop it, or even help.”

  “Yeah, I’m not so sure about you being my bodyguard. And, evidently, our new sound engineer.”

  “Well, considering Burt Womack’s idea of being a sound engineer is to hit the karaoke machine with a mallet—or his fist—every time it acts up, I figure this whole circus needs my help.”

  “I’m surprised Ray let you.”

  “He didn’t have much of a choice, did he? He really cares about you, you know. He wants you around, so he’s gotta put up with me.”

  “Dad?”

  “What?”

  “Are you part of the feud between Ray and Nate?”

  Her father frowned and fidgeted behind the wheel. “Not really. Ray and Nate have their hands full hating each other anyway.”

  Celia laughed a little. Nate had been at rehearsal as well, keeping an eye on his young daughter. Despite reassurances Darryl would take good care of her during the competition—and he was making good on his promise already, ushering her through their song, letting her take center stage, holding back his boisterous vocals so she could shine—Nate’s distrust of Ray and his latest scheme to put Marsden back on the map kept him in an auditorium seat of his own as he assessed the proceedings. Celia knew if even one thing went wrong, Nate would raise hell.

  “What happened between them?”

  “Doesn’t matter. That’s ancient history. Boring ancient history.”

  “Try me.”

  “Oh, come on, Celia. It was . . . the usual. Differences of opinion, grudges, politics, just . . . having to coexist for years and years in the same town.”

  “No. There’s something else.” When Alan didn’t answer, she prompted, “Dad.”

  Her father glanced over at her, and she saw a strange expression on his face as they passed under a streetlight.

  “What?” she pressed.

  Alan sighed, then said in a rush, “When we were in high school, they were competing for a girl. See? Boring ancient history.”

  “And what happened?”

  “They made damned fools of themselves.”

  “I mean, who got the girl? Nate or Ray?”

  “Neither of them. While they were trying to one-up each other . . . I stole her right out from under their noses.”

  Celia gaped. “Mom?”

  Alan allowed himself a satisfied grin. “It was too easy. They blamed each other, and I slipped through the cracks. With your mom by my side.”

  “I . . . don’t know what to say.”

  “The reason I’m telling you this now is because of your situation.”

  “Wait. What?”

  “Your young man there.”

  “Dad, please don’t start about my bad taste in men again.”

  “I just think you can take a lesson from what happened with me and your mother. True love should be easy. It shouldn’t be a struggle.”

  It is easy with Niall, Celia thought. When it isn’t so damned difficult.

  “With me and your mom, it was right, you know?”

  “Like you and Mom never have your differences.”

  “Well, sure we do, but we have a common history between us. We know each other, we come from the same place, we’re comfortable. What I mean is, find somebody who knows you. It’s better in the long run.”

  Celia could barely answer. Her throat was closing up with unshed tears, and she turned her head to look out the window again—anything to avoid her father’s pitying yet judgmental gaze.

  “Like Matt, you mean?” she whispered. “We knew each other. We had a common history. And that turned out so well.”

  “Well, no, of course not. He’s just an ass. Always has been.”

  “You know, Dad, sometimes I think you wouldn’t approve of any guy I dated. And don’t bring up Casey.”

  “Him, I liked. Still do!”

  “That ship sailed a long time ago, Dad. And I have no regrets.”

  “I question your judgment.”

  “Yes, you do. Pretty much every damned day.”

  Alan cleared his throat awkwardly. “When the show’s over, just let Niall go, all right?”

  Celia couldn’t answer around the lump in her throat. But she didn’t have time to protest, because when they neared her grandmother’s house, the car’s headlights illuminated several photographers standing on the apron. They turned, raising their cameras.

  “Where the hell do they take a piss?” Alan wondered. “If they’re doing it out in the open, we can get the cops out here so fast . . .” He inched the nose of the Buick up the drive, because the minute he turned the car into Holly’s driveway, the paps charged forward, snapping endless photos. Two of the photographers got in front of the car to get a better shot through the windshield. “I should just run them over,” he growled. Instead, he lowered the window, stuck his head out, and shouted, “Get out of the way, you imbeciles!”

  They ignored him and kept taking photos, occasionally shouting things like, “Celia! Celia, over here! Come on, we don’t want the top of your head! Show yourself to the world!” until finally she felt something snap inside her. The next thing she knew, she’d flung open the car door and jumped out, despite her father shouting at her to stay inside. She’d had enough.

  “Fine!” she called to the paparazzi. “Fine. You want my picture? Take my damned picture. Here. You want my profile? Here. Three-quarter ? Here you go. Get your fill so you can get the hell out.”

  But while she’d expected them to keep a respectful distance, politely snapping their series of photos, then thanking her and walking away when they were done, instead she found herself in the middle of a chaotic scrum. Yes, camera flashes were going off; they were conducting their business, but not the way she’d have done it. There was even more shouting, then they surrounded her, several of them waving magazines curled back to a particular page. She caught a glimpse of what she supposed was the McManus ad with the photo of her legs. They wanted answers, a hot bit of exclusive gossip.

  More shouting. More pushing. She was buffeted from side to side, almost knocked off her feet. And suddenly she felt as though she couldn’t breathe. She struggled to put her hands up, to push back, but there were too many of them. She didn’t know which way to turn to get out of the crowd.

  Then her father was there, grasping her shoulders, ushering her into the house. And she was grateful for his help.

  Chapter 27

  Celia had no
idea what time it was when she woke; it was still dark. She also had no idea what had made her eyes fly open. She tensed up, remembering her father’s admonition when he’d dropped her off: Lock the door. Was someone trying to break in? Or had someone already broken in? Celia stayed stiff and still in her bed, listening for any noise downstairs. She wanted no part of the paparazzi any longer; her last encounter had made her wary, made her imagine all sorts of lengths they’d go to, to get a scoop.

  And then she heard the noise. A clanking, a thud. Definitely inside, definitely manmade. Stop it, she told herself. That didn’t mean someone was breaking into the house. Her grandmother could be . . . ah.

  Sure enough, Celia found Holly rattling around in the half-packed-up kitchen, nosing among the pots and pans that still filled the lower cupboards.

  “Gran? What are you doing?”

  Holly barely glanced at her. “Cooking. What do you think?”

  “Um, you don’t cook.”

  “Of course I do. What’s the matter with you?”

  “Okay. Even if you did—”

  “Which I do.”

  “Okay. But it’s two o’clock in the morning.”

  Her grandmother didn’t seem to hear her or, if she did, she was ignoring her. She flipped through a cookbook with yellowed, stained pages. “Now . . . where is it . . . You’d think I’d remember how to do this, but I have to look it up every time.”

  “Do what?”

  “Cook this.”

  “This what?”

  “Don’t irritate me, girlie. This.”

  Panic erupted in the pit of Celia’s stomach and spread through her body. Even if it wasn’t the middle of the night, even if her grandmother actually did cook often, and even if she ever actually cracked a cookbook in the several decades she’d known her, Celia would have realized something was wrong. Holly wasn’t herself. It was as though the person she knew as her grandmother had left the familiar body—or part of her had—and had been replaced by someone different. It just wasn’t right.