Just South of Perfect

by Grace Palmer

  The painting was a practice in disconnecting, in turning everything off for a moment, because Stella didn’t realize time was passing at all until a voice behind her nearly made her jump out of her skin.

  “Holy smokes!”

  Stella yelped and spun around, splattering drops of paint across the deck when her paintbrush flew out of her hand.

  Tasha was standing behind her. She winced. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you; I just had no idea you were a painter. Well, I suppose I don’t know much about you, but if I had this kind of talent, it would be the first thing I told people.”

  Stella’s heart was still racing, but she smiled. “I’m just having fun. I haven’t painted in years, so your mom gave me some paints to dust away the cobwebs.”

  “These are your cobwebs?” Tasha moved closer and tilted her head to the side, studying the painting. Her eyebrow arched in doubt. “Rather than dust these away, I think you should gather them up. These cobwebs are strands of gold. This painting is beautiful.”

  “You’re sweet, but—”

  “Oh my gosh!” Tasha shouted again, and it made Stella jump a second time. “I’m so sorry. I’ve got to stop doing that, but I just had a great idea. Have you ever worked in set design before?”

  Before Stella could answer, Tasha launched into talk of the show she and her boyfriend—a local director—were putting on with the community theater. “We have a great cast and a few costume designers, but we could use some serious help with the backdrops. I’m actually heading over to the theater now, and I know you are on vacation, but what better way to spend your vacation than giving back to the community?”

  “I’ve never done set design before, and I’m leaving tomorrow, so I don’t know how much help I’d be.”

  “You did this painting in one morning, right?”

  Stella nodded and Tasha laid an imploring hand on her shoulders, squeezing it tenderly. “Then even a few hours of your time would be priceless. I don’t want to guilt you into it because my family says I’m too pushy, and I’m working on that, but please, please, please come help us.”

  Her hands were clutched together in pleading, her eyebrows drawn together, and Stella could see that Tasha wasn’t just being nice. She really thought Stella’s talents could help them out, and maybe it said something about Stella’s deeply ingrained need to be needed, but she liked the feeling.

  She shrugged. “I guess I don’t have any other plans. I could stop by for a little bit.”

  Tasha squealed once more, but Stella was on guard by now, so she wasn’t surprised by the outburst this time.

  “Okay, do you want to come to the theater once you pack up here? I’d walk with you, but I’m already running late. Once you hit Main Street, you can’t miss the marquee.”

  “No problem. I’m sure I’ll find it.”

  Tasha clapped and spun around, shouting over her shoulder as she left, “You are an angel among us, Ms. Pierce! A godsend.”

  Stella shook her head and laughed. She wasn’t one to believe in fate, so maybe she wasn’t a godsend exactly, but at the very least, her unexpected stop in Willow Beach wouldn’t be for nothing.

  7

  Stella hadn’t packed painting clothes in her suitcase—though Brenda would’ve probably disagreed and said most of her clothes were suitable for being ruined—so she grabbed a painting apron from the storage closet and walked into town.

  The walk was short, but the road down from the inn was dirt and rather hilly, so Stella was winded by the time she hit flat ground again. Willow Beach wasn’t a bustling tourist town, but there were families walking down the sidewalk with beach bags over their shoulders and sunblock streaked across their shoulders, heading towards the shuttle bus taking people down to the shore. It was parked in front of a small local library branch. The sign outside was faded and wooden. Through the front window, Stella could see an older librarian reading a book to a circle of kids sitting cross-legged on a rug.

  The town was charming; there was no denying that. It was easy to see why the people who lived here spoke about it with such warmth. What was not to love? Sure, there might not be a twenty-four-hour gym, endless fast food options, or hundreds of boutiques and department stores to shop, but Stella wasn’t sure if those were even perks anymore.

  Growing up, she wanted nothing more than to get out of her small hometown. Boston was the dream. It was close enough that she could still visit her parents, but the entire world would be at her fingertips. A world of options and possibilities. Then, she had Jace, and she needed help raising him. She needed the support of her family, and being a few hours away was no longer feasible, so she stayed.

  And stayed and stayed and stayed.

  It got to the point where moving seemed impossible. Once you reached a certain age—Stella wasn’t sure exactly when that age was, but she felt close to it—starting over became too daunting. It felt like trying to replant an old tree with deep, widespread roots. You’d be better off leaving it where it was or cutting it down entirely.

  Now, she’d been in the same place with the same view for so long, she wasn’t sure what she wanted. Was Boston still the dream? It was the only dream she could think of when Brenda asked her back in her bedroom at home, but did that mean it was the one?

  Existential pondering could not be done on an empty stomach, Stella decided. She didn’t need a full lunch after having breakfast so late, but she could definitely go for a pastry. Luckily, she saw a wooden sign in the shape of a coffee cup hanging from a building down the road. It was the coffee shop Sam had mentioned the night before.

  The Roast took up a narrow strip of space between a laundromat and a furniture store, but the front of the café was all windows, and light touched every corner of the shop. A wall of wooden cubbies on the right held bags of coffee beans and merchandise for the shop, including T-shirts and coffee mugs, and the bar was in the back corner. The woman behind the bar was tall, with her natural hair pulled back into a high puff on top of her head, and she smiled broadly when Stella approached.

  “Anything I can get started for you today?”

  “Something sweet and decaf?” Stella asked. She wouldn’t be able to paint any sets if she had the caffeine jitters. “And an almond croissant.”

  The woman grabbed a croissant out of the dessert case with a tissue napkin and slid it across the counter. “How about a coconut brûlée latte? It has coconut, vanilla bean, and caramel.”

  Stella was nodding her head before the woman could even finish. “Please, yes. That sounds amazing.”

  She had always liked watching baristas make coffee. It was both an art form and a science. Measuring ingredients precisely and heating them to the right temperature without burning anything. It was steaming and foaming and brewing, and then pouring carefully to create art, both with the foam on top and with the mix of flavors and syrups and ingredients. Some people were snobs about their coffee—strong and black or bust—but Stella had always been partial to the sweeter drinks. She couldn’t make those at home, so that was what she wanted to spend her money on when she was out and about.

  While she waited, the bell above the door behind her announced more customers. A group of women around Stella’s age came in, and the woman behind the counter turned and waved. “Uh-oh! Here comes trouble!”

  “You know me, Vivienne. I only make trouble when I don’t get my coffee. Give me caffeine, and you’re safe.” The woman was dressed in paint-splattered jeans and a loose T-shirt. Her dark hair was pulled back into a bun, but there was a streak of gray hair at her temple left down to frame her face.

  Her friends, dressed similarly, laughed and put in their own orders. All of them got iced coffees to go plus two carafes of black coffee.

  “Are you all heading to the theater again?” Vivienne asked.

  They nodded, and the shortest woman with a blonde bob struck a pose. “Gorgeous actresses and painters, the lot of us. Have you ever seen a more talented group?”

  Stel
la leaned forward. “I’m sorry, but are you all working at the theater? With Tasha Baldwin? Because that’s where I’m headed right now.”

  “You know Tasha?” Vivienne asked, showing Stella the heart on top of her latte before snapping a lid on top and setting it next to the croissant on the counter. “She and I have been best friends for years.”

  “My name is Stella Pierce. I’m staying at her family’s inn for the weekend.”

  The woman with the gray streak held out her hand. “Welcome to the crew, then. I’m Pam, AKA Mrs. Anna Smith. And these two are Barb and Cheri.” The blonde woman raised her hand to identify herself as Cheri, which meant the curvy brunette must be Barb. “These two are extras for the party scene and on the trolley.”

  “Mrs. Anna Smith?” Stella ran through her limited knowledge of plays and musicals and came up empty.

  “Did Tasha not tell you what play we’re doing? It’s Meet Me in St. Louis.”

  Stella frowned. “The Christmas movie with Judy Garland?”

  Barb laughed. “Don’t get Tasha started. Her boyfriend and our fearless codirector, Eddie Green, has been insistent that Meet Me in St. Louis is a winter play, not summer or fall, but Tasha says, ‘One Christmas song does not a Christmas movie make.’ At this point, we are all so excited about the selection that we don’t care either way, but Tasha is passionate about it.”

  Cheri raised her hand like a kid in school. “My question is how she roped in a tourist to help with the play. No offense, of course—we accept any and all help we can get—but you’ll be the first tourist to ever be on the crew.”

  Stella gave the women the condensed version, explaining that she was stranded for the weekend until her car was repaired. “She saw me painting this morning and asked if I’d want to help with set design.”

  “The woman is shameless,” Vivienne laughed and set a drink tray filled with coffee on the counter. “She tried to rope me into being in her play, too, but we all need to know the limits of our talents, right? I can run a business and make a killer latte, but I’ll leave acting and singing to her and all of you.”

  “I’m just a painter,” Stella clarified.

  Vivienne held up her hands in defeat. “You’re still more artistic than I am.”

  The older women ganged up on Vivienne, insisting she had a hidden well of talent she just hadn’t tapped into yet. “You’d make a beautiful extra, if nothing else. The trolley scene is full of people without a stitch of talent,” Cheri said. “Take me, for example. This is my theater debut.”

  When Tasha asked Stella to help with the play, Stella had assumed she’d be working with young people. Maybe some teenagers from the local high school and other young adults like Tasha. She couldn’t explain why exactly, but she was surprised to see people her age involved, too. Delighted, but surprised.

  After Vivienne declined several more offers to join the cast, she shooed all four women out of the shop with threats of not supplying their morning caffeine buzz if they didn’t stop pestering her.

  “You wouldn’t dare.” Pam narrowed her eyes, a suppressed smile playing on her lips.

  Vivienne arched her brow in gleeful defiance. “Don’t test me.”

  That threat alone was enough to send the women on their way, and since they were all headed to the same place, Stella followed them out.

  She took the first drink of her latte out on the sidewalk and felt the urge to turn around immediately and insist Vivienne was in fact very artistic. The Michelangelo of coffee, even. Because the latte was pure heaven. It was sweet and creamy with a punch of brightness from the coconut. By far the best latte Stella ever had. The joy of it must have been written on her face because Barb laughed and nudged her with her elbow.

  “If you think that’s good, take a bite of the croissant.”

  Stella obeyed and was met with a bite of flaky, pillowy, creamy deliciousness. The almond cream inside was the best thing Stella had ever tasted, and she was prepared to buy it by the vat to put on every dessert she ever baked from that point forward.

  Pam clicked her tongue and shook her head. “You’ve made a mistake, Stella. You’ll be ruined on coffee shops forevermore. No one makes a croissant or cup of coffee better than Vivienne.”

  Stella had no reason at all to doubt Pam was telling the truth. Right now, however, with a warm latte in one hand and a fresh croissant in the other, she had no regrets.

  The theater was located around the corner from Main Street, tucked in a treed lot near the high school. Faded metal signs along Main Street pointed out the direction. Tasha was right though—you couldn’t miss the marquee. MEET ME IN ST. LOUIS was spelled out on the red and white sign with DATES TO COME written underneath it.

  Barb held the door open for Stella, and she was still wiping her powdered-sugar-covered hands off on her apron when a booming voice filled the cool lobby.

  “Ms. Pierce, we meet again.”

  Sam was standing in the middle of the double doors into the theater, a work belt fastened around his waist and a hammer in one hand.

  “Sam. What are you doing here?”

  “Lending my talents to the arts,” he said, lifting his hammer for emphasis. “I’m building a trolley.”

  Stella was almost ashamed to admit it, but her first thought was that he should be at his shop working on her car. On one hand, she knew he deserved to have a life. Plus, the part for her car hadn’t even arrived yet. But on the other hand, the faster he fixed her car, the sooner she could continue on with her trip.

  “A very sturdy trolley, I hope?” Cheri asked. “It better be strong because if I fall through the floorboard of a weak trolley during my theater debut, I’ll never work in this town again.”

  She was joking, clearly, but Sam pressed his hammer to his heart. “I swear I’ll build a trolley worthy of your talent.”

  “I’m mostly worried about it being worthy of my size,” Barb yelled from the front door, slapping her thigh to make her point clear. She was propping the door open as men carried sheets of plywood from a truck outside into the theater and towards the stage.

  “I built your back deck, Barb. You should know you can trust my work.”

  “Quite the handyman, aren’t you?” Stella asked. “Fixing cars, building decks, making trolleys—is there anything you don’t do?”

  “Sing,” Sam replied confidently. “Every dog in town starts howling the moment I open my mouth.”

  Tasha marched in the front doors with a young man on her arm. He was a little taller than her with a mess of dark curls and stubble on his chin. Despite the heat outside, he was wearing a blazer, but the sleeves were rolled to his elbows.

  “Our fearless leaders have arrived.” Pam bowed deeply in front of the pair.

  Tasha rolled her eyes and let go of her boyfriend, who Stella assumed must be the Eddie Green mentioned back at the café, and grabbed Pam instead. “Get all your joking out now because I’m putting you all to work today!”

  Tasha’s threat proved to be nothing more than that. She went around the room and gave everyone jobs, but the laughing never stopped. The cast and crew worked together, running lines, working on the lights, and putting together the sets and backdrops, but no one acted like it was work at all. It was obvious they were all more than happy to spend their Saturday together at the theater.

  Stella found that she didn’t mind it much either. She’d originally come just to be nice to Tasha and pay the Baldwins back for their kindness to her, but the theater was a cool reprieve from the sweltering weather outside, and she liked working on such a large canvas.

  After seeing her landscape painting this morning, Tasha assigned Stella to paint one of the outdoor backdrops. The sky and ground had already been painted blue and green, respectively, so Stella got to go in with the details—the fun stuff.

  Stella hadn’t been on many stages before, but she knew this one was smaller than most. The theater was more intimate, so the sets didn’t need to be overly big; however, that didn’t mean the
job was any easier. A smaller stage meant the audience would be closer to the set, so they’d notice the details. Or, more likely, the lack of them. Like most things, if the job was done right, people wouldn’t notice it at all. Stella hoped she was good enough to transport the audience out of the theater and into the play itself. That was the goal of art and theater, anyway, wasn’t it?

  She started with flowers in the grass, adding various shades of green to give the grass more depth, and then came in with bright pops of magenta, orange, and yellow. Tasha didn’t give her much direction, but Meet Me in St. Louis was a famous old Hollywood musical. It was supposed to be bright and magical—a version of real life, but not a mirror copy—so Stella used bright colors and bold strokes to paint the scene.

  When she was done with the grass, a nice young man brought out a ladder for her, and she climbed up to begin working on the clouds. They were more straightforward, but she added in soft strokes of lavender and baby blue for shading and streaks of yellow and gold for the sun’s rays. Deep in the distance, she drew small flocks of birds and then, before finishing, went back to the grass to add in honeybees and butterflies, fluttering around the flowers.

  When she finally stepped back to admire her work, it had been several hours, and her arms and legs were sore.

  “Are you happy with it?” Sam was standing just off stage, leaning against a two-by-four like it was a cane. A small amount of sweat had collected around his collar.