Behind the Scenes

by Elisa Preston

  Behind the Scenes

  By Elisa Preston

  This is a fictional work. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locations is entirely coincidental.

  © 2018 by Elisa Preston

  All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the United States Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced or distributed in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  Cover art, book design and typesetting: Elisa Preston

  ISBN: 9781729056899

  Imprint: Independently published

  Contents

  Contents

  Dedication

   Chapter 1 

   Chapter 2 

   Chapter 3 

  Chapter 4 

  Chapter 5 

  Chapter 6 

   Chapter 7 

   Chapter 8

   Chapter 9

   Chapter 10

   Chapter 11

   Chapter 12

   Chapter 13

   Chapter 14

   Chapter 15

   Chapter 16

   Chapter 17

   Chapter 18

   Chapter 19

   Chapter 20

   Chapter 21

   Chapter 22

   Chapter 23

    Chapter 24

  Acknowledgements

  Connect with the Author

  When Helping Becomes Hindering

  Dedication

  To Mom and Mike, for enduring hours and hours (and hours and hours and hours) of my favorite teenage drama.

   Chapter 1 

  The charcoal clouds overhead threatened to pour down on Virginia as she tugged at her over-stuffed suitcase. She was trying to get it out of her trunk without knocking herself over in the process. The flats she had intentionally worn to make sure the travelling went as smoothly as possible were working out well, but the casual dress she had on added an element of apprehension; if she did tumble back, the dress could fly up. Not how she wanted to start this very-important trip.

  By Virginia’s calculations, she had twelve minutes to get inside, get checked in, and get through security before that be-at-your-gate-thirty-minutes-prior thing kicked in. The sun shade was in the windshield—not that Western New York experienced a ton of sun in the spring—and nothing valuable was in sight. If she could only get out the bag holding six outfit options for her presentation the following day, she would be ready for the biggest Life Step she had taken in she didn’t even know how long.

  “Come on!” she yelled, tugging at her bag one more time. Tripping backwards, but stopping just short of a tumble, she saw that her suitcase had been snagged on a toy that Emcee, Sophie’s big chocolate lab, must have left for her to find from the last time they took her to the park.

  Virginia pushed the button that lowered her SUV’s trunk door, beeped her key fob twice for good measure, and sped toward the airport like her life depended on it, because to her, it kind of did.

  In just twenty-four hours, she and her business partner-slash-best friend would be interviewing for a spot as the lead event planners for the annual Jackson Christmas Gala in New York City. The opportunity would take their New Horizon Events to another level. Not even as toothless second-graders when she Sophie sold iced tea and crumpets—while donning British accents of course—in front of Sophie’s house did she dream of this kind of opportunity. They had their community’s encouragement every step of the way, as she and Sophie openly talked and posted online about moving their business to the most magical city in the world. This gig would be one step closer to reaching that dream. All she had to do was knock it out of the park during the interview, which would be in presentation form.

  And, of course, make it to the plane on time. For perhaps the twentieth time that morning, she wondered why she hadn’t just taken the six a.m. train that morning. When there’s nothing else to do in the morning but get ready and go, nothing gets in the way. It was when one had time to run a few errands or do this-and-that at home that one got caught.

  “Excuse me, pardon me,” she said hastily to passengers moving languidly through the terminal’s lobby. The day she needed speed racers on her side, nobody had anywhere they needed to be. She could see her airline’s counter from the double doors as she barreled into the area. What was probably only thirty feet felt like three hundred. Panting aside, Virginia stepped up to the desk which was miraculously clear.

  “Identification and corresponding credit card, please.”

  She obliged, placing both in the outstretched hands of the slightly older, much crankier lady behind the counter.

  “Virginia May Sharpe?”

  “Me.” She pointed to herself with her right hand while fanning herself with her left. Those quick moves had brought upon a few glistening beads of sweat. The attendant seemed to be studying the identification more than necessary.

  “Still me, same five-foot-five, fair-toned, hazel-eyed, deep brunette in the photo,” she said, still a little out of breath.

  The lady behind the counter seemed even less amused than she had been ten seconds ago, if that was possible. “I was looking for your date of birth. These new licenses can be hard to read.”

  Virginia could feel her flush face go blush.

  “Traveling to New York City, JFK airport?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” she said, still huffing from her hurried trek inside.

  The attendant looked up and rolled her eyes. Virginia listened to the clicks and the whoosh of the machine as the representative remained unenthused. Virginia looked down and noticed that her foot was tapping, and by extension her leg was bouncing, both of which contributed to her mild finger-tapping on the counter. She was watching the attendant’s hands move about the keyboard, hoping they were moving fast enough to get Virginia out of there and in the growing security line fifty feet to her left. She accidentally let out a loud sigh.

  “I see you’re running a little late,” the attendant said.

  Virginia flattened her eyes on the lady. “I am, which for me is a rare occurrence, as I am an event planner and people expect me—and everything my team plans—to be on time. Unfortunately, today there were two accidents on the highway and my bag got stuck in my trunk.”

  The attendant—whose name was Marcia, Virginia just noticed—smirked, and continued checking Virginia in, this time with Virginia’s bag on the scale. Her outdated, gone-wrong perm matched the twisted scowl on her small, crimpy face. She tied the long baggage tracking sticker around the bag’s handle.

  “Plus,” Virginia continued, “I don’t think you like me very much, and it seems you’re slowing me down on purpose.” Tactful but purposeful, one of her mottos.

  “You’d know if that was the case, sweetie,” Marcia said. “Ticket,” she said, handing Virginia a boarding pass, “and your cards. I put you in the fast lane for security, but that expires in ten minutes so I’d hustle if I were you.”

  Speechless at the woman’s random act of grace, Virginia hoped a smile and a hurried-but-hearty ‘thank you’ would convey her gratitude. Twenty minutes later, Virginia was surrounded by cold, stale airplane air, ready for the best weekend of her life to begin.

  The cabin doors were still open so most passengers were on their phones. The bloops and beeps and buzzes from devices reached from the front of the aircraft all the way to the last row where Virginia sat. It was the
background music of the twenty-first century.

  Virginia’s attention flitted between the window, social media feeds on her phone, and looking down the aisle to see who might be coming her way. From her vantage point, Virginia watched each guest board the aircraft, wondering who would be her other seatmate. The guy to her right had already taken his seat, tugged his baseball cap low and had buried his head in a book; he was scruffy-looking and seemed wholly uninterested in the light chit-chat that usually accompanied air travel.

  She watched person after person enter the aircraft, every couple minutes guessing one of them might be the one who would sit next to her for the short flight to New York. Would it be the woman who looked to be about her age, but also looked like she never left her yoga pants?

  “She probably loves her pumpkin spice lattes, too,” Virginia said under her breath. “Not that I’m judging,” she continued to no one. “So do I.”

  Would she sit next to the handsome older gentleman coming toward her? Donning a suit and tie, she guessed him to be a businessman on a mission, just the kind of person she enjoyed talking to. Yet, her dreams dashed when he halted ten rows ahead of her, loaded his carry-on bag in the overhead compartment, and took his seat next to a college kid with earbuds firmly in place.

  Fiddling again with her phone in her lap, Virginia’s long, dark hair fell into her face. She pulled her deep brunette locks into a loose side braid, wondering if she should have cut it shorter to look more professional for their interview. The side bangs were new, but the change it made to her face—increased maturity, decreased the tired lines—gave Virginia confidence. She should not have looked at the Professional Interviewing blog yesterday. She knew better. Still, the phrases “shorter hair makes you look cleaner, crisper, and more competent” and “if you’re older than twelve and want to be taken seriously, cut your hair—NOW” blared in her head.

  Wondering (again) if I should have cut my hair for this, she texted to her mom and to Sophie in separate messages. Sophie answered first.

  No! It is amazing. Sorry we couldn’t travel together.

  It’s okay. When a grandmother needs her granddaughter’s help for picture day at the senior home, who can say no?

  Ha-ha. For real, though. Your hair is great. Forget the Internet mob that says long, dark locks like yours are out of style. They’re all cranky. You are beautiful and talented and everything wonderful. Everything will be great! We’ll get the Gala and all our dreams will come true.

  Yes!! They will!!

  Text me when you land, okay? My flight is just two hours behind yours.

  Will do! Tell Grams I said hello!

  She says, and I quote, ‘Hello, Virginia! Don’t get lost in the city and always be ready to run in case you encounter a mugger.’ One too many Blue Bloods episodes I think.

  Virginia sent her best friend a string of happy, laughing emojis and set her phone aside.

  Sophie was the best best friend Virginia could have ever asked for. They looked like sisters, and in fact received regular comments indicating such. High cheekbones on naturally tan skin, hazel-green eyes, and dark hair—Virginia’s long and straight, Sophie’s shorter and curly—characterized both women. Virginia relied on Sophie for the fun factor, as Sophie was known for her bubbling laughter and the ability to put an entertaining twist on anything, whether an event or a conversation. Sophie relied on Virginia for the focus factor, as Virginia was known for graciously reining in undue nonsense and getting the job done, whether a conversation or an event. Together, they put on gatherings that clients had called unforgettable, creative, and perfect.

  Virginia looked briefly at the time on her lightweight, sterling silver watch that had been a present from Sophie’s Gram. It sparkled in the sunlight but seemed dull in the cabin light. If the small, midnight blue face was accurate, then the plane should have been taxiing down the runway by now.

  Virginia rechecked her boarding pass and confirmed: their time sitting on the runway should’ve been over. She heard a ding from her phone, then a wave of dings from the sea of people in front of her.

  We are experiencing delays on flight 951, service to New York City. Departure time is unknown. A text from the airline.

  A collective groan registered throughout the plane. Seconds later, a flight attendant gave the same announcement.

  Virginia tried to listen, but fears of not making it to New York City for the pursuit of her biggest, wildest dream consumed her thoughts until she saw that her mom had texted back.

  Sorry honey, I was in the shower. Your hair is beautiful! I love it straight! And your bangs are perfect. Can’t wait to hear how it goes! XoXo

  Virginia typed out a hurried, worried message to her mom about the late departure time, but thought better of sending it. Her mom had grown accustomed to being the only parent worrying about Virginia, but that didn’t mean Virginia had to make it a heavier burden than it had already been for the last twenty years. Virginia hit the back button and retyped an appreciative message to her mom before putting her phone back in her bag.

  To pass the time, Virginia people-watched and daydreamed for what felt like hours. Turns out, after checking her watch, it had only been ten minutes.

  Sophie teased her any time they traveled together; she got a kick of how Virginia seemed to be incapable of resting during the waiting periods of travel. She was fine in the lines because they were moving, and even in the air because, again, they were moving. Sitting in the terminal waiting for the flight to board, or sitting in an airplane waiting to take off, was not Virginia’s style. She liked to always be moving, doing something that brought her closer to whichever finish line she had in mind.

  Bouncing slightly in her seat, Virginia took in the scene around her: the expressionless passengers making their way to their seats, the hand sanitizer she could smell from the row in front of her, which mixed uneasily with the tuna sandwich someone else had brought on board. Immediately, Virginia pulled out her essential oils roller with lavender, lemon, and peppermint, her favorite combination that eased anxiety and helped her allergies in the spring and in the fall. She rolled it twice over on her wrists, rubbed her wrists together, and then subtlely breathed it in. Taking in the fresh scent erased the other two, and she refocused on trying to figure out who might sit next to her.

  She looked back up the aisle one last time, just in case. She thought fate may be in her corner as a kind-looking older woman dressed in Mom-jeans and a cardigan set walked toward her, but she stopped three seats before Virginia’s row. Behind that lady was an easy-on-the-eyes gentleman, who was wearing a suit-and-tie and appeared to be around her age.

  Not preferred, but I’ll take it if he’ll talk, she thought, peering sideways at her current neighbor who remained silent and engrossed in whatever he was reading.

  TDH—she had already nicknamed this new passenger, as he fit the Tall, Dark, and Handsome stereotype perfectly—was still walking toward her. She kept her eyes on or near him, until he was upon her. He, too, was scruffy, just like her current seat neighbor. The similarities stopped there.

  “Are you sitting here?” she asked, pointing to the seat to her left. “I can move if you need to get in.”

  “No, ma’am,” he said, with a Southern accent. Virginia’s heart did a ten-foot swoon. “I just wanted to let you know, that you owe me drink.”

  Virginia shook her head. “Me? I owe you a drink?”

  Mr. Tall, Dark and Handsome nodded gently.

  He’s done this before.

  “You owe me a drink. Because when I first looked at you back in the airport, I dropped mine.”

  The sound that spilled out of Virginia’s mouth was half-cough, half-laugh, half-disbelief. She muttered an, “Okay,” somewhere in there, and pulled out her crossword book, wishing the passenger who resembled the ladies in her mother’s book club would realize her mistake and come keep Virginia company for the seventy-five minutes they would be on the plane. Oh, how looks could be so very deceiving.

>   She heard a throat clear, and looked up to see her wanna-be-suitor still standing in front of her.

  “Yes?” she asked.

  “Yes—I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name?”

  “That’s because I didn’t throw it to you,” she said, tucking a stray hair behind her bare ear.

  This time Virginia’s scruffy, quiet neighbor let out the half-cough, half-laugh sound. She startled a little, but kept her attention between the man before her and her puzzle book.

  “So, really, do you want to have a drink? I can’t let those hazel eyes go. Either now or when we land? My schedule’s not too full, I could—”

  “Sir,” a flight attendant approached and spoke gently. “We need you to take your seat so we can get going.”

  “Okay, I was just waiting for this lovely young lady to answer my question,” he said, ignoring her and three other flight attendants dressed in professional navy blue who were each sending him impatient stares from their respective stations down the aisle.

  “I’m going to have to politely decline,” Virginia said, again going back to her current crossword puzzle. “My schedule is full once I get to New York. Thank you, though.”

  “C’mon. Not even one?” He asked as he moved closer.

  “Not even one. And please don’t come any closer.” She pointed to the front of the plane and added, “I think we’re all supposed to be seated. Enjoy your flight,” she said. Respectful but firm, refined after years of dealing with stubborn people at her events, mostly after they’d had too much alcohol at a wedding.

  Her suitor went back to his seat, which happened to be far enough up that she lost count of how many rows away he was. Virginia’s head was quickly back down on her puzzle, but her eyes darted up and around her, wondering why some people just couldn’t leave well enough alone. She was used to men hitting on her, trying to find clever ways to ask her out or get her to have a drink. Virginia so rarely said yes. She always told herself that was because running an event planning company took almost every ounce of energy she had, and she was always able to cite a work schedule that kept her up-and-at-‘em and constantly on the go.