Nancy’s eyes glazed. “A tall what?”
“Latte.” Grace held up a paper cup. “I’ll have to teach you the lingo.”
Nancy’s expression crossed from confused to dubious. “Well, I hope you can return it if it doesn’t work out.”
“He’ll work out.” Grace smiled. “Trust me.”
From the look on Nancy’s face, that was close to the last thing she felt like doing.
“Where would you like this set, Miss Addison?” Hank and Carl stood at the door to the stand, laden with treasures from the hidden tomb of King Costco.
Nancy cast a wary eye on their load. “What’s all this?”
Grace shot her an offhand glance as she calculated how to stage everything. “Supplies.”
“You bought supplies?”
“Yeah. You know, coffee beans, grinders, cups. I got two kinds of syrup, and I even bought some biscotti. Look.” She leaned over, digging around in the lidless box as Carl struggled to maintain his grip. She produced a wastebasket-sized container and held it up like a trophy.
“Biscuits?” Nancy seemed befuddled. “They look like cookies. You got all this at the Peach Basket?”
Grace twisted her mouth. If only. “No, I drove all the way to Missoula to shop at Costco.”
“Costco!” Nancy’s face blanched. “Wait a minute. You bought supplies?”
“Sure.” Grace shrugged. “Right after I bought a car.”
“You bought a car?”
“It made sense. Joanie from the bakery was selling her Beetle, so—”
“Oh,” Nancy’s face brightened—back to familiar territory. “You bought Joanie’s Beetle? Cute car.”
“Yes. It’s a little old, but it runs.” Grace didn’t really see herself as the Beetle type, but it would come in handy. She’d acquired a few things that would look adorable in her apartment in New York, and besides, she’d never driven across the country. It might be more relaxing than flying.
A bead of sweat formed on Nancy’s upper lip as she perused the contents of the boxes. “So, how much did all this cost?”
“It wasn’t so bad.” Grace flapped a dismissive hand in the air. “Considering what I spent on the machine, I could splurge on the beans.”
“But the theatre can’t afford—”
“Don’t worry.” Grace raised her palm. “It will be it my donation. I know the theatre needs money and every little bit counts.” She paused, casting a quick glance at the clean rectangle of wall paper between the windows where her painting had once hung. “Which reminds me…” She vacillated. Did she really want to bring this up? “Sam was selling off some theatre things at the rummage sale, and—”
“Oh, don’t get me started.” Nancy rolled her eyes. Hurt and anger practically announced themselves in writing on her forehead. “It makes me sick to think of all those things that we’ve preserved for years just getting sold like junk.” She waved the subject away as she turned her back and started out the door. “I’ll be in my office.”
“But…” Grace moved to follow, but stopped herself. She wanted to tell Nancy that all the theatre’s precious memories were boxed up in her basement. That she was about to become a wealthy woman and that someday soon she’d make a sizeable donation to the Madison Playhouse. If it still existed, of course.
No matter how badly she wanted to, she couldn’t quite bring herself to tell Nancy the truth.
“Uh…Miss Addison?” Carl readjusted his grip on the box he held.
“Oh, right. Sorry.” Grace scanned her minuscule space, then gestured toward the floor. “Why don’t you just set those down over there. I’ll have to make room.”
“Good luck with that,” Hank said, obliging. He looked around the booth. “You know you’ve got no power in here. You’ll have to plug ’er in out in the lobby.” He gestured toward the wall next to the stand. The men tipped their hats and returned to their regular duties.
Great. Grace scooted the machine clear to the end of the counter just inside the stand and draped the power cord down to the floor and around the corner. To her relief, it was just long enough to reach the brass-plated relic of a power outlet. She plugged it in, hoping the outlet still had some juice.
“Oh!” Yanking her hand back, she shook off the afterburn of a tiny shock. She pulled herself to her feet, then reached around and flicked the ‘on’ switch. A red light came to life, and she let out a relieved breath. We’ve got power.
She folded her arms and surveyed her purchases. Now that she saw the bulk of supplies sitting in the tiny space, she realized how daunting the task of storing it would be. She looked around. At least the stand had a little storage space.
She yanked open a drawer so old she half expected to find a yellowed pamphlet from the Suffragette Movement or a ‘Vote for Grover Cleveland’ button in it. To her disappointment, all it contained was a coupon for a free shave from Hector’s Barber Shop, and an ancient ring of keys. She pondered. Could be a good place to keep the twist spoons.
She sat down on the rough wood floor and began removing items from the boxes. Soon, encircled by barista paraphernalia, she leaned back and thought about how the day had gone.
Buying a car had been surprisingly simple. She’d been nervous about using her fake ID for such a major purchase, but since she had the funds in her checking account no one had questioned it. She knew it was impractical to own a car in the city, but her mom had more than enough space at her house. A definite plus to living in the Jersey suburbs.
Shopping had been fun, but the appraisal experience had been questionable. She’d been scared off by the taxidermy display in the waiting area of the first place.
“The owner’s hobby”, the receptionist had beamed.
The second place looked promising until the guy showed up in stained overalls and waders. Did she really want to trust the estimate of someone who spent their days measuring crawl spaces?
She entertained a tiny smile. She still wanted the opinion of someone whose specialty actually was art, but at least now she had something to go on. She reached for her purse, pulling out the neatly folded paper and opening it slowly. One point two million would buy her a lot of freedom.
She should be thrilled, so why was she letting that tiny twinge of guilt color her personal celebration? She deserved this. There was no reason why Sam or anybody else in this town ever had to know she had suspected the value of the painting when she bought it. They never had to find out anything, ever. So why did she still feel guilty?
Her nerves jumped as she remembered that the lobby would open soon. Giving her watch a quick check, she tucked the paper back into her purse and bounced to her feet. There wasn’t much time if she wanted to be ready for the pre-show crowd.
She crossed to the edge of the stand, reaching out to shut the lower half of the door. Just as she grabbed for it, she lurched back.
Sophia had moved into the doorway, and stood there with arms folded and shoulders rearing up like a cobra ready to strike. “Thanks a lot,” she hissed.
“For what?” Grace frowned. Like she needed this.
Sophia slanted an eyebrow in an apparent attempt to appear threatening. Her words stabbed. “For talking Devon out of giving me Mabel.”
“I didn’t—”
“Yes, you did. He told me.” She balled up her fists like a child about to launch into a tantrum.
Grace huffed out an impatient sigh. “Sophia, he’s the director. He cast the play, not me. I just made a few suggestions for the good of the show.”
“Yeah, well thanks for suggesting me right out of the best role of the season.” She edged further into the doorway, spreading her feet wide as if to make her petite frame appear larger. “I’m the one who told Nancy about Pirates. I’ve waited my whole life to play that role, and just in case you didn’t know, I always get the lead.”
“Apparently not always.” Grace indulged in a touch of sarcasm. “Nobody always gets the lead. You’re in a very small pond—”
“
Maybe…” Sophia charged forward, quickly closing the three foot gap that had separated them. “But it’s my pond. And Devon is my…” She stopped herself, her eyes suddenly pooling with angst.
“Your what?” Grace folded her arms and jutted out a hip. Devon certainly hadn’t been acting like he was committed to Sophia. If she believed otherwise, she deserved to be set straight. “What exactly is he to you?”
Sophia’s eyes darted around the room. “He’s been staying at my house.”
“So that makes him what, your tenant?”
Her eyes zeroed in on Grace like lasers. “You have no right to horn in.”
“Horn in? Aren’t you being a little juvenile?”
“Juvenile? Is it juvenile to be angry at someone who breezes into town and starts taking away everything that should be mine?”
Grace rejected the little minx’s attempt at intimidation. “You’re exaggerating.”
“Am I? Would you like a list?”
“Is this about that painting? Because—”
“The painting, the leading role. Now you’re trying to take away my—”
“Your what?” Grace pinned her with her best diva glower. She hadn’t set out to find romance, but if one unfolded, she had every right to know where she stood.
Sophia pursed her lips and spoke in a voice so hot it could have creased a pair of trousers. “You know darn well what you’re doing, but it’s not going to work.” She took a step even closer, her words sharpening. “I saw him first.”
“You saw him first? What is he, a parking space?”
Sophia breathed out a snarl. She shot Grace a glare that would have simultaneously scorched and flash-frozen a lesser competitor in the field of infatuation. Grace smiled to herself. Actress Sophia had no idea what she was up against.
Sophia shifted back. She held up a pointy-tipped finger and aimed it at Grace. “You’re going to be sorry you ever came here.” Her steely stare lingered dramatically for just a moment before she reeled around and stormed off.
Oh brother.
After all Grace had suffered in the last couple of years, Sophia’s sophomoric ranting didn’t seem like much of a threat.
Grace stooped to pick up her coffee goods. There was something troubling about her conversation with Sophia other than, of course, that Sophia had been in it. You’re going to be sorry you ever came here. Was she just a pesky little gnat buzzing in Grace’s ear, or was there actual meat to her menace?
It was probably nothing, but she did have to hand it to the little scenery-chewer. She had given quite a performance. Behind the infantile behavior lurked the spirit of a true diva.
Chapter 18
“Who wants a corn dog?”
Catching a drip of paint on her brush, Grace looked up to see Lucy setting lunch out on the new dining table. A flock of kids clamored around her like seagulls.
Grace sat back on her haunches. She had gotten so absorbed in painting the windowsill that she hadn’t noticed her living room had been transformed from cold and stark to warm and homey. No wonder everyone had been so enthusiastic about her adding color to this room.
She hadn’t expected so many volunteers to arrive at her door that morning. Didn’t these people have other things to do on a sunny Saturday? They’d been hard at work for several hours now and they all seemed to be enjoying themselves. Much to her surprise, so was she.
She lowered herself to the floor, pulling her knees up to her chest. It felt good to take a little break, although she appreciated that the painting had given her time to lose herself in her thoughts. Everything seemed to be falling nicely into place.
“Oh Grace, I meant to warn you.” Joanie called down from atop a ladder where she spread ‘cherry blossom pink’ on the wall over the front door. “My car…oops! I mean your car has a quirk.”
Grace picked up her brush. “Don’t we all?”
“That’s the truth.” Joanie crinkled her nose in a giggle. She looked like a person who would drive a Beetle. “Anyway, the passenger side door tends to stick, and the window crank is long gone. No big deal.”
Grace shrugged. “It’ll only be a big deal if my purse wants to bail out. So far that’s been my only passenger.”
“I meant to get it fixed before I sold it, but it slipped my mind. I never really had passengers eith—” Joanie launched backward as the front door opened beneath her. She gripped the top rung of the ladder just in time.
Sam looked up as he walked through the door. “Whoa. Sorry about that.”
Joanie smiled and resumed painting. “No problem, Sam. Where’ve you been all morning?”
“Mostly out in the garage mixing paint.”
Grace rolled her eyes. She wasn’t exactly thrilled about having him in her house, but he did know paint. He’d appointed himself head of the work crew and everyone seemed to be fine with that. Either they didn’t know what a jerk he was, or they’d reached a collective agreement to ignore it.
He looked around, saw her, and opened his mouth to speak. Without meaning to, she gave him the look that a critic had once described as a ‘searing glare’, and he stepped back. He looked around again.
“Hey Luce,” he said, shifting into the dining room and holding up a paint card. “This ‘lilac’ is for the front bedroom, right?”
Lucy nodded as she carefully took aim with a ketchup dispenser at a paper plate held by a bobbing tot.
“So,” he continued. “Which wall gets the ‘thistle’?”
“I don’t know, Sam. You’ll have to ask the lady of the house.”
Grace cringed. Why couldn’t Lucy just act as a go-between?
She went back to dabbing at the corners of her windowsill, sensing Sam’s pending approach. Let him think she didn’t know he was there.
“Gra…Miss Addison?”
Faking an intense focus, she kept her eyes on her detail work. “Yes?”
“Sorry to bother you when you’re in the middle of that, but would you mind coming with me for just a sec?”
She let the air exit loudly through her nose to convey her irritation. Why couldn’t he just ask her here?
She made a little show of extracting the last bit of paint from her brush and dabbing it with a cloth before setting it on the edge of her paint can. She stood, wiped her hands on the ratty jeans that Lucy had insisted she borrow, and made a lead-the-way motion.
She could have sworn he smirked as he turned toward the hallway. She’d had stagehands put on probation for lesser offenses. Who did he think he was?
Keeping a comfortable distance between them, she followed him to the front bedroom, which seemed to be the only room in the house that wasn’t overflowing with paintbrush-wielding good Samaritans. Sam walked to the middle of the room, stopping next to the mountain of drop cloth that looked more like the Matterhorn than her Lucy-gifted brass bed. She remained in the doorway, determined not to make herself vulnerable.
“So I’m wondering…” He turned, looked amused by her choice of a stopping point, and motioned toward the open cans of paint which stood in a tidy row near the side window. “Do you want the lighter tone to be on your south-facing or east-facing wall?”
A harrumphing noise escaped her throat. Which was which?
“Uh…that one.” She pointed toward the front of the house.
“Great instinct.” He smiled. “That’s what I was thinking too.”
Was he making fun of her?
He stepped toward the window and looked out, as if he had all the time in the world. Didn’t he have a room to paint?
“You’re lucky to have this window. The sun rising over those mountains is the greatest sight to wake up to.”
How was she supposed to react to that? It was none of his business what view she opened her eyes to and besides, she hadn’t actually noticed that the sun rose on this side of her house.
“Was that all?” She folded her arms.
He turned, his eyes dropping to the plastic-sheeted floor. “Yeah. Yeah, that was it.”
She gave up a tight-lipped smile and turned on her heel. A thought flipped into her head and she stopped, spinning again to face him. “Do you think you could build me a crate?”
His eyebrows shot up. He opened his mouth but the answer took its time coming out. “I guess so. Why?”
She instantly regretted having asked. Why did people have to question everything? “It’s just…something I need.”
“Of course.” His smarmy smile returned. “Ridiculous of me to think otherwise.” He crossed to the paint cans and bent to pick one up. “How big?”
“Huh? Oh.” Pleased that she’d actually measured, she spoke with authority. “Fifteen by eighteen inches. Six inches deep.”
He nodded, his mouth pulling up at the corners.
She hesitated, feeling the need to add more but not knowing what. “Don’t worry about a second coat in here. One should be plenty.” She winced. Who did she think she was, Bob Villa? Sam was the paint expert, not her.
He tossed her a bemused look as he carried the can to the front corner. “Why don’t we see how it looks before we make that call?”
“I just…don’t want you to waste paint.” That was stupid. Why couldn’t she just leave?
“I don’t want to waste either, but I want you to be happy with the result.” He knelt down to open the can.
She pulled in a deep breath. “It doesn’t really matter to me.”
“Oh.” He gave a perplexed nod. “Maybe we should just send everybody home now then. Tell them it doesn’t really matter if they finish.”
She creased her brow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
He tipped the can, pouring the rich liquid into a paint tray. “Nothing. It’s just that the painting doesn’t seem to have much value to you.”
Anger gripped her. So, that’s what this was about—the painting. Had he realized his mistake and now he wanted to have it out with her? She stepped forward, opened her mouth, then turned and stomped back to shut the door. The whole town didn’t need to hear this. “What business is it of yours?”
Saving Grace (Madison Falls) Page 10