Follow My Lead: A Joy Universe Novel

by Louisa Masters

  Fortunately, when we pull up to the community theater, there’s still plenty of parking available—probably because we’re so early. It’s only just after eleven. “I’ll stop here and walk you in and then go park,” I suggest, braking near the front door, but Mrs. Henshall shakes her head.

  “Park there,” she says, pointing to a space in the nearest row. “I can walk from there.”

  I hesitate, but the look she gives me is pretty convincing. I haven’t been this afraid of anyone since I was a kid and one of the school bullies convinced me he’d trained his dog to eat people who annoyed him.

  We make our slow way inside, and there are already more people there than I expected. The lobby is set up with long tables for food, and the doors to the theater are open, showing people circulating inside and what looks to be a bar area on the stage.

  “Do you see anyone you know?” I ask, only belatedly realizing what a stupid question it is when she raises an eyebrow, making her forehead wrinkle even more. “I mean, where would you like to sit?”

  “Go put the food down,” she orders. “I can find my friends without you.”

  And that easily, I’ve been dismissed.

  I’m still staring after her with my mouth open and the dishes in my hands when someone comes up beside me and clears their throat.

  “You can put that down right over there.”

  The amused voice is familiar, so I shut my mouth and look over at Dimi sheepishly. “I feel so used.”

  He raises an eyebrow and glances after Mrs. Henshall. “You’re her ride? Don’t worry, she does that to everyone.”

  “Is that supposed to make me feel better?” I snort. “Let me put this down. I think I’ve made enough of an idiot of myself this morning.”

  We turn toward the food tables, and within moments I’ve delivered my contribution to the food table supervisor—and don’t even get me started on that.

  “Merry Christmas,” I tell Dimi belatedly as he leads me toward the bar.

  He grins over his shoulder at me. “Merry Christmas to you too. Meet my oldest brother, Patrick. Pat, this is Jason Philips.” Dimi leans on the bar and waves a hand at the good-looking man screwing the cap back on a bottle of juice. There’s a definite family resemblance, but this guy doesn’t have Dimi’s air of youthfulness. I was hugely surprised to discover that Dimi is actually twenty-nine, not the twenty-five or so I’d assumed—although it makes sense, because it would have been really weird for JU to give him this much responsibility just a few years out of college. Even at twenty-nine, he’s ahead of the curve.

  Patrick smiles and offers a hand. “Hey. Great to meet you. I applaud anyone who can work with this control freak.” He tips his head toward Dimi and winks, and I shake his hand.

  “Good to meet you too. And thanks—although I’ll gladly take any tips you can give me. So far, I’ve mostly been letting him have his way, but that can’t last forever.”

  Dimi laughs, which is a relief. I’ve never really teased him like that before, so I wasn’t sure how he’d take it. Patrick snorts.

  “Yeah, you can’t let him win. You really need to talk to Cait or Mom. Or Jack. They were always best at handling him.” He waves at someone behind me.

  “I feel like I should object here,” Dimi says. “Nobody needs to handle me. I don’t get handled by anyone.”

  “You don’t?” a new voice says. “Poor you. Though, it might explain why you’re such a workaholic.”

  To my delight, Dimi huffs and rolls his eyes like a teenager. Is this what having a close family is like? If so, I really missed out.

  Although I could probably live without having people comment on my sex life or lack thereof.

  “Jason, meet my sisters Cait and Sienna. And Patrick’s husband, Ryan.” He sounds pouty and put out, but in a good way, a “this is what I put up with but I love them anyway” way. I want to kiss the smile back onto his lips.

  No. No, I don’t. I’m just carried away by the Christmas spirit. Or something.

  I hide my panic and make myself smile and greet the newcomers. I’ve met half the Weston siblings now, and it’s really easy to tell they’re related. They all have dark hair and eyes, fair skin, and great bone structure.

  I fall easily into conversation with them, first mostly teasing Dimi, but soon moving on to more general topics. The size of the group changes as people come and go, and somehow we drift away from the bar and end up grabbing food.

  I’m trying to figure out what exactly is in some casserole-looking thing—eggplant or shoe leather?—when a voice beside me says, “Don’t eat that, whatever you do. You must be new here to even be thinking about it.”

  I look over at the twentysomething woman sneering at the dish. She’s wearing a fifties-style red halter dress that shows off two full sleeves of tattoos, and her hair and makeup are done to match. As she shakes her head in disgust, light reflects off the multitude of piercings in her ears, nose, and eyebrow. “Thanks for the tip.” I’d pretty much decided it was shoe leather anyway, but it’s nice to have confirmation. “Although it looks like everybody else is wiser than me, and I feel kind of bad that it’s all going to be left. Someone went to the effort of making it.”

  Her smile lights up her face. “Aren’t y’all sweet? Don’t worry about it, one of the committee will sneak it away soon and make sure there’s only a little bit left. Irene will never know. I’m Chloe, by the way.”

  “Jason,” I tell her. “It sounds like this isn’t the first time Irene has brought… this.” I don’t even know what to call it.

  “Every year,” she says, wrinkling her nose. “Nobody has the heart to tell her how disgusting it is. She’s got a heart of gold, but she’s convinced herself she can cook and that this is her signature dish. And I know who y’all are.”

  She does? “Oh.” What am I supposed to say? “Are you part of the community theater?” Who else would give a crap about an ex-Broadway director?

  “Try the potato salad,” she advises. “Tracey from the pharmacy makes it, and it’s amazing. We’re lucky there’s still some left. It usually goes fast.” I reach for the serving spoon as she continues, “Nah, I work part-time for Sascha Weston, Dimi’s mom, and she mentioned that he was working with some big deal guy from New York called Jason something. You’re the only person here that I’ve never seen before, and you were talking to Dimi earlier, so….” She shrugs.

  “I’m not really a big deal.” Not outside Broadway circles, anyway. “Do you really know everyone here?” I know it’s not a huge town, but still. There have been a lot of people coming and going today.

  “No, there’re a lot I haven’t met. But I never forget a face. Listen, you should be good with the rest of the food as long as you stay away from the chocolate mousse. It’s a damn shame, because Mrs. Collins makes the best chocolate mousse I’ve ever tasted, but her grandkids are staying with her this week and I heard the oldest two snickering about switching the sugar for salt when she wasn’t watching.”

  I make an immediate mental note to stay away from the chocolate mousse.

  “Thanks, Chloe. Will you come and eat with me?”

  She shakes her head. “Thanks for asking, but I’m here with family, and my mother will have a conniption if I don’t eat with them. But it was great to meet you.” She flashes me a grin and wanders off before I can say anything more.

  The party really gets going as the day progresses, and even though I only meant to stay for a couple of hours, it’s nearly four by the time I stop to look at my watch. I’m having fun, though, and there are still plenty of people hanging around, so there’s no reason to leave—right? Mrs. Henshall already sent a minion over to tell me she was ready to go and that a friend was taking her home, so I’m officially free of responsibility.

  And no, that has nothing to do with the fact that Dimi hasn’t really left my orbit all day. Or is it the
other way around? Whatever, we’ve mostly been in the same group or conversation or within arm’s reach of each other. It’s purely coincidental. Probably he was looking out for me at first, since I didn’t know anyone, and then since we have pretty similar tastes, it’s no surprise we’ve gravitated toward the same conversations.

  I’m talking to him and a couple of the performers from JU about our audition plans for the new year when an attractive woman not that much older than me comes over and puts her arms around Dimi from behind. He looks down at her hands on his chest, grins, and draws her around to give her a proper hug.

  “Are you finally free?”

  She shakes her head. “Not until the place empties, baby. You know that. But I can take a break to meet your friends.” She smiles at us, and with a jolt, I realize that she must be Dimi’s mother.

  Who’s not much older than me.

  And doesn’t that make me feel like a dirty old man.

  “Mom, meet Sam, Parker, and Jason. Guys, this is my mother, Sascha.”

  Pleasantries are exchanged, but soon Sam and Parker excuse themselves and wander off, and Sascha Weston turns all her attention on me.

  “It’s so nice to finally meet you, Jason,” she says, and I smile and hope that she can’t tell I’ve been thinking decadent thoughts about her baby.

  “You too. Dimi speaks so fondly of his family.”

  She laughs. “I’m sure he speaks not-so-fondly of us too, sometimes.”

  “You know me so well, Mom,” Dimi says dryly, and she swats his arm.

  “Don’t be a brat. Now, Jason, how are you settling in here after living in New York? I went to college there, you know, and sometimes I still miss the convenience of living in such a big city.”

  We quickly fall into a discussion of our favorite places in the city. It turns out that Sascha is a little older than I first assumed and was long gone from the city before I moved there, but there are still a lot of old haunts that overlap our respective college days. It’s a good twenty minutes before she sighs, looks over her shoulder toward the bar, and regretfully informs us that her break is over.

  I end up staying until the very end—and then helping to clean up. There are enough volunteers that the work goes quickly, but it’s still after seven before the committee shoos the last of us out to the parking lot. I look toward my car as the crowd begins to disperse, oddly averse to the idea of getting in and going home. I’ve been working hard this past month, plus I don’t know—or didn’t know—that many people here in Joyville, so my social life has been a lot less active than usual. I’d almost forgotten how much I like to get out and be with people.

  “Hey.”

  The voice is almost as familiar to me as my own now, and I catch myself smiling as I turn to look at Dimi. He’s a little mussed after being in charge of folding the tables up and storing them away, and the less-than-his-usual-perfect look does something to me that I’ve been trying to ignore.

  “You got plans for tonight?”

  I shake my head. “No. It’ll be me and some Christmas movies, probably.”

  “Great. Come over to my place. My brothers and I will be doing the same thing, but we’ll add junk food and beer.”

  “Yes.” The word comes out so fast, it surprises even me. “I mean, yes, thanks. Company would be great.” What do I say next? “Uh, can I bring anything?”

  He waves a hand. “Nah. My houseguests always cater Christmas night to make up for the fact that they’ve invaded my home and hogged my bathroom.” He raises his voice for the last part, and two of his brothers jeer. I’ve only met one of them, but the other one has what I’m now thinking of as the Weston Family Looks, so he’s gotta be a relative.

  “Okay, so I’ll follow you?”

  “Sounds good.”

  We part ways to go to our respective cars. I sit in mine and take a moment to appreciate what a good day I’ve had. Nothing like Christmas Day last year, which was the first holiday in fifteen years that I’d been single for. That was a miserable day. Today’s been full of cheer, and it’s not done yet.

  I start the car and pull out of my space to follow Dimi onto the road. He lives in the opposite direction from me, but it’s still not that far, and I make mental notes about which streets will get me home the fastest later. Soon we’re pulling up outside a cute townhouse with a postage-stamp-sized front garden and a bright blue door. Dimi parks in the garage, then waves for me to take the driveway.

  “Nice garden,” I comment when I meet them in the garage a moment later. “Do you look after it?” After living in Manhattan for so long, I have a tiny fascination with actual yards and gardens, rather than balconies and rooftop gardens.

  The brother I haven’t met yet laughs. “Dimi, garden? No freaking way. He gets someone out every couple weeks to weed it.” He sticks out a hand. “I’m Mike, by the way. Number six.”

  “Number six?” I shake his hand, then realize what he means. “Oh! You’re the third-youngest sibling.”

  “That’s me.”

  “Jason Philips. I work with Dimi at JVTC.” The garage door starts rolling down, and we head toward the inner door.

  “Oh, I know who you are. I was there for the Fake It ’Til You Make It obsession.”

  I blink. Mike seems to have a skill for throwing me off-balance with his conversational gambits. “Obsession?”

  “It wasn’t an obsession,” Dimi says as we enter the kitchen, which is immaculately tidy except for an open bag of chips on the counter that he’s glaring at. “Brody, are those yours?”

  Brody grabs the bag, tips his head back, and pours the chips into his mouth. Chips scatter everywhere, and I can almost see Dimi’s blood pressure going up.

  “It was an obsession,” Mike insists, not relinquishing the conversational thread. “You played the soundtrack at all hours of day and night and read the reviews obsessively—and it only got worse after you actually saw it.”

  Aww. Dimi’s a fan of my work? That makes me feel all warm and melty inside. I sneak a glance his way and find him red-faced and staring at his brother like he wished his eyes shot laser beams.

  “That’s the kind of reaction we were hoping for,” I say as smoothly as I can. Really, it is. And that show is a great one, one of the best I’ve ever directed. Plus, anything to make Dimi not regret inviting me tonight. “Did someone say something about junk food and movies?”

  Mike smirks but falls into line. “Sure. Brody and I stocked up yesterday. We’ve got six flavors of popcorn, chips, about thirty different types of chocolate and candy, and beer, wine, and soda. What’s your poison?”

  I feel vaguely ill just thinking about all that food, especially after the way I ate today. “Uh, I’ll have soda for now. Maybe popcorn later.”

  “Did anyone have the chocolate mousse today? It was so bad. Is Mrs. Collins sick or something?” Brody crumples up the chip bag and tosses it into the trash can tucked neatly beside the fridge.

  “Her grandkids switched the sugar for salt,” I say automatically. “Sorry, I should have warned you.”

  “How do you even know that?” Dimi asked, getting out glasses for Mike to pour the soda into.

  “Someone overheard them joking about it and told me. Chloe.” I feel vaguely embarrassed, and I’m not sure why.

  “Chloe who works for Mom sometimes?” There’s a note of interest in Mike’s tone, and I notice Brody has perked up too.

  “Uh, that’s what she said.” I bite my lip to keep from laughing. Dimi’s gaze meets mine, and I can see the merriment there. I guess Chloe is an attractive young woman. I just didn’t really notice, what with being gay and nearly old enough to be her grandfather.

  I studiously ignore the fact that she’s not really that much younger than Dimi. Maybe seven or so years?

  “I didn’t get a chance to talk to her today.” Brody actually sounds pouty, and
Dimi can’t hold back his laughter anymore.

  “Please, like she’d ever look at you twice.”

  “Hey, women are into me! I get plenty of action, fuck you very much. I just have to snap my fingers to have chicks swarming.”

  Dimi points at him. “That’s why she’d never look at you twice. Because you think of women in terms of snapping fingers and swarming. And don’t ever let Mom hear you talk like that, either.”

  Brody opens his mouth to retort, but Mike steps in. “Movies,” he announces, handing around the glasses of soda. “Brody, grab the popcorn and candy.”

  ***

  “So wait… she knows it’s a haunted house and that there was something fishy about the guy’s death, and she’s been creeped out by other stuff that’s happened, but she still goes to see what the weird noise was?” Brody, otherwise known as the simpleton, shoves more popcorn in his mouth and shakes his head.

  “I don’t think you can really call it a haunted house,” Mike says thoughtfully.

  “Of course it’s a haunted house,” Brody argues, spraying popcorn everywhere. I sneak a glance at Dimi, mostly to see the expression on his face. It really wouldn’t surprise me if he murdered Brody before the night ends. His house is immaculate except for his brothers’ crap. “A ghost lives there. How can it not be a haunted house?”

  “Well… he’s not really haunting it, is he? He just lives there. Most of the time people don’t even know about him. And he owns it, too, sort of. And he’s corporeal sometimes. A haunted house has nasty ghosts who make their presence known.”

  “Dude, no way.” Brody sits up and grabs the remote. On the TV, The Spirit of Christmas freezes midscene. Dimi huffs and reaches for the wine, which he went to get about half an hour ago, and I hold out my glass for a refill. This is the fourth time Brody or Mike has paused the movie to debate something stupid.

  I love it.

  I’m sure it would get old if I had to put up with it every time I wanted to watch a movie, but tonight, with good company, too much sugar, and alcohol providing a pleasant haze, it’s the best thing ever.