The Cul-de-Sac War

by Melissa Ferguson

Chip pursed his lips. Nodded. “Noted.”

  His heart felt heavy as he hung up, turned around, and stared up at the theatre looming above him.

  Fine. He didn’t need his father to believe in him. He believed in himself, and that was all that mattered.

  Still, as he turned back up the steps of the theatre, he couldn’t help feeling the void in his chest.

  Chapter 15

  Bree

  Bree had charged offstage the second the curtains closed.

  While everyone else clapped each other on the back and hugged and said sweet nothings about the special time they’d experienced together performing A Midsummer Night’s Dream, Bree pushed through the clusters of actors until she made it into the empty dressing room and back to her station. But she didn’t peel off her eyelashes or wipe off the thick green makeup like she usually did. She dug deep into her backpack until she found it.

  Her phone.

  Fifteen minutes later, she finished writing a fuming message and hit Publish.

  She had known he would do something. She knew the second he saw those Christmas trees drop into her yard he was going to fight back. But her parents? Dinner? This night was going to kill her.

  “And here are the dressing rooms.” Titania’s voice wafted across the room as the star herself floated in, her posture and air monarchial even after the show was over.

  Bree dropped her phone onto the vanity and let it clatter, letting them know she was there.

  Titania’s (or rather, Kayleigh’s) hand flew to her chest. “Oh. Bree. You startled me.”

  “Sorry,” Bree said, her tone only half apologetic as she yanked out her braid.

  “This is . . . my friend Selena. She’s visiting from New York.”

  “Hello.” Bree dragged her brush through her tangled, overly hair-sprayed hair. “Did you come just for the play?”

  “Oh, just wanted to visit Kayleigh’s slice of the world,” Selena said, her eyes roaming around the room. “See what kind of setup you have down here.”

  Her voice fascinated Bree. It was as unique as her vibrantly red, heart-shaped lips and pistachio-colored heels. It was deeper than she usually heard in a woman, each word pronouncing itself slowly, appraisingly, like she had nowhere else to be. It purred.

  Bree’s brushing slowed as suspicion rose. “And are you . . . an actress too?”

  She laughed, but it was the unkind type that seemed to say, Like you? Oh, honey, we aren’t in the same league.

  “I’m making my way,” Selena replied.

  The woman delivered the humble words with her purring, northern voice while making it clear she was doing far more than simply making her way. How could someone talk in such layers?

  Selena touched Kayleigh’s elbow and, as if the movement was their own private language, they swiveled on the balls of their feet. Bree heard Selena ask in a discreet tone, “Were you going to show me the green room?”

  And just as they glided in, they glided out.

  Bree’s gaze was still on the open door when Birdie, wide-eyed, rushed in with the rest of the cast. Words of panic danced in conversations around them as Birdie spoke. “Did you see her? That woman Selena?”

  Bree set her hairbrush down, calm despite the anchor falling in her stomach. “Yes.”

  “Did she say anything to you?”

  “Only that she was an actress from New York and came to visit.”

  “Visit,” Birdie repeated. She took a deep breath. Her eyes darted around. “That’s all it is. Maybe just a visit.”

  “Oh please,” Cara said from the other dressing table, pulling off her beige slipper. “She’s a classically trained actress and a Rockette. She just came back from an Off-Broadway tour, and Kayleigh’s trying to convince her to stay and audition for Singin’ in the Rain.”

  Birdie took another deep breath, then pressed her fists to her hips and swiveled back to Bree. “Oh. Well, that’s fine,” Birdie said in clipped, upbeat notes. “That’s fine because we can still land a role—even with one less slot.”

  Bree stood there while Birdie started on her best we’re-gonna-get-through-this-we-just-have-to-practice pep talk. Bree nodded mutely while she scrubbed the makeup off her face and changed into jeans.

  But all she could feel while she transitioned from theatre clothes to street clothes was the world closing in. All she could hear was the door slamming.

  It was time to call it.

  “—because if anyone knows this theatre it’s us, not her, and just saying she was in Off-Broadway means nothing. She could’ve been a mute servant girl who gets killed in the first act and has to lie onstage the rest of the play until the audience figures out who did it—”

  “Yeah, well, I gotta run, my parents are waiting for me,” Bree said, breaking into the middle of Birdie’s speech. She tried to give Birdie’s hands a heartfelt squeeze, but even she could feel the limpness of her own. She looked Birdie—dear, sweet, nearly mad-eyed Birdie—in the eye. “I know you can do it, Birdie,” Bree said, her voice low. “You’re going to do great.”

  Bree let go of Birdie’s hands, snatched up her bag, and hurried for the door.

  “We’re going to do great!” Birdie called out after her. “We both are gonna do great!”

  Bree’s legs felt like a thousand pounds as she dragged herself down the hall, the voices from the dressing room chasing her.

  “Comin’ through,” a man said, and she turned sideways, hugging the wall to make room for a rolling tree prop.

  Her fingertips held on to the beige cinderblock a moment longer than necessary before she let go and resumed walking.

  She wouldn’t have admitted it to herself before, but she was going to miss this place.

  The frantic dress rehearsals.

  The collective energy just before the show began.

  The feeling like wherever you were in that moment onstage was the most important place to be, and you were doing the most important thing to do.

  Sure, she would’ve wanted to do more than lounge against trees one day. Maybe land a real speaking role. Maybe even—in her newest, wildest dreams—get to sing a song or two.

  If she was honest with herself, she had actually started to hope. Over the last few days of all-day, late-into-the-night practices at her house and with Birdie at the warehouse, she had begun to believe a future at the Barter just might be possible.

  But now . . .

  Bree cleared her throat as she pushed open the door and walked onstage. She stopped dead center, holding her backpack on one shoulder as she looked out over the auditorium. The lights were low. The room empty. A single spotlight still fell directly where she stood. Where she was bound to stand for the last time.

  On this stage.

  Soon enough, in Nana’s house.

  She imagined spending the rest of her life bouncing from job to job, home to home. Driving by Nana’s house sometimes just to see if the red-and-green-striped bathroom wallpaper she’d helped Nana hang that day had been painted over, or if the creaky wood porch swing had been replaced with something shiny and metal. Exactly how long would it take to tear down a thousand memories that were the foundation of her childhood, the foundation of her very being?

  If only she had walked in earlier that morning to check on Nana. Maybe if she hadn’t slept in . . .

  Would it have made a difference?

  Bree felt her throat burn and gulped down the sizzling pain.

  She tucked the thoughts away and dropped down off the side stairs, strode up the aisle, and, without looking back, pushed her way into the foyer.

  “Ah, the woman of the hour!” Dan’s voice boomed as she emerged. “Here’s our star.”

  Dan stood beside her mother, whose arms were full with the largest bouquet Bree had ever seen.

  “Thank you!”

  Bree inhaled the flowers’ scent as she and her parents exchanged hugs and stepped outside.

  “Where’s Chip?” she said warily, feeling at least some of her tension release.
Maybe he had just come to the play. Maybe he had thought taunting her with a sign was enough for one day.

  “Right here,” Chip said, slipping his phone into his pocket as he rounded the corner. There was a hardness to his brow Bree recognized at once—his Work Brow, she liked to think of it—but no sooner had she seen it than it dissolved.

  His brown eyes caught hers and he smiled, as though remembering how much fun this was going to be. “Your parents said you settled on Bone Fire. If that’s still where you want to go.”

  She couldn’t do this. She couldn’t sit in a restaurant across from this man, this wolf in sheep’s clothing.

  “We skipped lunch, actually, when we got caught in traffic,” her mother supplied, a smile on her face. “So we’re starving! Whatever you pick, we’re game for! The night is all about you!”

  Bree fought the cold, hard lump in her throat trying to block her from speaking.

  Actually, I just want to go home.

  Actually, I just need to lie down.

  Actually, if Chip stands there one more second beside you guys, smiling at me like we’re in a Hallmark movie, I’m going to bring out the claws.

  “Bone Fire is perfect,” Bree said, fastening a smile on her lips. “Let’s walk.”

  Five minutes later, the four of them were directed toward the only empty booth in the restaurant. The bar stood a few feet across from them, and a band was setting up beside them, the banjo player hitting a string and turning the tuning key as he went. The air was heavy and thick with barbeque sauce slathered over smoking pork.

  “Mom, you can sit by me—”

  “Nonsense,” Chip said, looking toward her parents. “You two lovebirds stick together.”

  “Oh, aren’t you sweet,” her mother said, just as Chip dropped into the booth and sat on Bree.

  The scents of cedar and pine overwhelmed her—not unpleasantly—and she exhaled sharply under his weight and moved to her side.

  “Sorry, thought you’d already scooted over,” he said, smiling as he tugged on the red scarf overlaying his black sweater.

  She squinted, knowing exactly the last time he wore that ridiculous thing and exactly how many times he had scratched at it in front of Theo and Mr. Richardson like a man on the edge of sanity. When she glanced at her parents, they were looking at the two of them like he had just called them the lovebirds.

  “I love that scarf, dear,” Bree’s mother said as she picked up her menu. “Nice to see young men who can dress up on occasion.”

  “Oh, this?” Chip said, glancing down at it as if noticing it for the first time.

  “It’s awfully hot in here,” Bree said, glancing at the crowded bar. She scratched her neck. Blinked in Chip’s direction. “Feels like it must be ninety degrees. Don’t you think?”

  For three full seconds Chip’s innocent brown eyes stared back, his winning smile frozen on his face. “Not at all,” he replied. “Not. At. All. You know,” he said, snapping his attention to her parents, “I’ve been thinking about getting some floodlights for the house.”

  Dan’s attention lifted from the menu. “Really? What’s the cause?”

  “Oh, just a security measure. I feel no matter where you live, you can never be too safe.”

  Her parents started nodding like this was sage wisdom from an old man. You could see the approval flooding Bree’s mother’s eyes. “That’s just what I tell Bree all the time. You never can be too safe. I say that, honey, don’t I?”

  “Well, I’d be more than happy to install some at your house, too, Bree,” Chip said. Her mother’s eyes were now practically bursting with heart emojis. “Of course,” he continued, swinging back to face Bree, “the floodlights I’m getting put up tomorrow should be more than capable of covering us both. They’re the same 500-watt commercial-grade lights I used on the exterior of a gymnasium I helped build last year.” Chip picked up his menu and began a loathsome fake scanning motion.

  Bree squinted. So Chip was going to put in commercial-grade motion-sensor floodlights tomorrow and no doubt have them face directly into her bedroom window, where she could be blinded at random, insanity-inducing intervals throughout the night. Every night. Terrrrific.

  “That sounds expensive,” Bree put in.

  “A little over five hundred dollars when I first bought them,” Chip replied. “But can you put a price on safety? . . . Especially yours?”

  Bree’s mother put her hands on her chest.

  “Five hundred. Talk about an investment.”

  Bree was going to have to break out the BB gun Evie hid under her pillow.

  “That is just so thoughtful,” her mother said.

  “It’s nothing,” Chip said.

  “You are our answer to prayer,” Bree’s mother persisted.

  Oh, good grief.

  Mom’s eyes were starting to water. Bree felt like ducking under the table and squeezing between their legs for the exit.

  Her mother leaned in. Her voice was low as she looked at Chip. Her Bible-Belt, foothills-of-the-Smoky-Mountains accent grew as thick as the preacher’s of her mama’s country church. “And are you . . . well . . .” She shrugged to finish her words.

  He lifted a questioning brow.

  “Are you a religious man, Chip?”

  Bree almost hid under the table.

  This was excruciating.

  “Yes, Mom,” she answered for him. “He goes to Abingdon Community Church, and he’s got a Bible at the head of his bed. You don’t need to add him to your prayer list.” Sure, she was 99 percent certain he was praying to God to destroy her, but still. “I feel like we can safely avoid you trying to convert him in this conversation. Okay? Okay. Who’s thinking brisket?”

  Chip’s and Mom’s heads swiveled in her direction.

  “How did you know I go to Abingdon Community?”

  “Why have you seen his bed?”

  Both asked their questions at the same time, with the same expressions. Terrific.

  “You go every week to sit with your family before heading to family supper,” Bree said hastily. “Phone conversations carry. And I’ve seen his bed because he happens to have a bedroom directly across from mine.” She shifted uncomfortably. “And I’ve just happened to notice it. Once.”

  Her mother pursed her lips then, and Bree knew she was struggling between chastising her for looking into men’s windows and celebrating that they were one step closer to matrimony.

  Apparently she settled on glee, as her eyes started glimmering. “Well. Chip. Isn’t that nice to hear you’re so connected to your family. Family supper. We have those as well, only on Saturdays.”

  “Really?” Chip said. “So you had one yesterday?”

  Clearly it was the wrong question, because her mother’s and Dan’s expressions shifted. “Oh, not yesterday. We had a bit of a”—her mother’s eyes darted away from Bree—“family emergency.”

  Bree stopped halfway in the act of unrolling her napkin.

  “But we’re confident that it will all smooth out soon.” Her mother paused. Bit her lip. “Lord willing.”

  “What’s wrong?” Bree said, her words swift and low.

  Bree watched as Mom took a breath. Exhaled. “Anna’s back in Knoxville. They’re considering . . .” She hesitated. “Transferring to Memphis.”

  “To St. Jude’s?” Bree felt panic and release at the same time. She’d been trying to get her sister-in-law to transfer Anna to St. Jude’s since the diagnosis. For six months Daria had fought it. Saying Anna’s condition was serious but not dire. That traveling to Knoxville’s Children’s Hospital would be hard enough. That it was better for Anna to recover at home, where she belonged. That keeping her life as close to normal was important, more important than traveling across the state and turning their lives upside down, far away from everyone.

  But what was happening now? What had happened that was so awful to make Daria change her mind?

  The thought made Bree sick, and the stench of the food around them was
too much.

  “I’m actually feeling a bit under the weather,” Bree said, the booth suddenly claustrophobic.

  “Oh honey,” her mother began. “We didn’t mean to—”

  “I’m fine,” Bree said, nudging Chip’s shoulder. “It’s fine. I just need to lie down. I’ll call Daria when I get home.”

  Chip slid out of the seat, moving well back in order to let her stand. He opened his mouth as he looked to the door, and if she hadn’t known better, she might have said he had true concern in his eyes. It was clear he had no idea what was going on.

  “I can drive you home.”

  “No.” Bree shook her head. The crowd swelled. Bodies were everywhere. The banjo player struck a chord, and the speaker screamed in her ears. “No, you guys go on and eat.” Bree was walking backward now. “Thank you for coming tonight. This was really—” She bumped into a waiter.

  Finally, Bree spun toward the exit and escaped.

  A breeze rolled down Main Street and lifted her hair, and she took what felt like the first breath in two minutes. Her phone was buzzing in her pocket, but she turned it off. And began to walk.

  Chapter 16

  Chip

  Chip sat across from her parents through the meal, each of them mumbling a polite yet awkward word of sympathy about Bree’s sudden sickness, then proceeding to talk ten minutes longer than Chip would have thought possible about the type of barbecue sauce they preferred on their meat. When that topic ran out of steam they turned to tools, and for the rest of the meal Chip and Dan went through every tool in Dan’s shed, down to the Japanese ryoba saw.

  The three of them did everything in their power to pretend the situation did not exist, but when they walked back to Mr. and Mrs. Leake’s car, Bree’s mother crouched down and tucked herself into the passenger seat.

  “Here,” Dan said, pressing his business card into Chip’s hand. “This is my number. It’s always good to share your family’s emergency contacts with neighbors.”

  Wow. They really were worried about her.

  “Of course,” Chip said, putting it into his pocket and reciprocating with his own. “In case you ever need to reach Bree and are having trouble.”