Chapter 24
Bree
It was time.
Bree’s legs felt like electric currents as she leaned against the wall of the dressing room where she’d been standing approximately two hours, biting her fingernails down to the nub.
Some had auditioned and gone on to other things—like Kayleigh, who walked offstage after a riveting performance, kissed her hand then waved toward Stephen like she was Regina George in Mean Girls, and said she was off to pick up her Kroger ClickList.
Bree was among those who stayed.
Found a spot to pace backstage.
And waited.
At last, Stephen stood at the wall outside the dressing room door, stapling the cast list to the bulletin board.
“C’mon,” Birdie said, grabbing Bree by the arm and yanking her off the wall.
Bree let herself be dragged for several feet.
“Nope.” Birdie halted suddenly. Dropped Bree’s arm to cross her own. “I don’t think I can do this.”
Birdie started shrinking before Bree’s eyes. Her arms wrapped tighter across her pink leotard waist with each second, as though she were a python trying to constrict herself.
Bree rolled her eyes and sighed. Grabbed Birdie by the shoulders. “Fine. But next time tell me what role you want to have going on here. We can’t both play the pathetically insecure actress hiding in the back of the dressing room. Let’s go.”
Birdie, however, pressed her teeth against her bottom lip so hard it started to turn white. She shook her head. “Nope. I can’t.”
“Sure you can.”
Birdie shook her head.
“Sure.”
Birdie, whose face was growing as pale as her tights, shook once more.
So Bree started pushing Birdie down the length of the room like a football player driving a training sled across the field. Which, given Birdie had never taken her tap shoes off and weighed about ninety-seven pounds, made for a fairly simple push.
By the time they were at the bulletin board a crowd had formed. People jostled for a view. Craned necks. Snapped pictures of the cast list and then turned, typing vigorously on their phones.
Bree moved forward, a full head above everyone else.
She could tell Birdie didn’t yet have a clear view of the list. She could tell by the way Birdie slid her hand into Bree’s and squeezed.
But Bree had seen it.
Five seconds later, when Birdie screamed and jumped straight into Bree’s arms, Bree knew Birdie had seen it too.
“We did it!” Birdie squealed, squeezing and hopping and, for such petite arms, crushing the breath right out of Bree’s ribcage. “We did it.”
Birdie pulled back, her face radiant. “Congratulations, Zelda Zanders and chorus girl.”
Bree grinned. “And congratulations to you, Lina Lamont. I’ve never met a more deserving actress playing the undeserving actress.”
Evan tapped on Birdie’s shoulder, his own face radiant.
While the room hummed, Bree turned and took in the world around her.
The hanging rack of bejeweled costumes glinting in the corner of the dressing room. The dressing-room tables beneath aureate bulbs strewn with mascaras, eyelash cases, lipsticks, curling irons, cans of hair spray. The buzz of conversations, many already turning to topics of practice the following morning, of plans to celebrate with food at Chick-N-Little.
The Barter—theatre as a whole—wasn’t a career she had ever thought she’d choose. But still, there was something peaceful, something relieving, something nice about the knowledge that this was going to be her occupational home.
Her place.
Her people.
For now, yes. But maybe, possibly, for good.
Most of the group was now halfway down the hall.
Birdie stopped when it was obvious Bree hadn’t followed. “You coming, Bree?”
Bree’s eyes flitted toward the opposite hall, toward another exit.
Where, just outside the door, he would be waiting.
“I’ve got plans actually,” Bree said, smiling as she turned her gaze back on Birdie. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Birdie’s eyes danced as she pointed at Bree. “Because we’ll be here. Tomorrow.”
Bree watched Birdie turn back to the group, her bounce so weightless she appeared to be walking on clouds. Probably because she was.
Just as Bree was.
She turned around.
Faced the door.
And took a breath as she started walking toward it.
She noticed the irony as the adrenaline started to well within her, just as it had the first night she had marched down that same hall for that same door. The ball of nerves in her stomach pushed her onward.
Get there. Hurry up. What if he’s gone?
Now there was a thought. What if his meeting was over long ago? What if he’d finished up and had sat there, wondering when on earth she was going to get done. Got bored. Started doubting this crazy scheme. Started doubting everything.
Bree felt her steps quickening, getting closer to the door.
She wrapped her fingers around the metal handle and pushed the door open.
Light flooded the hall as she took a step onto the metal platform. A slow one this time. Cautious.
She took another.
Bent down.
A bouquet of flowers stood wedged into a fresh roll of duct tape and the slits of the platform. A simple, folded piece of notebook paper was taped to the bouquet’s plastic wrapper.
She opened it.
MEET ME HOME
Home.
Bree’s head snapped up. She looked around.
Pressed the bouquet to her chest with one hand and grabbed the rail with the other.
Quickly she descended the steps and moved to her car.
Home.
This time it wasn’t Chip but Bree who had the lead foot as her old Subaru sped across Plumb Alley, slammed to a stop at each sign and turn, and ascended the hill toward Stonewall Heights Drive. The bouquet of flowers shook on the passenger seat beside her; when she turned into Stonewall Heights they flew off the seat altogether.
She pressed her lips together and forced herself to ease up on the pedal as Mrs. Lewis yanked on her dog leash while she stood on the sidewalk, watching Bree’s car rumble by.
Bree caught Mrs. Lewis’s upturned lips, however, as she passed.
What was Chip up to?
Whatever it was, Mrs. Lewis knew.
And as her view rose above the parallel-parked vehicles and shrubbery, she knew too.
Bree pulled the car into the driveway and pushed the gearshift into park.
Russell, with his giant head resting on the porch steps, jerked up at the sight of Bree’s car. Bree yanked the glove compartment open, grabbed the Frisbee, and threw open her door.
Because there Chip stood, holding a shovel, no longer the sleek, gray-suited man of the morning but the rugged, holey T-shirt man she’d loved to hate so much and now, somehow, just loved.
Sweat dripped freely from his forehead, as though he’d been too focused on shoveling to stop and push it aside. Fresh dirt was smeared across one cheek.
And almost all the way across the driveway was a new stretch of uprooted dirt, just twelve inches away from the original. A new Invisible Fence line. A real one.
He saw her and frowned.
“Aw, Bree,” he said, straightening. “Evie told me she thought you’d be another couple of hours at least—”
But Chip never got to finish the rest of his sentence. Because Bree crossed the line, threw the Frisbee at the oncoming dog, and marched straight into him.
With one hand pressed to his dirt-streaked cheek, Bree caught his lips with hers.
She heard the shovel drop first.
A moment later his hands wrapped around her shoulders and pulled her in with the same power and determination she’d witnessed time and time again as he dug or drilled or hammered.
But his lips were gentle
, disciplined. Slow, as if he’d wanted to do this for a long time. Methodical, as if he wanted to explore the lips, cheeks, temples he’d never been quite able to reach.
He wanted her too. Until that moment, until she felt every soft kiss delivered like a whispered affirmation, the grip of his calloused hands like a soft pledge, she hadn’t been certain.
Her breath grew shaky, unstable, just as the weight of Russell’s flank wedged between them.
Chip pulled back, and when he did, there was a timidity in his eyes as if to say, Well then, I suppose I’ve shown all my cards now.
She leaned over Russell and kissed Chip again once, hard, to show him she could show all her cards too.
Russell nudged her again, and just as her knees started to buckle she recovered. They both looked down to see him, panting through open jaws, trying to press the Frisbee into her hand.
She reached for it and the dog sat, panting, his brown eyes so doe-like, so eager, you’d think she had offered him a Slim Jim.
“Well, whaddya know, Chip? The Frisbee trick works.”
She threw the Frisbee, and the dog bounded after it.
When she returned her gaze, she realized Chip was still watching her. With his face inches from hers a smile crept up his lips. A private smile, a challenging smile. His eyes crinkled as he spoke. “Bree Leake. Would you ever doubt me?”
In all her life—with Nana’s home behind her, the maroon-and-yellow flags waving merrily at the Barter not so far away, the friends and the neighbors and this man looking at her as if with no intention of ever looking away, and yes, even the dog racing toward her across the yard, drool flying from his rippling jowls—she had never felt more content.
Epilogue
Two Years Later
The sun shone on the sun-kissed yard as Russell chased a chicken and Chip stepped off the porch to greet the last of the cars pulling in.
Inflated blue balloons were tied to the yellow mailbox. Parked cars and vans covered the street as far as the eye could see, abandoned to the long afternoon. A faint beeping of an oven timer came from an open window.
“Is that a . . . ?” Pete’s wife said, her words faltering as she seemed to decide whether to get out of the car. She held a large rectangular box wrapped in baby-blue paper dotted with illustrations of teddy bears and bottles.
Chip walked toward them. “Pot-bellied pig? Yes, getting fattened up for Christmas, I’m afraid.”
He smiled, watching her scramble to move away from the black-haired, 150-pound pot-bellied pig sticking its nose in the air of the neighbor’s yard. His yard. Or rather, his yard until a year ago, when he’d said “I do” to the woman of his life and Evie said, “You sell me this house or I’ll never feed you a donut again.”
He’d immediately handed her the keys.
He nodded to the pig. “Don’t worry. He’s got an Invisible Fence.”
The pig turned, its purple collar glinting before it made for the backyard.
Chip smiled and shrugged. “Neighbors. What are you gonna do?”
“I heard that,” Evie said, pushing the screen door open. His godtwins—two of his six godchildren to be exact—ran out. “Have you heard the oven?”
“It just started beeping,” Chip said, moving aside while Evie—and Gerald, their friendly neighborhood UPS man—walked by.
“Guys, don’t run until you’re outside,” Cassie called, her voice followed shortly by her youngest, Timmy, on one hip. Once outside she set him down, and he—with toddler curls as wild and blond as his brother’s—flew down the stairs to join the fun.
“Oh, Evie,” Birdie trilled, raising her empty glass from her perch on the lawn chair beside Mrs. Lewis. “We’re gonna need a refill.”
“Get up and help then!” Evie called back.
“Honey, we would,” Birdie said, grinning wickedly. “Honestly, we would. But the baby shower is thrown by the best friend, and as you have reminded us one thousand times in the past three months, Bree picked you to throw her shower. Ergo, be her best friend. So . . . chop-chop,” Birdie said, settling back in her seat.
Evie grunted. But even from this angle, Chip could see her cheeks grow pink with pride.
In the middle of the yard, Theo stood in the center of a group of children.
“Now this is the football. And this,” Theo said, bending over a blue bucket and lifting a strip of fabric high into the air, “is the mechanism that straps to your waist. The fundamental goal, as I understand it, is to pull this flag from the offensive player holding said football . . .”
Chip’s goddaughter Deidre raised her hand.
Theo paused. “Yes?”
“Or we can just knock each other over.”
“Oh no,” Theo replied, giving a small chuckle. “This is not Lord of the Flies. We do this civilly. Not to mention some of your parents have substandard health insurance plans and haven’t reached their yearly deductibles.”
“Wait for me!” a girl called from inside.
Chip, holding the screen, stepped out of the way just as Anna raced through it. The afternoon light reflected off her cheeks. The baby-blue bandana she had chosen for the day was firmly in place, but just underneath were shoots of brown hair peeking out. She was but a few months from feeling comfortable enough to throw her bandanas away. She peeled off the stairs after them, laughter rising with a strength they had all waited, hoped, prayed for so long to see.
“Are they starting the game already?” Bree’s voice came from the other side of the screen now, too, led by her six-month bump.
She grinned as she caught sight of Pete and his wife and spread her arms out for a hug.
As the little house on a nondescript little street beside the Appalachian Mountains settled into the afternoon, bees danced around children as they played their games outside, and laughter leaked from every crack in every window. And word from the neighbors that day was that the house glowed with insuppressible joy.
Like a glimpse into the next world.
Discussion Questions
Neighbors can be a blessing in your life or a curse. What is your life like with your particular neighbors? What are some things they do that you appreciate or cannot stand?
If you had a neighbor move next door to you who drove you to sanity’s ledge, what humorous thing would you want to do to get that person out of your life?
What do you do to be a good neighbor? What are three things you could do in the coming month to become a better one?
Chip and Bree both let their emotions get the best of them. Have you ever made a rash decision in a moment of anger that you later regretted? What is one coping method that has benefitted you in maintaining self-control in those heated moments?
Which character’s weakness do you identify with most? Why? Which character’s strength do you identify with most? Why?
Bree Leake has jumped from job to job, relationship to relationship, and house to house throughout her life. Why is that? Why hadn’t she settled down?
“If I find in myself desires which nothing in this world can satisfy, the only logical conclusion is that I was meant for another world.” What does this quote by C. S. Lewis mean? Can you relate to it? How?
Despite the fact that Chip argued with him, Chip’s father won the bid and lost a lot of money in order to protect his son. Have you ever experienced this kind of sacrifice in your life—someone taking the negative consequences for something in your place?
Chip loses the bid, but walks outside feeling like he has won, and that he can breathe for the first time. Why is that?
What does Evie learn throughout her time living with Bree that changes her? How?
Who is your favorite character and why?
The quaint town they live in is Abingdon, Virginia, population of 8,000. What would you love about living in a town this size? What would you dislike? And if given the choice between a city or a small town, which would you choose?
Acknowledgments
Where else could I start, but with
everyone at Thomas Nelson? From the amazing efforts of the sales team to gorgeous designs of my cover designer, I am appreciative of you all every single day. Little did I know when my very first contract came into my inbox two short years ago just how much you guys would mean to me—as esteemed colleagues and as friends. I love living this publishing dream out with you all, with special gratitude to: Jocelyn Bailey, Kerri Potts, Kimberly Carlton, Amanda Bostic, Becky Monds, Paul Fisher, Matt Bray, Savannah Summers, Laura Wheeler, Jodi Hughes, Marcee Wardell, Margaret Kercher, and Nicole Andress. And to everyone in sales who gets this book to readers via Target, Walmart, Books-A-Million, libraries, Barnes & Noble, and independent stores, thank you!! You made my dreams come true with The Dating Charade, and I’m so terribly grateful for all your continuing hard work on behalf of my books.
Jocelyn, you are my rock, and I’d say I apologize for leaning on you so much, except that implies things will change and . . . yeah that won’t happen. Kerri, um yeah. Same for you, dear. You’re stuck with me and TikTok madness chats will continue to ensue. Erin Healy, I loved working through line edits with you! Thank you for being so kindhearted and soothing as you masterfully edited this book. Kim, you didn’t even work on this book, but I don’t care! You are the friend and soul encourager who helps me wade these publishing waters, so you definitely make it on the page too. To the incredible cover designer of this book, Halie Cotton, thank you! And to everyone else, I always love being welcomed with your smiles and hugs and thoughtful guidance. I have never desired to work in an office building, except whenever I go to Thomas Nelson and daydream about working among you. Hence why my next book is about an editor at a publishing house . . .
To Kimberly Whalen, I am so grateful for your amazing industry knowledge and guidance and communication! Thank you for giving 100 percent in all you do, and I only hope to give 100 percent back!
To Abbi Hart (@adventuresofaliterarynature), Amber Vandivort (@ambersrfdream), and Grace E (@readingbee.444) for reading this book in a flurry during Christmas to give me feedback. Thank you!! To Christine Berg, for always listening, reading, and giving me thoughtful feedback!
The Cul-de-Sac War Page 25