Lizzie grimaced. “She was at the spa when my mom was there.”
“Ah, so what happened?”
She shrugged, seemingly lost in perusing the menu.
“And your dad? Come on, Lizzie, don’t leave me hanging…”
Flopping the menu onto the table, she winced. “It’s a mess. The whole thing.”
“Start with your mother at the spa.”
Lizzie’s expression turned angry. “She’s so pushy and superior, always shoving you at me.” Realizing who she was speaking to, the color drained from her face. “Not that—I mean…”
He waved her off. “I know, your mom wants you in my bed.”
Lizzie tried to smack him with her menu. “Elliot!”
Two large red plastic tumblers plopped onto the table between them. Marge grinned wickedly, her eyes darting back and forth between the couple. “Any idea what you two— eh-hem— want?” she asked, with an emphasis on the word want.
Lizzie’s forehead dropped into her palm, her elbow on the table.
Elliot grinned. “Give us a few more minutes, please.”
“Sure thing, love,” the waitress chuckled with a wink as she turned away.
As he relaxed back in the booth and stretched out his legs under the table, Elliot’s expression grew serious. “Sorry, Lizzie, please continue.”
With a vacant stare, Lizzie looked up. “I can’t believe this. The whole town knows.”
“Everyone but me, apparently.”
She sighed. “My dad came out to try and smooth things out with me and my mom.”
He nodded. “I figured. Did it work?”
Her forehead scrunched. “It was weird. My dad has never talked to me like that. He always just kind of— let my mom handle things.”
Elliot lifted the menu and glanced over it. “Well, perhaps you’ve given him the opportunity to get a word in edgewise for once.”
She nodded, still a bit dazed, then shook herself visibly and looked down at her menu. “I guess.” Then she slapped the menu down on the table, startling Elliot. “He had a VW bus like mine until I was two! Can you believe that? I don’t remember it, but I guess on some level I knew…”
Elliot’s menu sagged to the table, his eyes wide. “You mean— your parents had a bus like that when you were little? That’s why you want one?”
She shrugged. “I guess so. Makes sense in some weird way.”
Elliot thought for a moment. “What else did he say?”
With her fingers spread on the menu, Lizzie continued excitedly. “That’s just it, he told me all kinds of stuff, like he traveled with a theater company during the summer when he was in college.”
“Your dad?” Elliot asked in shock. “But he never says anything.”
She nodded. “I know. Crazy, isn’t it?”
“What’s crazy?” asked Marge, cocking one hip against the booth back next to Lizzie, her pencil and pad ready.
Lizzie craned her neck up at her new friend. “My dad. He told me that he was in a traveling theater group in college.”
Tapping her pencil against her lips, Marge nodded. “I can see that.”
Elliot and Lizzie gaped at each other incredulously across the table, then back to Marge.
“Excuse me?” Lizzie asked. “Have you met my father?”
“Oh sure, he and your mom have come in a few times for lunch.” she answered, confused by the couple’s reaction. “It’s not like there are a lot of other options around here.”
Lizzie worked to collect her thoughts, visibly confused. “And you think my dad looks like a stage actor…”
Marge grinned, a sparkle in her eye. “He’s a handsome one, your father. I could see him on the stage. By the way, isn’t the dress rehearsal for the play tonight?”
Elliot and Lizzie’s gaze met again, each wondering exactly what Marge saw in the chubby bald man.
“Anyway, what would you two like to eat this fine afternoon?” Marge finished, bringing everyone’s attention back to lunch.
Lizzie shook her head in wonder. “I’ll just have a salad please. With lemon, no dressing.”
Marge wrote it down then turned to Elliot.
He handed his menu to the waitress. “The turkey club with fries would be great.”
“Sounds good, I’ll be right back.” With that Marge turned and headed toward the kitchen. “Hey Bud,” she called out, “sling the turkey and chop a head, no dressing!”
“Oh my…” Elliot muttered, watching the waitress disappear behind the counter.
Amused, Lizzie adjusted her napkin-wrapped silverware. “Anyway, he pretty much floored me. I’m still not sure what I was supposed to get out of the whole thing.”
“Whole thing…?” Elliot asked, confused.
“My dad…the visit today,” she reminded him. “It was nice, don’t get me wrong, but it didn’t really change anything with my mom.”
“Your mother…” Elliot drawled. “What is to become of her and her dreams for you?”
Lizzie snorted. “She’s not getting them! Any of them.” In the silence that followed, Lizzie realized she’d insulted Elliot. “I mean…”
“I understand your concern, Lizzie, I have an overbearing father as well, but at some point you have to begin making your own choices in life.”
Her hands shot out in an irritated gesture. “What do you think I’ve been doing the last year? Sitting on my ass in the condo my mother selected?”
He frowned, realizing he’d made her angry.
“I’ve worked my butt off ‘making my own choices,’” she mimicked in a false voice.
“I realize that,” Elliot tried. “I just meant—”
Lizzie sighed, deflated and embarrassed. “No… Sorry. I shouldn’t take it out on you. I just feel like I finally created my dream and now it’s all ruined.”
Elliot was quiet for a moment, then tried again. “You still have your house and your animals and your job.”
She shrugged, her eyes on her lap.
“Lizzie…” he said, extending his hand across the table.
Glancing up, she attempted to smile, but failed miserably.
“I’m on your side, babe, you know that, right?”
Her lips pursed and her gaze dropped, but she put her hand in his. How could he be on her side when being with him meant her mother had won?
Chapter Eighteen
The loom instruction book lay on the floor, open to page 124. Sitting in a pile of loom pieces, Lizzie compared the two wooden poles in her hands. One was a left and one was a right, but she had no idea which was which. As she twisted them this way and that, her brow creased. Exchanging hands, she tried again, comparing them to the diagram in the book.
With a huff, she tossed down the pieces of wood and stood, rubbing her lower back. Why was everything so frustrating? Nothing seemed to be going smoothly and no end was in sight. Even her much-anticipated loom had become an impossible chore.
She wandered to the window, vacantly staring across her yard and past the barn. Half the trees were bare now, the ground littered with a thick carpet of leaves. She knew the pile of leaves stacking up on the far side of the barn, blown there by the wind, would be twice the size today than it had been yesterday. Farm work never ended.
Turning from the window, she scowled down at the pile of parts that should resemble a recognizable loom by now. She could see it in her mind, complete and threaded, pulled tight with half a yard of finished fabric. Unfortunately, at this point, the loom was the only part of her deteriorating life that she could see coming together.
With a long sigh, she stepped cautiously over the loom mess and headed to her bedroom. The play dress rehearsal at the inn would be getting underway, and she’d promised Tara she’d be there to help. Thoughts of her friend brought a new concern. It was obvious Tara wasn’t feeling well, and it was high time she had a talk with her about it. Lizzie didn’t know Tara all that well, but she was certain the girl was no shrinking violet. Something wasn’t right.<
br />
As she stood in front of her closet wearing only her underwear, lunch at the diner with Elliot came to mind. He’d tried to understand, to be helpful, and she’d shut him down. Amazingly, he didn’t seem to be put off by her overbearing mother, or her slightly weird father; as a matter of fact, he appeared to like them.
A headache bloomed in her left temple, and she reached up to rub at it. So much pressure. Elliot was not supposed to come along and interfere with her plan. Her mother should have stayed back home.
She tried to conjure up a memory of how things had been before the craziness began. For a few short blissful days, her life had been quiet and calm. She’d let her hair blow in the breeze and had felt whole and calm. To be fair, Elliot had been a lot of fun. She remembered him prancing around the corral with Ingrid in those crazy overalls, the picnic by the river, his fingers on her skin…
With a huff she pulled her thoughts back to the present, determined to get on with her evening. She slammed the hangers in the closet over, one at a time, not seeing the clothes swaying in rhythm to her snit.
Finally, she settled for sleek jeans tucked into her knee-high laced leather boots and a plain white tunic top. She may as well not add fuel to her mother’s fire. She decided to forgo jewelry but she did tug on a well-worn, faded denim jacket and large tattered loop scarf. Leaving her hair down, she headed for the stairs. She’d have just enough time to feed the animals before heading out.
* * *
Elliot wandered onto the inn porch with a cup of coffee in his hand and Lizzie on his mind. Leaning against a column, he admired the blazing pink sunset spreading across the sky. The crickets would soon be chirping, he thought as he sipped the steaming brew, wishing it had come from Lizzie’s old percolator.
Cars and trucks were parked pell-mell around the barn and voices could be heard raised in excitement as the dress rehearsal got underway.
A breeze stirred, ruffling his hair and tossing leaves across the yard. The weather was changing, he acknowledged, with both hands warm around the steaming mug. Once the sun dropped behind the horizon the temperature would drop, signaling that autumn was drawing to a close. How had he missed the changing of the seasons back home? It seemed like one day it was summer and the next there was snow. Had the change always been this deliciously obvious, this brilliant?
A resounding crash and lingering clatter of rolling debris came from the barn, causing Elliot to hunch his shoulders with a wince. If the kids survived this production, it would be a miracle.
Tara hurried onto the porch, tugging her arms into the sleeves of a jacket. “What now?” she muttered, hustling down the steps and across the yard.
The screen creaked open again, and Elliot turned to see Beatrice standing in the doorway. “Is everything all right down there?”
Elliot shrugged, mindful not to spill his coffee. “No idea. Justin is there. I’m sure he can handle it.”
Beatrice moved to his side, craning her neck, as if to see past the barn and into the theater. “I don’t know—they may need a hand…”
Harold huffed onto the porch with a ham sandwich clutched in one hand. “Now Bea, you don’t need to interfere with that play.” He bit off a large bite of sandwich and chewed, speaking from the side of his mouth, crumbs clinging to his huge mustache. “Do I need to chain you down to keep you away from those kids? They have things in hand.”
Beatrice sniffed, tossing him an irritated glance. “I disagree. They obviously need some professional advice. I don’t know why you’re not helping.”
With a chuckle, Harold tore off another large bite.
“Well, I’m going down there,” she stated, all business, tugging at the hem of her polyester blazer. “A bad dress rehearsal is vital for a smooth opening night, but there are limits.”
Harold shrugged and headed for a porch chair, his mind once again on his sandwich.
Elliot watched with a silent chuckle as the older woman hurried across the yard, glancing over her shoulder, as if her husband might sprint down the steps and drag her back.
Pushing away from the porch column, he headed down the steps and across the yard, unable to resist the spectacle in the barn. It might be a train wreck, but he couldn’t look away.
* * *
Lizzie pinched the bridge of her nose. From her parking spot at the spa, she could already hear a cacophony of noise rising from the barn. If the collection of vehicles clustered around the property was any clue, half the town was here. Deciding to get it over with, she headed across the yard. A cool breeze whipped around her legs and she was glad she’d worn jeans and a jacket. As she rounded the corner of the barn, it was obvious that chaos reigned. And there was her mother, right in the center of it.
Students wandered, clustered in groups around the stage, wearing various pieces of costumes. Winnie and Becky were speaking with Mac, the local plumber whose granddaughter was in the play, and all three were apparently distraught. A set background lay broken on the floor. Mr. Chatterton, harassed as ever and near an apoplectic fit, spoke to Tara and Justin, his arms waving in all directions. Beatrice was adding her two cents, and from the look of it, no one was listening to her. Elliot stood to one side of the stage, sipping a cup of coffee. There obviously wasn’t much he could do at this point, she conceded.
Surprised to find her father at her side, Lizzie sidestepped in shock. “What’s going on down there, do you know?” she asked him.
Harold nodded, his mustache twitching. “It would appear that they have set trouble, but the big hubbub is about one of the leads dropping out.”
“Oh no, which part?”
Shoving his hands in his pockets, he shrugged. “It’s the girl who was supposed to play Miss Hannigan, the mean biddy who runs the orphanage.”
Lizzie turned back to the stage, understanding what a problem this would present on dress rehearsal night. “Are they sure she won’t be back tomorrow?”
“She’s in the hospital with a fractured leg, so there’s no hope of her making it.”
“That’s too bad,” Lizzie said, feeling a pang in the pit of her stomach. “The kids have all worked so hard…”
Harold pulled his hands from his pocket and stroked his mustache, deep in thought. “You know, your mother could play the part.”
Lizzie’s head snapped back to him. “What?”
“Remember those summers I spent with the theater troupe? Well, that’s where I met your mother.”
Taking a step back to stare at her father as if he were a stranger, Lizzie could hardly speak. “But—but I thought—you met Mother in Boston.”
He shook his head. “Nope, met her when our troupe came into town and performed at the city center. She came to the afterparty and…well, the rest is history.”
“The rest of what?” Lizzie cried, her expression incredulous. “I never knew any of this! She led me to believe…”
Harold chucked. “Calm down. We just acted with the theater troupe for a bit, and your mother—well, she played that Miss Hannigan character.”
Lizzie plopped limply into a bleacher seat, her face pale. She stared silently at the group onstage arguing, then finally looked back up at her father. “You mean to tell me…”
He waited patiently for the news to sink in.
“That my mother… My mother…” she added for effect. “Starred in a production of Annie?”
Harold nodded with a grin. “Yup. She was damn good, too.”
Lizzie couldn’t think, couldn’t process the information her father was sharing with her. How had she gone through her entire life, her experiences with theater, and not known that her mother had been onstage? “I don’t understand, she never said a word about it—I never—I didn’t even…” At a loss, she slumped on the bench, her eyes wide with shock.
Sitting next to her, Harold offered Lizzie a one-armed hug. “She doesn’t like to talk about those days. Traveling in the VW and all that.”
Lizzie jumped up and stared down at her father in horror, h
er arms waving in dismay. “My mother did not travel in a VW bus!”
Looking sheepish, Harold scratched one side of his bald head. “Well now, she didn’t really want you to know…”
Forced to accept her father’s admission as fact, Lizzie paced back and forth in front of the man, wringing her hands. “I can’t believe this!” she sputtered. “It’s like I don’t even know you two!”
“Maybe I shouldn’t have said anything…” Harold began, only to have Lizzie jolt to a stop and lean down into his face, her hands on her hips and her expression bright with astonishment.
“What else have you kept secret, Dad?” she cried. “Were you like—hippies, or pot heads, or…” she shuddered. “Or something really crazy like—I’m a love child, conceived in the bus on one of your outrageous road trips?”
Harold looked away, a blush creeping up his face.
“Oh my God!” Lizzie sputtered, collapsing again onto a bench seat, reeling from the news. “That’s it, isn’t it! I was a— I’m a—”
“Hey now, we got married right away,” Harold objected, shaking his finger at his daughter.
Lizzie’s hands rose, then fell limp to her sides. “I don’t believe this. Any of it!”
“Well…” the older man drawled, brushing at his pants, “there never seemed to be a need to tell you till now…”
“My mother—you two—” Lizzie couldn’t even form the ideas her father shared into coherent words.
Harold rose with a grunt and craned his neck toward the house. “I’m going to see if I can find another sandwich,” he muttered, patting Lizzie’s arm as he strolled past her.
* * *
Cupping one hand over his eyes to block the stage lights, Elliot noticed Lizzie sitting alone on a bleacher, staring at her lap. Watching her intently as he sipped his coffee, he realized something was very wrong. She’d been upset for days, but this was different. She appeared drained and comatose more than angry.
She glanced up and he waved, catching her attention. Motioning for her to join him on stage, he waited for her to comply, but she sat staring into space. Finally, she heaved herself up from the bench and started toward the front of the theater. Her feet dragged with each step and Elliot couldn’t read her expression. Something had changed.
Hometown Series Box Set Page 76
