A Road Through Mountains (Love's Encore Book 1)

by Miranda MacLeod

  Cecily groaned. “No. Is that what she said in her message? You know that me calling her back won't change her mind.”

  “No, there's no changing her mind.”

  She poured a second glass of wine. If Mother and Daddy were coming for Thanksgiving, she would need it. Her quiet holiday routine—homemade turkey and fixings, which she actually enjoyed cooking, followed by Chet disappearing for the rest of the day to watch football while she and Tyler binge-watched films in the basement—was about to be turned on its ear.

  Chet's parents would have to be invited, of course, plus at least a dozen of their shared business contacts and political cronies. She'd have to add a leaf to the dining room table. And hire a caterer to fix the meal, plus someone to help serve and clean up. She'd have a migraine well before she even had the chance to sit down and listen to her mother and her mother-in-law make thinly veiled criticisms of every choice she'd made—both with the dinner menu and every other aspect of her adult life. And if either of them got their way, Chet would soon launch his campaign for Attorney General and she could look forward to entertaining like that on a regular basis from now on.

  No more time for hobbies if that happens. The therapists are going to have a field day with me for sure.

  “At least you'll be back from Malaysia in time for their visit, right?”

  “Huh? Oh, yeah. Should be.” Chet looked up from his phone, which he had been scowling at in his hand. “Damn it,” he muttered, glancing back down. “The property tax payment got screwed up again. I'm going to have to fix this before I leave. I really don't have time for this.”

  “I can do it,” Cecily volunteered, though she wasn't sure why. She'd never dealt with property taxes in her life. But she'd been thinking about Susan and Rorie all day, both such competent and independent women, and she didn't come out at all well in the comparison.

  Chet laughed. “You want to pay the property taxes? You think you can handle it?”

  Cecily bristled, not liking his tone. “I'm a grown woman. I think I can handle it.” She paused for a moment as the doubt crept in. “You might have to walk me through it, just a little,” she added sheepishly.

  Chet studied her for a moment with an indulgent look usually reserved for puppies and small children. “Okay. You'll have to log in to the town website, which means you'll need the account number from the bill, which is filed in my office, and also the password, which I have written down in a notebook in the safe. You know the safe combination?”

  Cecily swallowed nervously, already feeling more overwhelmed than she wanted to let on. “Um, I think so.”

  “Okay, so once you do that, you need to select the bank account, but don't use the regular checking, okay? You should use the—you know what, on second thought, I can take care of it. It really won't take me long.”

  Cecily knew by his response that she must look like she was seconds away from a full blown panic attack. Pathetic. Long ago in acting class, she'd learned to mask her emotions and project the image she wanted with relative ease, but this had been a spur of the moment idea and she hadn't given herself enough time to prepare. Plus, she was out of practice, and better at hiding anger and disgust than terror. Still, she was very disappointed in herself and her total inadequacy.

  “No, Chet. It's okay. I can do it.” Even she didn't believe her words.

  “Nah, don't worry your little head over it.”

  With that he left the kitchen, and left Cecily seething where she stood. That condescending son-of-a—

  “Dad!” Tyler's voice cried out joyfully from the other room.

  “My boy!”

  On hearing their exchange, Cecily's growing anger popped like a balloon. Whatever else he was, Chet was a good father. Tyler loved his dad, and Cecily would plaster a smile on her face before going into the other room, for his benefit. If it weren't for Tyler, well … there really was no sense thinking about it. He was their son, and she was determined that, as far as he was concerned, they would appear to have a normal, happy marriage. Tyler deserved that, from both of them, and they'd managed it this long for his sake.

  When she made it to the living room, Chet's feet were just disappearing from view at the top of the stairs and Tyler sat alone on the couch, his attention centered on the phone in his hand. He looked up as she approached, and the sight of his goofy grin washed away the last bitter traces of her conversation with Chet.

  “Hey, Mom! I didn't get a chance to ask before. How was your first day at the theater?”

  Cecily smiled. She could always count on her kid to remember the things that were important to her, and that was really all she needed. “It was pretty good.” That she had her reservations about it wasn't something he needed to know.

  “Did you meet anyone famous yet?” he asked, his eyes lighting up eagerly.

  “Not yet. But I can confirm that Bailey Carter will be there.”

  Tyler thrust a fist in the air. “Yes! The guys at school are going to be so jealous. I do get to visit, right?”

  Cecily settled herself on the couch beside him. “We'll have to see. Oh, and somebody is supposed to be an Academy Award winner, I guess. I forgot to ask who, but probably a designer or something, so I don't know if you'd know them.”

  Tyler's eyes went slightly buggy in excitement. “Are you kidding? I have a whole list I've made from IMDb of my favorites—costume, production, music. It doesn't have to be an actor. Meeting anyone on that list would be awesome!”

  “Well, I can't make any promises that they're on your list.” Cecily shook her head, bemused. “You know what, kiddo? You're pretty intense with this hobby of yours.” She ruffled his hair with her fingers.

  Tyler groaned. “Stop. You sound like Dad. Yes, I'm doing my homework. Yes, I've got my application ready for Yale. No, I don't plan to be a bum on the street and bring shame upon the Parker name.”

  Cecily shot him a look. “Smart alec. You know I support you having lots of interests, right?”

  Tyler shifted somewhat nervously. “Yeah. About that, Mom. What if film wasn't just, you know, a hobby?”

  “What do you mean?” she asked, perplexed.

  “I mean, I really enjoy it, and—”

  “Sure you do! And it'll be a great stress reliever when you're in law school to have an interest like that.”

  Tyler nodded, looking like he was about to say something, but changing his mind. “Yeah. Yeah, that's what I was thinking, too.”

  Smiling, Cecily squeezed his shoulders in a hug. “It's like the theater was for me when I was in college.”

  “And now, too, right?” Tyler added.

  Cecily nodded. “Right. Exactly.”

  She stood and walked back to the kitchen, her stomach tying itself in knots once more. She plunged her hands into the sink, the water tepid now, and started scrubbing the bottom of the roasting pan as though somehow the answers she was searching for were hidden underneath the grease. Could she really spend the next eight weeks at the Oakwood, knowing Rorie would be there?

  She had the weekend to work this through and figure out what to do. Chet would be gone in the morning, and she always thought more clearly when he was away. Plus Tyler wouldn't go back to school until Sunday afternoon, so she wouldn't be completely alone with her thoughts.

  And on Monday? If she still felt this way on Monday, she'd call Bev and send her regrets.

  4

  Cecily hunched her shoulders, flinching as another ill-fated piece of crockery hit its mark against the back wall of the rehearsal hall, shattering into a million tiny shards on contact. The prop master was going to be furious. The actors had arrived at the Oakwood just a few hours ago, but at the current rate every breakable item in the room would be smashed before the end of the first day. The towering blonde diva commanded the raised platform that served as a kind of stage. She palmed another plate as the other actors watched in dumbstruck awe. She raised her arm higher, winding up for the pitch, and Cecily took this as her cue to leave. She pulled t
he door open, shutting her eyes instinctively as she braced for another explosion of china, and stumbled into the hallway. And—thwak!—squarely into the chest of an oncoming Rorie Mulloy, knocking her to the floor.

  Shit.

  It wasn't the first time Cecily had seen her since their initial reunion in the scene shop last week. Since resolving to go through with her volunteer commitment despite the other woman's daily presence at the theater—after all, she'd made a commitment and should see it through—Cecily had become hyper-aware of her surroundings. Her fingertips pulsed with that familiar shot of adrenaline at the slightest glimpse of shining black braids or hint of an alto voice entering the room. But the encounters had been blessedly few. The scene shop hummed with activity nonstop as the full-time crew brought the volunteers up to speed, and the designers remained cloistered in meetings most of the day. The only exception was the lunch break.

  Everyone from management, to crew, to lowly volunteer, ate together in the crowded break room. Except Cecily. Under normal circumstances, Cecily would’ve loved to join them. Making new friends was half the reason she’d volunteered at the theater in the first place. But the prospect of sitting a few feet away from Rorie Mulloy hardly qualified as normal circumstances, so Cecily had taken to sneaking off at noon for the privacy of the empty rehearsal hall. Empty, that was, until the actors showed up this morning.

  Since she had succeeded in avoiding this meeting for the better part of a week, Cecily might have guessed that when the inevitable moment finally came, karma would guarantee it was worth the wait in some spectacularly awful way. But running Rorie over like a mad bull on the streets of Pamplona was beyond even Cecily's finest worst-case imagination. She sighed as she surveyed the damage. Scattered papers littered the floor, set loose from a clipboard that had launched several feet in the air upon impact before clattering to a landing at Cecily's feet. She bent down and scooped it all up, holding the pile at arm's length as Rorie picked herself up and then snatched the pages from her hand.

  “What the hell was that?” Rorie demanded as she struggled to put right the crumpled stack.

  “I'm so sorry,” Cecily said with a groan, her gaze firmly affixed to her shoes. “I should’ve looked where I was going.”

  “That's not what I was talking about.” Rorie waved off her apology, gesturing instead toward the rehearsal room door, which, even closed, could not contain the sound of another plate hitting the wall.

  “Oh, that,” Cecily replied, venturing an upward glance. “The actors have arrived.”

  Rorie let out a low groan. “Let me guess, Bailey and Phinn?”

  Cecily nodded. They were the show's biggest stars, but as soon as they were in the room together it was clear that they reacted to each other like oil and water. Or gasoline and a match.

  “I told Susan this was a bad idea,” Rorie muttered. “They have a history.”

  Cecily had gathered as much from the expletive-laden rant just preceding the first volley of detonating dishware. “Yes. Well, I guess I should count my blessings that you didn't lob anything at me the other day.”

  Rorie blinked. “All the satisfyingly lethal equipment in the scene shop is bolted down.”

  Cecily couldn't tell if Rorie's tone was anger or amusement. Either way, there was no avoiding the topic any longer, even if she became nauseated at the thought of bringing up the past.

  “Look, Rorie, I've been thinking about it a lot this week, and I just wanted to say...” Cecily's voice trailed off as Rorie raised her hand.

  “Stop right there, Cecily DuPont... Parker... whoever you are now. I've thought about it, too. And decided that I don't want to talk about it.”

  “But—”

  “No. Look, I'm in Connecticut for all of what—eight more weeks? And then I'm gone, back to my very nice, angst-free life in California. I see no reason to discuss anything. Water under the bridge.”

  “But it's going to be awkward, and you have every right not to want me here.” Cecily sighed. “Maybe I should just go home and not volunteer until the next show.”

  “Forget it. This is an ambitious show and we need every hour of labor we can get. Susan would hunt me down and kill me if I let you leave.” Rorie shrugged. “Besides, after two decades in Hollywood, I've learned how to work with the likes of Adolf Hitler if it keeps the show rolling.”

  “Well, if you're—wait, did you just call me Hitler?”

  “Of course not. Your mustache is nothing like his.”

  Cecily's hand moved self-consciously to her upper lip. She was within spitting distance of her fortieth birthday and every week seemed to present some awful new excuse for wax strips. Had she missed something in the mirror this morning, she wondered, brushing her finger back and forth beneath her nose. Just then, an evil chuckle interrupted her obsessing.

  Damn that woman. Clearly she still remembered all the weak points in Cecily's armor.

  Cecily clenched her lips into a narrow line. “Fine, I deserved that. But, seriously, are you sure you're okay with this? I could transfer to the costume shop, or … something.”

  Rorie shook her head. “I don't think so. I've met the ladies in the costume shop and they seem like nice people. I really don't think we need to do that to them.”

  “What, just because...”

  “...of the great skirt debacle? Yeah. I can't have that on my conscience. So, what were you doing in there just now, anyway?”

  “Lunch,” Cecily replied, holding up a thermal bag still bulging with containers of untouched food.

  “You know there's a lunchroom, right?”

  “Um, yeah, but I've just been having my lunch in the rehearsal hall to...”

  “...avoid me?”

  Cecily's back stiffened. “No, not avoid you. To catch up on my reading was what I was going to say.” It was, technically speaking, what she’d planned to say, though Rorie's version had the advantage of being true. “And stop finishing my sentences. I never liked that.”

  “Fine. Look, I'm headed to the lunch room now. You gonna join us, or try to scout out a new place to … read?”

  Cecily felt torn, and even more indecisive than usual. “I don't know. I mean, people are going to figure out that we know each other, and I'm not really sure what to say, and—”

  “How about that we went to the same college and saw each other in the scene shop sometimes. You know, the truth?”

  “Oh.” Cecily thought for a moment. “Yeah. I guess that would work.”

  “Yeah, well you just have to try not to overthink it, Cici. That’s always been your weakness. Plus, remember that no one here is all that interested in ancient history. Myself included.”

  Cecily felt her cheeks start to burn. “Right. Of course.”

  As the two women made their way down the hall to the lunchroom, Cecily couldn't help feeling a little foolish. Of course it didn't matter. It's not like Polly and her crew were around to spy on her. Cecily knew her life was so boring that no one else would care enough to pry into her past. She was being ridiculous. Even so, her steps slowed as the boisterous voices from the lunchroom reached her ears.

  “Relax, Cici. Just be discreet. Geez.” She rolled her eyes at Cecily, who was still frozen in place. “It's lunch, not a firing squad. And for sheer awkwardness, nothing will ever beat that first time we had lunch together.”

  5

  “I might actually pass this class after all, thanks to you!” Cecily said with a grin, surveying her finished project.

  “I didn't do anything, really,” Rorie responded with a dismissive wave of her hand.

  “But you did! You made it so that turny-machine-thingy stopped wailing like a dying cat, for starters. I was hopeless with it.”

  “It’s called a lathe. And it just needed some oil. But it did kind of sound like you were torturing a small animal back here.”

  Rorie seemed unable to resist teasing her just a little whenever she saw her. It made Cecily feel jittery, like she'd had too much caffeine. But not in
a bad way. Lately Cecily found herself scanning the shop when she arrived, just to see if Rorie was there. Everything seemed a little more interesting when she was around.

  “Well it's a good thing for me that it did,” Cecily said. “Otherwise you wouldn't have come back here to check on me, and I'd have been working on this thing until morning. Or at least until past closing time at the cafeteria, which would’ve been tragic because I'm starving. You want to grab some lunch?”

  “Uh, I don't have a meal card since I live off campus, and I'm sort of perpetually short on cash, so—” Rorie glanced away, her cheeks flushed with embarrassment.

  “That's okay. It'll be my treat. I owe you for fixing the turny-squealy thing.”

  “Lathe, remember? And I really didn't do anything.”

  “Listen,” said Cecily. She turned her head to make eye contact and swallowed quickly before continuing, those glacier-blue eyes still as inexplicably unnerving to her as they had been the week before. “The truth is, my parents were terrified that I would starve when I went away to college. They bought me the biggest meal plan there was, and I can never use all of it. So many of my meals go to waste, it's almost a sin.”

  “Oh, well,” Rorie replied, a barb of sarcasm sharpening her usually mellow tone, “as long as I know right up front that I'm a charity case.”

  “That's not what I meant, just that I … oh, just shut up and come to lunch with me, okay?” Cecily finished in exasperation.

  Rorie laughed. “I guess. I mean, you put it so politely. And we wouldn't want you doing anything 'almost sinful' on my account, now would we?” Rorie winked. “We can’t have you getting into trouble.”

  Cecily giggled nervously in response. That wink had sent a shiver straight to her toes. She detected something—a challenge perhaps?—hidden beneath the words. Whatever it was, it intrigued her. Given what little she knew of Rorie, whatever trouble this woman might dream up seemed strangely enticing.

  The cafeteria was mostly deserted as Cecily and Rorie carried their trays from the lunch line. It was almost two o'clock, so the few students who remained were finishing their last bites before rushing off to class. Three girls were heading toward the exit, dressed like Cecily in pastel skirts and preppy blazers, with neatly bobbed hair held back with grosgrain ribbon headbands. They paused as one of the girls eyed Rorie's messy locks, head to toe black apparel, and scuffed combat boots with a look that was a mixture of curiosity and revulsion. Then she turned her attention to Cecily, a fake grin plastered on her face.