by Jayne Denker
But eventually that got old. The crowds got too big, the people who wanted a piece of his time—or an actual piece of him—got too pushy. Then he’d learned to close down, turn off his Famous Person beacon, put on his invisibility sunglasses (you can’t see my eyes; therefore, I’m not here), and—most important—spend most of his time in New York, where people were less likely to be impressed by a celebrity walking among them, instead of Los Angeles.
Here in Marsden, he was happy to note, some people gave him sidelong glances, probably thinking he looked familiar but unsure how they knew him, and as long as he didn’t make eye contact, he was mercifully left alone. It gave him a really good feeling, just like when Celia’s parents didn’t recognize him, and for once he didn’t have to smile politely while total strangers shared their frank opinions about his films . . . and his personal life.
When his cell phone rang and he saw it was Tiffany calling, he didn’t answer. He’d already texted Trent the address of Casey’s place so he could send him enough clothes and necessities for several weeks. There was nobody else he wanted to talk to right now.
Except Celia. The only thing that would have made his stroll down Main Street on a warm Sunday afternoon better would have been to have her by his side, pointing out the sights and filling him in on the trivia and backstory of the town and its residents. He’d promised to leave her alone while she dealt with her grandmother, and he was going to honor that. Then again, she’d said he could contact her if he needed to. Did he need to? His immediate answer was yes. Yes, he most certainly did. For what reason . . . he could figure that out later.
Maybe he could help her, or at least just be there. For support. He ignored the niggling feeling that he was just using his concern as an excuse to be around her again. No, he really did want to help. His own grandma had carved out that space in his heart, and even though she was gone—or maybe because she was gone—that space was still there, but empty, perhaps reserved for another sweet little old lady.
Of course he’d pegged it that Celia had made cookies with her grandmother. Probably spent lots of rainy days with her, and overnights when Celia’s parents went out of town. Looking at old pictures, maybe playing the piano together. He just couldn’t resist seeing their relationship firsthand.
He pulled out his phone again, pulled up his map app, and plugged in the address he’d gotten from George—ignoring her raised eyebrow and knowing smirk—before he’d left the farm. Celia’s grandmother didn’t live all that far from here—several blocks away, on a street up the hillside, running parallel to Main. It shouldn’t take him too long to get there. On the way, he’d come up with a good excuse for showing up on Celia’s grandmother’s doorstep.
Because Niall was checking the map as he crossed Main Street and stepped up onto the sidewalk, he had no idea whether he’d just walked into a lamp post, a mailbox, or a potted shrub. It was only when the potted shrub squeaked “Hey!” that he realized the obstacle was a person. An irate person.
“Oh God, I’m so sorr—”
“What the hell, dude? Watch where you’re—holy shit!”
Aw, crap. Looked like his lucky streak for remaining anonymous just ran out. He plastered on his polite-but-distant, greet-a-fan expression as the woman started flailing about, flustered. In her flurry of motion, Niall noticed bleached blond hair, sparkly nails, wide-set eyes. And Omigod, you’re Niall Crenshaw! should fly from those glossy lips in three . . . two . . .
“Holy shit, holy shit. You’re that guy!”
That was always a close second. Niall reinforced the props of his polite smile as she wagged a finger in his face.
“On the computer commercials, right?”
“No. Not me—sorry.”
“Oh, wait. That guy on that TV show—”
“Sorry again. I’ve never done scripted TV.”
Her companion, a shorter woman with short dark hair and a much calmer demeanor, muttered, “Niall Crenshaw, nimrod.”
The first woman whirled around. “I knew that!” Before Niall could escape, she spun back, nearly clocking him with her large lime-green purse. “Niall Crenshaw! Right!”
“Nice to see you. If you’ll just excuse me . . .”
The blonde struck a pose, hands on her hips, as though she were confronting him. “So! Here with Celia, are you?”
Wow, George hadn’t been kidding about his business becoming everyone’s business as soon as he crossed the town line. “You know Celia?”
The woman snorted. “Oh, sure. We’ve been best buds since high school.” She stuck out a tanned, manicured hand. “Audra McNally. See, me and Celia were always alphabetical in the seating chart, all through school—Marshall, McNally. You know how it is.”
“Sure.” His smile stretched a little tighter.
“And this is my cousin Robin.”
“Nice to meet you both. If you’ll excuse—”
“I’ve gotta say, I’m really surprised she’s with you.”
The wiser portion of Niall’s brain shouted, Do not engage. Do not engage! But it was overridden by a sudden overwhelming desire to defend himself. Or Celia. Whatever this woman was getting at. He wasn’t sure yet.
“Why do you say that?”
“Oh, you know . . .” Audra waved her hand lazily, echoing her thought process, such that it was. “I mean, don’t get me wrong—I love Celia. I really do! She’s my homegirl.”
Homegirl?
“But come on! Little Miss Angel Puss?”
Over her braying laughter, he insisted, “I’m not sure what you mean. Celia is a fantastic woman.” Dimly, he realized he wasn’t denying he and Celia were an item. And people evidently hadn’t gotten the memo about him and Tiffany. What the hell, was he doing all that fake relationship shit for nothing? That would really piss him off.
“Oh yeah! No! Yeah! Celia’s great! I love her!” Audra repeated, sweeping her hair back from her face, first one side, then the other. “She’s just . . .” She nudged him, her elbow nearly puncturing his kidney. “You know. Not your type. I’ve heard about you!”
Niall dodged a second jab and fought out a hoarse, humorless laugh. “Oh, don’t believe everything you hear . . .”
“Are you kidding? It had better all be true, or I’m gonna be really upset!”
Niall knew what was coming next, so he braced himself to enact evasive maneuvers immediately.
Sure enough, Audra sidled closer and attempted a purr which came out more like a subdued honk. “You could, you know, show me a thing or two. I’d be willing to play.”
Niall withdrew, his torso collapsing inward to avoid any more physical contact, although he tried not to look like he was recoiling. Before he could speak, Robin did.
“Shit, Audra. Stop!”
“What? We’re just talking.”
“Toby should hear you ‘just talking.’ He’d friggin’ kill you.”
“I can do what I want. He doesn’t own me,” Audra snapped, but when she turned back to Niall, she was a little more subdued. She took half a step back, and he relaxed a bit. “So. Tell me about you and Celia.”
“Actually, I have to go—”
“Oh, come on. You can tell me. Real quick. You’ve gotta give me the goods before anyone else in town. Celia and I are best buds!” she repeated.
Niall thought a moment, then said smoothly, “How about you tell me about Celia? I’d love to hear what she was like as a kid.”
Audra studied him with a gaze hooded by thick fake eyelashes. “You want to know about Celia, huh? Yeah, I can give you the goods. But it’s gonna cost you.” She hooked her talons into his arm. “Come with us, movie star. We’re going to Beers. And you’re buying.”
Niall cast a desperate look at his intended route up the side street and thought about making a break for it, but Audra was already dragging him down the block. He sighed. If spending an hour or so in the company of Audra and Cousin Robin was what it took to gain some insight into Celia, it was a small price to pay. That and a c
ouple of vodka tonics, of course. No big deal.
Chapter 11
Celia sat cross-legged on the old area rug in the middle of the living room, leaning close to the oscillating fan. When it rotated toward her, she groaned into it just to hear her voice wobble.
“Ah, you used to do that all the time as a kid,” her grandmother said as she ambled into the room. “ ‘Luke, I am your father,’ ” she droned in a pretty good approximation of the Sith Lord.
As the older woman dropped into her favorite chair, Celia grumbled, “It’s so hot in here. Why is it so hot at this time of night?”
“Well, kid, it is July in the Northeast. There’s nothing different about the season, or this house. Must be you. Too much central air in the big city, I’ll bet.” Her grandmother winked at her when she rolled her eyes. “And you know there’s only one remedy for it.”
“You’re getting an air conditioner?” she guessed hopefully as she pulled her ponytail off her neck. The underside of her hair was damp.
Her grandmother chuckled. “I’m too old to need that much cold air. But I am not too old,” she added, standing up again, “to make it to Bedelia’s for Front Porch Frozen Margaritas. Let’s go!”
“What—now?” Celia exclaimed. “Gran, shouldn’t you be in bed?”
With a dismissive snort, the older woman said, “I can sleep when I’m dead. But I hear you can’t take your margaritas with you. So let’s go!”
“But—”
“Did I not make myself clear?” Gran demanded, fists on her hips. “This is nonnegotiable. Up you get. Come on!”
“Gran, it’s really not a good idea. You’re—”
“I’m what, girlie? Old?”
“Well, you’re not young.”
“You’re right. Don’t make me waste whatever time I’ve got left. And any time without a margarita is time wasted. Let’s go!”
Celia smiled even as she shook her head at her grandmother. Holland Leigh certainly wasn’t like most octogenarians, that was for sure. She stood ramrod straight, her chin high, as though she were daring someone to challenge her—about anything. Like she was defying the whole world, all the time. She still dyed her hair a fascinating shade of ginger, painted her nails and toenails—usually bright red—and never left the house without makeup. It wasn’t to conceal her wrinkles, though, of which there should have been many more for someone her age.
That phrase got used a lot when people talked about Holly: very active for someone her age. Very healthy for someone her age. When she thought about her own future, Celia hoped she took after her mother’s side of the family, because then she knew she’d have a fair chance of roaring into old age on all cylinders instead of doddering in like most seniors; Holly was living proof of that. Her grandmother ran rings around her, despite their nearly fifty-year age gap—getting up earlier, staying up later, going out with her friends. There was even talk of a boyfriend! (Could he be called a boyfriend if he hadn’t seen boyhood in quite a few decades?) Celia wasn’t surprised Holly had flat out refused to leave her home to move into a senior living community—it’d cramp her style. Celia hadn’t discussed the issue with her grandmother yet. For now, she decided, she’d just be observant and see how, exactly, Gran was failing. And how much. If she was failing at all. So far Celia hadn’t seen any evidence of it. What if her parents had been imagining things?
“Chop chop!”
Gran was already out the front door, not waiting for Celia to follow, so Celia found her flats and raced across the humidity-drenched lawn to Bedelia’s house next door.
Holly still beat her granddaughter up the wide wooden steps to exclaim, “I get the good seat!” and promptly plopped herself on the cushioned swing suspended from the porch beams.
“There should be room for two on that, Gran.”
“I don’t share.” She stretched her legs across the swing, staking her claim. Celia sighed and took a rocker in front of the living room window while Holly bellowed, “Bedelia! Let’s move it with those margaritas!”
“Shut your yap, you alkie,” the homeowner shouted back from the depths of the house. “They’re coming.” And within seconds the peaceful night air was rent by the sound of ice and alcohol being beaten to slush in what Celia knew was an ancient silver and black Osterizer.
Holly tipped her head back. “Music to my ears.”
“Gran, don’t you think you should take better care of yourself?”
Her head came back up and she fixed a sharp eye on her granddaughter. “Have you been talking with your parents again? I get that from them all the time. ‘Slow down. Cut back on the alcohol. No red meat. No salt.’ What’s the point? I’ve had my run. If I get hit by a bus tomorrow, I’m at peace with it.”
“Gran!”
“Oh, don’t act like I’ve shocked you! Sanctity of life, blah blah blah. Sure thing. But once you get to my age, if you get desperate to tack on a few more days—miserable ones at that, by the time you’re through denying yourself everything good just to get those days—then you’re just being greedy. Ah”—she sighed, her mood lifting as the slam of the wooden screen door announced the arrival of the alcohol—“that’s the stuff.”
“Enabler,” Celia accused Bedelia, who just winked at her as she set the pitcher down on a small wooden table.
Bedelia, a textile artist, was almost fifteen years younger than Holly, but she moved more slowly. Her hair was stark white and long, halfway down her back, and she dressed in layers of denim at all times—shirt, jumper, and on cooler days, jean jacket.
“That’s me,” she said, handing the first glass to Celia’s grandmother, whose very air demanded she be served first. “I need a drink to celebrate anyway—never did get to properly wet the head of our latest yarn bomb last night. Everybody—your mother included—was too much of a wimp to go out afterward.”
“Pussies,” Holly muttered, taking a deep slurp of her margarita.
“Gran!”
“Oh, for the love of . . . If you’re going to stay with me for a while, you’d better lighten up. Your strings of pearls can only take so much clutching.”
She and Bedelia cackled at this, while Celia turned her attention to the heavy margarita glass sweating in her hand. She took a sip, her eyes crossing at the strength of the drink, and promptly set her glass down on the table next to the pitcher. If she kept drinking that, she would have to make sure she drew it out over a good, long period of time.
“Nice to have you back for a visit,” Bedelia said, “with your new boyfriend.”
“He’s not—”
“So when do I get to meet this movie star of yours, hm?” Holly interrupted, draining her glass.
Oh God, that was the last thing she wanted. But she knew it was pretty much inevitable, depending on how long Niall was in town. Just knowing he was out there somewhere, likely already wreaking havoc in her little town, had her worried—and intrigued—wondering what he was up to. She could run into him anytime, anywhere . . .
And there she was thinking about Niall again. She shook herself and reclaimed her margarita. Why was she assuming he’d wreak havoc? Why was she assuming she’d bump into him walking down Main Street or in Marsden Mercantile with an armload of groceries? He’d be busy working with Ray, doing whatever it was his “job” entailed. She’d be busy tending to Gran, and . . . not running into him. Was that what she wanted?
As quickly as she’d drifted away, she was pulled back to the present by a text ping. She reached for her phone, but it was Bedelia’s. The woman pulled her cell out of the front patch pocket on her ubiquitous denim jumper and exclaimed, “Oh, look at that. Quite the party going on down at Beers.”
Bedelia handed the phone to Celia. She saw a raucous-looking selfie of her old friend Audra, Bedelia’s niece, along with what appeared to be her cousin Robin’s eyeball and spiky black hair, and . . . she felt the few sips of margarita curdle in her stomach. “Good grief, he’s at it already.”
“Let me see!” Holly demanded. Wh
en she got the phone, she asked, “Who’s that?”
“That’s Celia’s new boyfriend,” Bedelia declared.
“With Audra?” Celia’s grandmother raised a suspicious eyebrow.
“He’s very . . . social. And he’s not my boyfriend,” she tacked on, although neither woman paid any attention.
“Audra’s very social as well,” Bedelia added, almost as an apology.
Yep, everyone knew about Audra’s “social” tendencies, Celia thought. God help Niall.
“And just why aren’t you down there with him, Celia?” her grandmother asked.
Bewildered, she shook her head slowly. “Why would I?”
“Well, if my boyfriend was drinking with some hussy—no offense, Bedelia—”
“None taken. Audra’s a hussy if ever there was one.”
“He’s not—”
Before she could get her denial out yet again, another text alert went off. This time it was her own cell. She sighed. Trust Audra to feel compelled to rub Celia’s nose in the news that she’d met a celebrity. Reluctantly, she looked at her phone, bracing herself for a repeat of the photo along with an all-caps text with dozens of exclamation points as Audra trumpeted her news.
There was a photo, all right, but not the same one. At the center, far too close to the camera, was a wide-eyed Niall, or at least most of his face. Filling the rest of the photo was Audra, clinging to him on one side, Robin on the other, her face distorted by a beer mug as she drained the last drops, and dairy farmer Lester Biggs looming over the top like a bug-eyed, freshly bearded angel of death, his head tipped back to reveal every last one of his thousand nose hairs.
The text with the photo was from Niall: Help meeee . . .
Against her will, Celia started to laugh.
Beers was absolutely heaving—and on a Sunday night, no less. Stunned, Celia fought her way through the crowd, politely greeting all the townspeople who exclaimed cheerfully at seeing her back in town, until she spotted Niall. He was hard to miss, as he was at least a head taller than anyone surrounding him.
