Picture This

by Jayne Denker

  Celia wasn’t sure how she was going to get near him. It seemed half the town had piled into the bar; everyone was trying to talk to him, and he was doing his best to accommodate as many people as he could. Then he turned around and locked eyes with her.

  His gaze, clear and level, drew her toward him. There was no denying the surge she felt, as though her heart—no, her entire body—was trying to get to him faster than her feet could take her there. Somehow she found her way through the crowd to reach his side. He beamed down at her and winked.

  Then, as though someone had flipped a switch, Niall’s expression seemed to melt, his body loosen. His eyes swung around the room and he raised his mug, sweeping his arm recklessly in front of him. Some of the people nearby got sloshed with beer, but they didn’t seem to mind. They just laughed and stayed close. Audra rose up to whisper in his ear, and he laughed loudly.

  Suddenly the warm feeling that had been growing in Celia’s chest cooled considerably. What was she doing here? He’d asked her to come, had sent a second text that had said, No, seriously. Help me. She’d dashed away from her grandmother and Bedelia and sped to Beers in her grandmother’s car, fearing the worst, only to find him having one heck of a time, like he’d completely forgotten he’d begged for her help.

  “Celiaaaa!” Niall bellowed, his actor’s projection in fine form. He reached for her with his free hand, lurched toward her, and plopped a heavy arm over her shoulders. “Come meet all my friends! These are my friends! Do you know my friends?”

  “Yeah,” she said, struggling with the dead weight of his limb pushing her down, although it wasn’t quite heavy enough to buckle her knees. “I know your friends.”

  “Hi, honey!” Audra squealed, also lurching forward to wrap her in a hug. “Welcome home!” In her ear, she added, in not too quiet a whisper, “I love your boyfriend.”

  “He’s not—” And then she gave up, too weary to protest anymore. Not like Audra was listening anyway. She was back on Niall, hanging around his neck like a millstone, which added to the weight on Celia, since Niall hadn’t let go of her yet.

  “Time to gooooo, everyone!” he roared, eliciting protesting groans and shouts from the crowd. “I know, I know. Parting is such sorry sweetness. But all good ends must come to a thing. I know we shall see each other again, perhaps in this very bar, another night!”

  A cheer erupted, and dozens of patrons responded with a chorus of “Bananas!”

  The strange response had something to do with one of his movies, Celia recalled, but she wasn’t about to work very hard to remember which one. She was a little distracted at the moment, after all.

  “Miss Celia, my coach, please!”

  Hardly knowing why she didn’t just peel off his arm and dump him on the floor, Celia summoned her last bit of energy and hauled him toward the door. It was slow going, as every man reached out to shake Niall’s hand and every woman wanted to give him a hug and sometimes a kiss on his cheek, but eventually they burst into the heavily humid night air, Niall shouting “I’m okay! I’m okaaaayyy!” repeatedly. The door shut behind them; the street was empty and silent. Celia stumbled with him uphill toward Main, where she’d parked her grandmother’s car.

  He roared, “I’m okaaayyy!” one more time, then stood up straight, took his arm from her shoulders, and said, quite sedately, “Annnnd . . . scene.”

  Celia stopped walking, puzzled. “What?”

  “Hi.” Niall was looking at her, clear-eyed, no trace of drunkenness in his speech or his mannerisms. “You came for me.”

  “Uh, what just happened?”

  “Nothing much. Just the usual smoke and mirrors.” He ran his fingers through his hair, then tugged at his collar. “Phew. Sorry about hanging on you. I must reek. It was so hot in there!”

  “Wait.” Celia shook her head as if to clear it. “What?”

  He leaned closer to her with a wicked grin. “I’m not drunk. I hardly ever drink, in fact.”

  “But you were . . . I mean, I saw you!”

  “Smoke and mirrors, like I said. Sleight of hand. I had the equivalent of about one beer the whole time I was there. I do it all the time.” Celia must have looked completely confounded, because he explained, “Look, everybody wants to buy me a drink. Everywhere I go. If I drank them all, I’d be under the table. Or dead. If I refused, or accepted them but didn’t drink them, it’d be taken as an insult. So over the years I’ve managed to get it down to a science—I take a sip, or pretend to, carry the drink around for a bit, then conveniently ‘forget’ my glass somewhere. Somebody sees me empty-handed and gives me another one, which I carry around for a while, then ‘lose.’ Rinse, repeat. It’s a little wasteful, but worth it in the long run. Everybody who wants to buy me a drink gets to, the bar makes money, and I stay sober. I act wasted—ha, ha, Niall’s so funny—everybody’s happy.”

  “So you’re not even a little bit drunk.”

  “Nope. Just perpetuating the Niall Crenshaw myth.”

  “Why?”

  He studied her, and Celia felt the familiar flutters in her belly—the ones that kicked in whenever he looked at her so intently, like she was the only other person in the world. Her heart started rocketing when he said softly, “I don’t know. It’s just what’s expected of me at this point, I guess.”

  An ache—that’s what it was. Under the nerves twisting her guts and the physical, visceral urge to throw herself at him, morals and ethics and vows to herself be damned, an ache swelled deep inside her in response to the resigned, hollow look she saw in his eyes. That, more than anything, was going to be her undoing. She saw it coming, and she didn’t know how to stop it. Or even if she wanted to.

  Scrambling to get back on more neutral ground, she forced herself to ask another question. “How do you do that? I mean, you make a convincing drunk.”

  “I am an actor, you know.”

  “So you mean if . . .” She glanced up the street. “If I flagged down Officer Billy in his cruiser over there and asked him to give you a Breathalyzer test—”

  “I’d pass with flying colors. Go ahead. Call him over.”

  She thought a minute. “Mm, better not.”

  “I’d do it, if that’s what it’d take to convince you.”

  “No, I believe you.” And she did. He was completely stable, not wobbly in the slightest. Although he’d draped his arm over her heavily, he hadn’t leaned on her so much that she couldn’t move. And every time he’d shouted drunkenly, he’d made sure his head was turned away so he didn’t hurt her ears. He’d been in control the whole time. “Besides, if you still need people to believe you’re wasted tonight, then don’t prove to Officer Billy you’re sober.”

  “He’d tell everyone I was faking?”

  “No, he’s a good guy. He doesn’t do random gossip. But somebody might see you.”

  Niall laughed as he looked around. The streets were still empty. “Who?”

  “The town has eyes.”

  “Wasn’t that a horror movie?”

  “You’d better not drive your car back to the inn, either. Oh—and you’ll have to act really hungover tomorrow, right?”

  Celia started walking toward her grandmother’s car, and Niall fell into step beside her. “You know, you’re pretty good at this.”

  Niall opened the driver’s-side door for her, and her stomach flipped a little at the courteous gesture as she ducked inside. When he’d rounded the car and swung into the passenger seat, folding his long legs under the dash, she asked, “How did you end up in the middle of a packed house at Beers? On a Sunday night? With Audra?”

  “Well!” he huffed jokingly. “You know Audra!”

  “I do. Very well. I’m surprised you still have your pants on the right way around.”

  He laughed heartily. “Not for her lack of trying. Poor Toby.”

  “He knew what he was getting into. I think he enjoys the challenge. Or maybe it’s the drama. So answer the question.”

  “What—how I got there?
I ran into Audra and Robin—literally— and they promised to tell me all about you if I bought them a few drinks.”

  “Oh really. And what did you find out?”

  “That they can really put those cherry bombs away.”

  “True.”

  “And that they don’t know as many secrets about you as I do by now. Of course,” he went on, eyeing her, and she felt her cheeks heat up, “you never told me about Lester.”

  “Lester Biggs?” she exclaimed as she put the car in gear and pulled out onto an empty Main Street.

  “He said you two were as good as engaged at one point.”

  Now it was Celia’s turn to laugh. “One night, a couple of years ago, he invited me to his dairy farm to—how did he put it?—introduce me to ‘his girls.’ All three hundred of them.”

  “The hooved variety?”

  “The same. I declined. Or, rather, I was speechless, and George declined for me, bless her.”

  “He remembers it differently.”

  “I’m surprised he remembers it at all. Actually, I’m surprised he remembers his own name half the time. Beers is his home away from home—probably when he has a little tiff with his three hundred girls.” She turned a corner and started heading away from town, up the hillside toward Bowen Farms. “And your little heart-to-heart with Audra and Robin turned into a party how?”

  “I’m not sure,” he admitted. “One minute I’m handing over the cherry bombs—then wrangling pitchers when they switched to beer—and the next thing I know, the place is packed.”

  “Audra probably texted all her friends, and it snowballed. You should be flattered. It’s not every Sunday Charlie Junior is run off his feet serving half the town. You probably earned a friend for life.”

  “Have breakfast with me tomorrow.”

  Celia nearly drove off the road at this sudden change of subject. “What?”

  “Have breakfast with me tomorrow.”

  “Wh–why?”

  Niall was silent a moment. Then, “I just want to see you.”

  “Niall . . .”

  “I know, I know. But like I said back in New York—no funny business. Just friends. Out in public. Both hands where we can see ’em. One foot on the floor at all times.” She hesitated, and he added, “Please.”

  Ignoring the melting that was going on inside her, she asked, “Shouldn’t you be looking up Ray about this job you say you have?”

  “Funny you should mention Ray . . .”

  Chapter 12

  Niall wanted to hang his head out the window of the pickup truck like a dog, to get some fresh air. He had told Celia the truth last night—that he hadn’t had much to drink at all—yet this morning he felt as though he’d wrecked himself. Maybe it was because he still couldn’t sleep, what with all the silence except for the symphony of crickets, not to mention all those nonstop thoughts of Celia running through his head. Or maybe spending a third day without his usual creature comforts was getting to him. He was in the same clothes, except he was going commando, having worn his emergency backup boxers the day before (take that, Ms. What-Type-Of-Person-Carries-Around-An-Extra-Pair-Of-Underwear Marshall). He’d tried washing them in the bathroom sink but found the waistband still uncomfortably damp this morning, so he’d left them behind. And he was in a T-shirt borrowed from Casey.

  The T-shirt lender in question was in the driver’s seat, giving him a lift into town so he could meet Ray and Celia for breakfast, and he was grateful for that, as well as for the shirt—and the reassurance that FedEx usually rolled up to the farm around ten o’clock. Niall was still trying to wrap his mind around the concept of once-a-day deliveries, but the promise of his own clothes and toiletries did help lighten his mood.

  The problem was it was being squashed by a whole lot of tension in the truck cab. He got the feeling Casey didn’t like him much. Was it because he was accommodating an inn guest before he was ready? Was it because Niall was a celebrity? (He was ready to assure Casey that he put his underwear on one leg at a time, just like anybody else—when he had underwear, of course—but Casey wasn’t really putting out a “willing to chat” vibe.) The last option, and the most likely one, was maybe Casey was frosty because of Celia. And he wasn’t sure how to deal with that.

  Around the halfway point between the farm and town, Niall opened his mouth to speak—to say anything, just to put this other guy at ease—when Casey suddenly came out with, “So! New York, huh?”

  “Yeah!” Niall responded, too quickly and too loudly. Sheesh.

  “I thought you’d live in California.”

  “So did I.”

  Casey glanced over. “What?”

  “I mean, yeah, sure, LA, Hollywood, right? And I did that for a while, but I like New York a whole lot better.”

  The other man gave half a shrug. “Sure. I can see that. So you’re not from California originally?”

  “Nah. Florida.”

  “You’d think California’d be more your speed, then—the heat and all.”

  “This humidity’s reminding me of home just fine.”

  “Yeah, our summers can be pretty sticky. Sorry about that.”

  It occurred to Niall they were talking about the weather. What the . . . “You’ve, uh, got a really nice setup—the farm and the inn and all. Really nice.”

  “Yeah, you mentioned that.”

  Crap.

  After another moment’s silence, Casey said, “So . . . you and Celia . . . ?”

  “Ah . . .” He fidgeted uncomfortably. Much as he loved letting people assume he and Celia were together, he knew he shouldn’t perpetuate the fantasy.

  “Look . . .” Casey tried again, still sounding uncomfortable. “About that . . .”

  “I know, man.”

  “I don’t think you do. I’ve known Celia more than half my life. She’s one of the sweetest, kindest—”

  “I realize that.”

  “She’s special.”

  “I know that too.” God, did he know. He was realizing it more and more every day.

  “I mean really special. Plus she’s gone through a lot in the past few years.”

  “I’ve heard.”

  That was the one piece of important Celia intel all those cherry bombs had bought him last night: Audra and Robin had been quick to inform him that Celia had been married to a guy named Matt for around five years, and it had ended in an unpleasant divorce when he left her for some barely legal piece of ass. Celia had taken it really hard, pretty much shutting down for a while, according to Audra, while her ex shacked up with “the ho” (who apparently was going to be referred to only by that moniker, not her real name, for the rest of her life, if Audra and Robin had anything to say about it). And now said ho was pregnant and there were rumors she and Matt were planning a wedding, the news of which, the women worried, would get Celia upset all over again.

  He saw their point—as slurred as it may have been in the delivery—and he didn’t disagree, although he thought Celia might prove them all wrong and be strong enough to rise above it. He wasn’t shocked that Celia had been married and divorced, but he was sort of hurt that she hadn’t told him. Just a reminder, he figured, that she was right, as usual: They really hadn’t spent enough time together to know each other well.

  But he wanted to. He was certain. Despite the fact that he’d only known Celia for a matter of days, he already knew that when he wasn’t with her, he wanted to be, and when he was, he treasured every fleeting second. He’d lain awake night after night ever since he’d met her, going over every interaction they’d shared, and then when he’d kissed her . . . good God, that made everything so much worse, because his fantasies took over, and . . .

  Now Niall did stick his head out the open window, hoping the rushing air would clear out the fog between his ears.

  Casey glanced over. “You all right, dude?”

  “Fine.”

  “Even after your, uh, party at Beers last night?”

  “It amazes me how fast word
travels in this town.”

  “Better get used to it.”

  “So I’ve been told.”

  Casey pulled his pickup into an open spot on Main Street and turned off the ignition. “Nora’s diner is just up the block. The green striped awning.”

  “I see it. Thanks.”

  “You need anything else?”

  “No, I’m good. Thanks for the ride. Think my car is still parked near Beers?”

  “Yeah.” Casey smiled faintly. “Wouldn’t be the first time somebody left their vehicle behind after a few too many.”

  “Great.” Niall unlatched his seat belt and pushed open the door, but Casey stopped him.

  “One last thing, man.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Celia. Don’t hurt her.”

  The mere thought of it sent a shot of pain straight to Niall’s heart. “I would never—”

  “Just don’t. If you do, I’ll kill you.”

  The ten-year-old lurking deep—okay, not so deep—inside Niall wanted to ask, You and what army? But he could pretty much figure out who Casey’s backup would be: the entire town. It was evident from last night’s impromptu party that Celia was truly Marsden’s daughter; everyone wanted to bend his ear about her, and every comment was glowing with admiration. Not one person offered up even a hint of unpleasant gossip about her—it was truly amazing. Niall wondered what it was like to be so loved—by real people, people who truly knew you and you knew in return, instead of this two-way mirror of fame, where total strangers thought they were your closest friends.

  To keep the torches-and-pitchfork brigade at bay, he looked Casey straight in the eye, ignored the disturbing realization that it was kind of intimidating that Celia had dated such a good-looking, upstanding guy—yeah, he could freely admit it—and said levelly, “I swear, I would never do anything to hurt Celia.”

  “We don’t have kale smoothies, so don’t even ask.”

  Now that was a voice that could only come from a diner waitress. Hard edged. Clipped words. Niall knew what sort of a woman he’d be looking at even before he put down the tall laminated menu—lean and mean, one hip jutted out, possibly chomping gum. No nonsense. Probably would rip the menu right out of his hands as soon as he was done ordering, slosh some coffee into his cup—and into the saucer, and onto the table—then carelessly swipe a soggy rag over the drops on the laminate. God, he hoped she was wearing one of those mint-green polyester uniforms with an apron and white nurse’s shoes.