Picture This

by Jayne Denker

  He looked up. There was the lean and mean—no doubt about that—a lined, hard face, frizzy hair, tired eyes, but the waitress was wearing black pants, sneakers, and a burgundy blouse. No gum chewing. Niall had a flash of insight.

  “You’re Nora, aren’t you?”

  “So?”

  Ah, now the hip was jutted out at the proper angle.

  He stuck out his hand. “Niall Crenshaw.”

  “I know.” She said this belligerently, no trace of the breathy giggle he usually got from fans. This woman was most definitely not a fan. She ignored his hand. “So?” she demanded again.

  Niall fidgeted. Over the years he’d cultivated the ability to tune out stares and whispers—and the surreptitious snapping of cell phone cameras—when he was out in public, but his skills failed him this time. Everyone in the diner was watching him but pretending not to, and he could feel the curious looks from the other patrons like fingers on his skin.

  “I’ve heard a lot about you, is all—it’s exciting to meet the one and only Nora in the flesh,” he lied.

  “Stow it,” she growled, although Niall would swear he saw her pale cheeks, etched with fine wrinkles that started under her eyes and traveled down her face to curve around the flat corners of her mouth, color just a little bit. “I’ve got customers, movie star. So gimme your order. No kale smoothies, no freakin’ tofu stir-fries, and my cook doesn’t take kindly to requests for egg-white omelets.”

  “No problem,” he squeaked, glancing at the menu again, burying his desire for his usual, which was indeed an egg-white omelet. Nope, when in Rome . . . “How about the pancakes?”

  “Carbs. Bold choice,” she muttered, yanking away the menu like he knew she would. “Coffee? Don’t say decaf.”

  “Leaded all the way. Thank you!” he called after her belatedly, as she went off to fetch the coffeepot. Niall found himself letting out a relieved breath just as Celia slipped into the booth.

  “Sorry I’m late,” she said. Then, after studying him a moment, “What’s wrong with you?”

  “Uh . . . nothing,” he answered, but flinched when Nora returned, flipped over his cup, and, as predicted, sloshed coffee into it with abandon.

  “Hi, honey.” Suddenly Ms. Hyde was gone when she spoke to Celia. “Coffee? How’s the family?”

  “Morning, Nora. Everyone’s fine, thanks. Coffee and an English muffin, please.”

  “With peanut butter,” Nora added, obviously from memory, as she filled Celia’s cup.

  “Yep, the usual.”

  “Be right back.”

  Niall watched the diner owner go with a mixture of fear and bemusement. “She doesn’t like me,” he stage-whispered hoarsely.

  “She’s nice,” Celia whispered back, eyes alight, a big grin on her face.

  “In what parallel universe?”

  “You just have to get to know her.”

  “Be happy to. Just as soon as I put on my Kevlar.” Then he pushed aside his fear of Nora to enjoy the sight of Celia’s dancing brown eyes. Her delicate scent wafted toward him as she leaned in, upper arms pushed against the edge of the table, hands underneath, probably clasped together near her knees. “How are you this morning?” he asked warmly, a bit sorry that he didn’t have the luxury of being with her all the time so he’d actually know how she was first thing in the morning.

  “Good.”

  “And your grandmother?”

  “Also good.”

  “Are you seeing any signs of . . .”

  “Confusion? You know, I haven’t. It’s the weirdest thing.” Celia paused to take a sip of coffee. “She’s acting perfectly normally. Well,” she amended quickly, with a wry grin, “her version of normal, anyway.” Niall raised an eyebrow, so she explained. “She can be a bit . . . eccentric at times. Most of the time. But in a good way. Until it’s bad.”

  “You’re making less and less sense as you go along.”

  “Sorry. It’s the best I can do. She’s hard to describe.”

  “Have you talked to her about moving into the senior home?”

  “Not yet. I had planned on getting up early today, making her a nice breakfast we could sit and talk over, but even though I woke up really early, she was already up and said she’d eaten. Took her pills, grabbed her things, and headed to the outlet mall with her girlfriends. Her girlfriends, I should clarify, are in their eighties and nineties. My grandmother is eighty-five.”

  “She sounds . . . spry.”

  “That’s putting it mildly.”

  “I like her already.”

  “How’s the ‘hangover’?”

  “Under control.” He smirked.

  Her attention was drawn to something, or someone, behind him, and she muttered, “Good thing. Incoming.”

  “Already?”

  And then a ridiculously cheerful voice boomed, “Niall Crenshaw! There you are! Glad to have you here. Glad to have you. Ray Dubois.” Niall looked up to find a fairly short, solid man, golf-course tanned, brown hair shot with gray, in a peach polo shirt and tan shorts. Niall shook the broad hand with the stubby fingers that was suddenly pushed toward him. “And Celia, you beautiful thing—such an honor to have a special summer visit from you.”

  “Hi, Ray. How are you?”

  “Just fabulous, now that you’ve brought our celebrity into the fold. Now, we’ve got to get to business, young man,” Ray said as he nudged his way into the booth on Celia’s side. “Time’s a-wasting.”

  “Is it?” he asked politely.

  “Wasting for what?” Celia asked. “What’s this big plan?”

  Ray leaned in, beckoning to Celia and Niall to do the same. They exchanged puzzled but amused glances and gamely hunched closer to the table. Just as Ray opened his mouth to speak, as though ready to impart the wisdom of the ages, a shadow fell over the table. Nora set down Celia’s food gently, then plunked down Niall’s plate so hard it rattled on the Formica.

  “Pancakes,” she growled. “And an English muffin with peanut butter,” Nora added in a much kinder tone, smiling at Celia. Still looking only at her, Nora asked, “Anything else, hon?”

  “Nope, I’m good, Nora. Thanks.”

  “Coffee, Ray?”

  “Sure.”

  When she was gone, Celia whispered to Niall, “She doesn’t like you.”

  “I told you!”

  “Oh, don’t worry about old Nora,” Ray said. “She’s just bitter about famous types. Rough history, you know.”

  “No, I don’t know,” Niall said. “What history?”

  Ray leaned in again, obviously happy to gossip. “Well, we used to have a lot more big names come to Marsden in the summer. It’s what I’m aiming to get back to, now that I’m heading up the board of the arts center, starting with you, my boy. This is going to be a whole new era—”

  “Ray?” Celia interrupted. “Nora?”

  “Right. So back when she was young, we had this actor—I can’t remember his name at the moment—Tony or Travis or something—who was the big-name draw for the summer theater program. They had quite a fling that summer, and he even promised Nora he’d take her with him when he left. Nora started thinking she could make a go of it in Hollywood—she’s a really good singer, you know—and she started making plans to up stakes. But when the season was over, he took off and left her behind. Absolutely devastated her for a good long time. She hasn’t thought much of famous people since.”

  “For good reason, it seems,” Celia said.

  “Hey. We’re not all like that.” Niall felt compelled to defend his fellow thespians, even though he could think of about twenty off the top of his head who would do the same as Nora’s celebrity. In a heartbeat.

  That tiny, radiant smile Niall loved so much returned to Celia’s lips. “If you say so.”

  “Don’t bait me, woman. I mean it.”

  Celia made a goofy face at him while Nora returned with the coffee, filling Ray’s cup and freshening hers, but skipping Niall’s until he pointedly asked for
more. When they had some privacy again, Ray got back to explaining his grand plan.

  “It’s going to be called Night of the Shooting Stars,” he announced grandly.

  “Night of . . . what? Shooting the Stars?” Niall asked, highly amused.

  Ray pursed his lips in a definite sign of disapproval. Apparently he didn’t like anyone making fun of his special project. “Night of the Shooting Stars,” he said again, slowly. “Don’t screw it up.” Ray’s frown deepened. “I need you to take this seriously, young man. A lot is riding on this.”

  “I understand. Totally serious here, Ray. I mean it,” Niall said, although he found it difficult to maintain a neutral expression . . . until he glanced over at Celia and saw she wasn’t laughing. Suddenly he was sober as a judge. “Go on.”

  “So this is the plan: a kind of pro-am duets competition. Like Dancing with the Stars, except singing. To avoid a lawsuit.”

  “Of course.”

  “We get a stable of pros, some members of the church choirs and such—”

  “Like Nora?” Niall asked.

  Ray waved a hand dismissively. “No, no. She doesn’t sing anymore. We’ve got plenty of other singers in town, though. And we pair them up with . . . well, whoever auditions, I guess. I’m getting the word out that auditions will be at the end of the week. I’m glad you’re here early—you can help out with those.”

  Niall made a face. He had hoped to take care of some other pressing business while he was in the area, the sooner the better. But Celia’s pained expression, as though she had been expecting him to disappoint everyone all along, and by golly he was doing it, and during his very first meeting with Ray no less, got him to reconsider.

  “No problem, Ray,” Niall answered, sneaking another furtive glance at Celia. “Auditions. Singing. Duets. Got it.”

  “Aaaaghhh, I feel like I ate the contents of a whole grain silo.”

  Niall blinked in the bright morning sunlight, stopping on the sidewalk in front of Nora’s to fish his sunglasses out of his pocket. It was going to be a hot one today. He could feel it already, in the heavy air thick with the sound of buzzing cicadas.

  “But the pancakes were good, right?” Celia asked.

  “Oh yeah! Just not what I’m used to. However, being threatened with having your usual egg-white omelet stuffed into the place that would usually be its exit point . . . I figured I’d just roll with it. Why wouldn’t you let me leave a decent tip?”

  “That wasn’t decent,” Celia said, crossing her arms in front of her and giving him the hairy eyeball. “That was excessive.”

  “So? Doesn’t Nora deserve—?”

  “She’d see right through that. She’d know you were trying to buy her. Believe me, that’s not the way to go about winning her over. Honestly, I’m not sure you can . . . movie star.”

  “You make my job sound so dirty. Which, of course, it totally is. Did you know her story?”

  Celia started walking, slowly, tucking the tips of her long fingers into the pockets of her cutoff shorts. Niall’s eyes were drawn there automatically, and his stomach clenched. This was what he’d wanted last night—some peaceful, private time with a relaxed Celia, the two of them ambling down Main Street. He strongly suspected he was grinning like an idiot and avoided glancing in the shop windows they were passing so he couldn’t confirm he looked as goofy as he felt.

  “Mm, sure,” she said. “I’d heard different versions of it over the years. You tend to just know everybody’s story when you live in a place like this.”

  “Everybody’s?”

  “Yep.”

  “I accept your challenge!” he bellowed in a pompous British accent. He scanned the street. “That lady over there.”

  Celia looked where he was pointing—at a tall, busty, older woman, with bright red hair and lots of jewelry, fussing with some clothing on a dressmaker’s dummy on the sidewalk. “Missy Preston. Nice lady. Married several times. Owner of Missy’s Hits for Misses—the consignment shop, there. A lifer and elder stateswoman of the town. She’ll love you.”

  “Well, finally someone will. Er . . . that is a good thing, right?”

  Celia looked like she was trying to pinch her smile away by pressing her lips together. Failed. “Sure.”

  “I shall win her adoration! She shall heal this heart that Nora rent asunder!”

  “She’d like that. She, um, really likes younger men.”

  “She does?” he asked, his voice suddenly faint and timid.

  Celia allowed her smile to spread, and he was so grateful she did. He loved the way it lit up her face. “Mm. And older men. And every age in between. Especially if they have . . . funds to lavish on her. No need to introduce yourself. She’ll hunt you down soon enough.”

  “I’ll, uh, look forward to it . . . ?”

  “Brave lad.”

  “Who’s that?”

  This time Niall pointed at a slow-moving, dark-skinned, imperious woman crossing the street against the light, holding up traffic. Nobody moved or even honked. From the glare she was shooting at the waiting cars, it seemed nobody would dare.

  “Mrs. Rousseau. Another lifer. Ran the Empress Bed and Breakfast forever, until her arthritis started slowing her down. Three boys, now grown, with families. They all moved away, but they take care of their mom as best they can, especially since Mr. Rousseau passed away about fifteen years ago—actually, as best as she’ll let them, which isn’t much. She will never hesitate to tell you what she thinks of you. She’d hate that shirt you’re wearing, by the way.”

  Niall smirked. “It’s Casey’s. So hah.” Then, daringly, “Even if it were mine, maybe I wouldn’t care what Mrs. Trudeau thinks.”

  “Mrs. Rousseau. And yes, you would.”

  “One more.” He pointed at a van going by. “That guy.”

  “Skip Dwyer,” she announced, warming to her task. “Odd-jobs man, cousin of Charlie Beers—that’s the bar owner you met last night—married to Rachel, who’s actually a distant cousin of mine, by the way. Nice guy. Likes to feel pretty in couture. I think Dior is his designer of choice.”

  “Oh, that is excellent. I love small towns.”

  “Sure you do.”

  “I do! I grew up in a small town, in fact. Granted, the hills were smaller . . . okay, the place was completely flat—this would be Florida, thanks for asking—and the insects were way bigger, but otherwise, more or less the same. I love the dynamic, the ambience. I really feel at home here. I can blend right in.”

  Celia smirked as someone on the sidewalk stopped dead to take a photo of Niall with his phone. “Um, you’re not exactly ‘blending’ that easily, Egg-White Omelet.”

  He shrugged it off. “So, where to now? I want to see everything.”

  “Sorry. I’ve got to go. I’ve got some yard work to do at my grandmother’s place.”

  “Can I help?”

  “Uh . . .” She paused and laughed softly. “I don’t think this is your kind of thing.”

  “I know how to do yard work!” he protested.

  “I’m sure you do.”

  “Yeech, what you think of me. I haven’t always been a—”

  “Pampered, spoiled celebrity?”

  “Yeah. Thanks a bunch. That’s only been the past several years, I’ll have you know. I can bust out of it.”

  “I believe you.” But the amused, more-than-slightly skeptical look on her face said otherwise. “I still think you should take this time to prepare for Night of the Shooting Stars instead. Ray’s going to work you hard, you know.” She hesitated. “Don’t let him down.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

  Niall watched her cross the street, and despite his full gut, he felt empty. The worst thing in the world, he realized, was watching Celia Marshall walk away. Despite the beautiful view it afforded. Suddenly he felt agitated, like every one of his nerve endings was on fire. He couldn’t stand idly by and watch Celia walk away permanently one day instead of being with her, getting close to her,
belonging by her side, all because of some stupid arrangement . . .

  He scrambled in his pocket for his phone and hurriedly texted Trent: Get me out of the thing with Tiff. NOW.

  Good old Trent, cell phone always in hand, replied almost immediately. You can’t go up against the studio.

  Try me.

  Is this about the McManus model?

  Niall felt compelled to correct him. Not a model.

  Whatever. Since when can’t you keep it in your pants for a while? You’re usually such an ascetic.

  Don’t break my phone with your fancy words.

  Monk, then. Sexless monk. Buying you a dictionary for Christmas.

  Thank you. Hey, wait a minute . . .

  But why not, you know, have her sign a nondisclose, nail her, done? Tiffany never needs to know.

  When did you become such a Neanderthal? Niall fired back, irritated, then paused. Trent’s casual comment infuriated him. This thing with Celia . . . it wasn’t just an itch he wanted to scratch, even if he was that sort of guy. Which he wasn’t, no matter what his fake reputation telegraphed. He wanted more than that with her. Besides, she wasn’t a pie-eyed bimbo with a pile of scrambled eggs where her brain should be. He couldn’t just snap his fingers and expect her to fall at his feet. Nor did he want her to. She was a real person—an intelligent, beautiful woman—and he wanted to treat her with all the respect she deserved. No stolen moments and indecent proposals in closets. She was better than that. But he wasn’t about to explain that to Trent.

  Just get the lawyers on it—find a loophole. Something. Anything.

  Chapter 13

  “Hey.”

  Celia jumped a mile at the sound of Niall’s familiar smooth tenor. Goose bumps erupted on her skin, which was damp with perspiration. She put it down to the breeze that had kicked up. Sure, it was the cooler, early evening air, not his presence. And those corresponding vibrations low in her belly? Due to her physical state (exhausted) and her state of mind (so very, very agitated). Obviously.