by Jayne Denker
Everything faded away, except Celia. Even Audra’s painful caterwauling couldn’t pierce the bubble he found himself in, population two. Nothing else existed, nothing else mattered. Just the two of them. His heart hammered as though it were trying to break right through his chest.
He had to do something, say something. Reach for her. Show her how he felt. Make her his once and for all. He had no idea how, just knew it had to happen, or he’d snap in two from longing, from need, from the utter urgency of it all.
And then the song ended. Niall blinked, as did Celia, as Audra stood there, waiting for her applause. She looked downright pleased with herself, but Niall couldn’t find any words of praise, even empty ones. His mind was a blank—no. His mind was filled with nothing but Celia. He almost didn’t know where he was for a moment.
His first clear thought: God, I hope that won’t become “our song.”
Meanwhile, Ray took up the slack, clapping enthusiastically. Celia looked at her old boss, dumbfounded. “Really nice, Audra,” she said with another plastered-on smile. “You haven’t changed a bit since high school.”
“Thanks!” her friend cried, beaming.
“Well!” Ray exclaimed. “I think we have our first—”
“Um, Ray? Can we hold off on that for a minute? Audra, I need to talk to you. We really need your help.”
Audra narrowed her eyes suspiciously. “What?”
“Let’s talk privately.”
Celia stood up and drew her away to a far corner of the room, talking animatedly while Audra’s expression changed from guarded, to intrigued, and finally to enthusiastic. When Celia was done, Audra flung her arms around the other woman’s neck, gave her a squeeze, waved at Ray and Niall as she shouted, “Thanks! I’m going to start right now!” and bounced out the door.
“What just happened?” Ray demanded.
Celia sat back down at the table, far more relaxed than she had been a few minutes before. “We needed a wardrobe consultant. Now we have one. Two problems solved.”
“Are you sure, Celia?” Ray asked, frowning. “I mean, is that the best place for her—?”
Anyplace but on the stage, Niall thought, but he let Celia do the talking.
“Absolutely, Ray. Audra knows fashion—especially the, um, glitzy type we’ll need for the show. And she wants to drum up business for her boutique. Suzette’s,” she said to Niall, in explanation. He nodded. “So it’s the perfect job for her. And besides, she’s so . . . so . . . well, don’t you think we should let the other contestants have a fair shot at the prize?”
Ray considered this seriously. “Hm. You could be right. She might be too much competition for anyone else around here.”
Leaning over to Celia, Niall murmured, “You. Are. Amazing.”
“Stop.”
She bumped his shoulder with hers, and Niall thrilled at even this slight contact. He was completely losing his mind.
“Well,” Ray said, a note of finality in his voice, “looks like we’re done here—”
“Um, Ray?”
All three of them looked up at the new voice.
“Are we too late? Uh, hi, Celia.”
A man and a woman edged into the room, the man’s hands protectively on the young woman’s shoulders. Her hands were resting on her slightly protruding belly. As they approached the table, Niall looked from the couple to Celia. She had gone white as a sheet. He watched her swallow, with difficulty, as she sat, otherwise unmoving. She didn’t answer the man.
His eyes shifted nervously past Niall to Ray as the two edged closer to the table. “Laurie wants to audition.”
Ray immediately closed down as well, but instead of shock, he was radiating hostility. “Auditions are over, Matt. And we’re full anyway.”
“Come on, Ray . . .”
“And in her . . . condition?”
“She’s only six months along. She’s doing fine.”
“No.”
Laurie turned her head, raised one hand to cup the man’s cheek, and whispered something. They made a beautiful picture of a loving couple, soon to be a family. Niall heard him say softly to her, “No, baby. You deserve this.” To Ray, he said, “Come on, man. Don’t be like that.”
Ray colored and shuffled his papers busily. “I don’t think—”
“Let her sing.”
It was Celia, her voice a whisper, her words choked. Without looking at anyone, especially avoiding glancing at the couple, she lurched to her feet.
“I . . . uh . . . have to go.”
She hurried out of the room, legs stiff, and pounded up the stairs.
Chapter 17
Not even a sliver of light pierced the gloom of the basement in her grandmother’s home. Just in case one did, however, Celia tucked herself into the farthest, darkest, most cobwebby corner and hunkered down by an old desk. If she were hit with a bit of cheerful sunlight, she suspected she’d go off like a flash pot and leave nothing but a pile of ashes. A very, very small pile.
She sighed and hauled out a handful of papers from one of the desk drawers. All six were filled to bursting. Not for the first time, Celia wondered how in the world she was going to sort out and pack all her grandmother’s stuff before she sold the house and moved Holly into the senior home, especially because she wasn’t particularly committed to the task at the moment.
The papers still in her hand, she stared off into the shadows, her eyes unfocused. She started feeling that agitation again, that same unmoored anger that had filtered through her veins when she’d spent the day gardening, trying—and failing—to work it out of her system. That day she’d been angry at Niall and worried about her grandmother. Today it was . . . something else. Darker, more pervasive. Buried deeper, more harmful when it surfaced. She’d tried to push it back down, but it had been fighting back since last night. And it was winning the battle. Spending time with Niall that night had banished it, which had surprised her. She’d thought that he’d have the opposite effect, but she always felt better when he was around. Not just because he could make her laugh no matter how dire her situation, either. He made her feel . . . capable. Optimistic. Supported.
Cared for.
She recalled the sound of his footsteps the night before—running, catching up to her after she’d made her escape from the auditions. He’d breathlessly begged her to let him give her a ride home—yet again. She’d refused. She’d wanted to walk. She’d wanted to be alone. She’d wanted to sort out what seeing Matt and Laurie—a pregnant Laurie—had done to her.
It had cracked her open, that was what. Everything about her ex-husband, about his betrayal, about their divorce, about his forging a life with another woman—everything she had buried for years—had heaved to the surface, breaking through her thin layer of peacefulness and self-control, like a long-dormant volcano stirring, preparing to erupt. And there was Niall, standing at the edge of the crater. Ready to jump, if she’d just give him a sign.
But she’d demanded he let her go on alone. He’d refused, of course, using some lame excuse about not wanting her to walk alone in the dark. As if anything would happen to her in Marsden. There was no shaking him off, however, so she’d stormed on, practically sprinting, Niall keeping up with his long strides, neither one of them speaking the entire way back to her grandmother’s house.
She’d rushed up the porch steps, intending to run inside without a backward glance at him. He hadn’t followed her. She’d found herself turning, looking down at him at the foot of the steps, in the yellow glow of the porch light. He’d said nothing, just stood there, panting slightly from the near run back to the house, hands on his narrow hips. Watching her.
Then he’d said, softly, “Whenever you’re ready, talk to me.”
Celia hadn’t been able to answer. Instead, she’d barely nodded and ducked into the house. She’d avoided her grandmother as well, pleading a migraine, and locked herself in her bedroom. Her grandmother hadn’t followed her, either, just watched her go, as attentively as Niall
had, worry on her face, just like his. She’d appreciated their concern, but she just couldn’t open up about this. She didn’t dare. Because she wasn’t sure how deep it went. And she didn’t want to find out.
“Celia? Is that you, or did the mice discover a secret stash of steroids?”
Her grandmother made her way down the stairs. Squinting in the dim light cast by the scattered solitary bulbs that didn’t illuminate half of anything in the cellar, she called, “You are down here, right?”
“Over here, Gran. I’m wading through your stuff.”
“It makes a case for my staying put, doesn’t it?”
“Gran . . .”
“Relax. I’m just joking.” She ambled over and perched on a stack of boxes near her granddaughter. “Ready to talk about it?”
“About what?” Celia couldn’t meet Holly’s eyes.
“Don’t get coy with me, girlie. You come blasting into the house last night like the hounds of hell are after you, you leave the movie star in the yard . . .”
“He didn’t do anything, Gran.”
“I know. I thought he did, at first, and I was ready to kill him, but then I heard all about the whole Matt and Laurie thing.” Celia glanced up, and her grandmother explained, “Went for a morning constitutional with the girls, stopped into Nora’s.”
“Oh. Right.” Suddenly Celia understood exactly what George always complained about—how everything anyone did and said got spread around town before the sun rose. And that wasn’t even hyperbolic. It wasn’t just the gossip, but the fact that everyone seemed to feel it was their right to voice their opinion about . . . well, everything. It had nearly driven George away from Marsden a second time, a couple of years ago. She’d lived in Boston for years, specifically to avoid the intrusive nature of the residents of her hometown, and although she’d come home to help with Amelia when Jaz was laid up with a back injury, when everyone started messing with her personal life again, she’d bolted back to Boston. Celia didn’t really blame her. George’s renewed relationship with Casey had nearly been derailed by the residents’ meddling, until Celia had stepped in to salvage the situation.
Celia wondered what people would think of this latest incident, her suddenly coming face-to-face with not only her ex-husband but his pregnant girlfriend. She suspected she’d find out soon enough; she could practically feel the rumble running through the bedrock of the mountains as everyone in town dissected this juicy incident, gossiping on every street corner and in every shop.
Her grandmother sighed and shifted on her makeshift perch. “So you saw Matt and his . . .”
“Don’t say it.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s not nice.”
“You’re being kind to . . . her . . . even though she stole your husband?”
“You can’t steal someone unless they want to be stolen.”
“That’s true,” Holly admitted. “Look, this is a small town. You knew you were going to run into them eventually.”
“I know. But . . .” Celia hesitated. “It’s not really that. Seeing them, I mean. I saw them around town before I moved away, after all.”
“What, then?”
“Well, Laurie being pregnant . . . that was . . .”
“Yeah.”
“I guess sometimes I just wonder if I . . . did the right thing.”
“What kind of right thing?”
“Everything. The divorce.”
“Like you had a choice?”
A fair point. Matt had left her, had announced he wanted to be with Laurie instead, had cut her to the quick when he told her he was “really, truly in love this time.” What Celia wanted . . . that hadn’t mattered. He’d made up his mind, and he was gone, and with him went her plans for a normal, quiet life in her hometown—being with her family, starting a family of her own. And now he was doing all of that with someone else.
“But . . . did I give in too easily? Did I . . . I don’t know . . . not fight hard enough for him? I didn’t even fight at all.”
“Because you knew there was no point. Honey,” Holly said slowly, and it was clear she was barely containing her irritation, “do you think you’ve been missing something all these years? Think back to your marriage. Was it that great?”
The answer to that was no. No, it hadn’t been. Not by a long shot. She shook her head.
“Okay then. Do you want to be with Matt now?”
“No!” And she meant it. Be with Matt? Not at all. Thoughts of Niall entered her head instead. She pushed them back out. One crisis at a time, here. “I just . . . wonder if I had worked harder at our marriage, would Matt . . .” She swallowed with difficulty, remembering her ex murmuring lovingly to his girlfriend the night before, championing her, standing up to Ray to get her an audition. “Would he have ended up treating me the way he treats Laurie?”
“You’d better hope the opposite—that he won’t end up treating her like he treated you. He’s a pea-brained jackass.”
“Gran!”
“He is. Don’t whitewash the past.”
Celia groaned. “Why did it work out for them but not for him and me?”
“Because you’re smart enough to know you don’t belong with a pea-brained jackass. Haven’t you been listening to me?”
“What about the town?”
“Don’t tell me you care what everybody around here thinks—that’s a waste of time. Everyone’s always been on your side.”
Shaking her head, Celia worked hard to put her vague feelings into words. “No, I mean my moving away. When George talked about living in Boston, I knew I wanted to do the same thing—live in a big city, do something daring and different. I’m glad I did it—don’t get me wrong—but why . . . why wasn’t I able to be happy here? Okay, the Matt thing was out of my hands, but what about the rest of my life? What about my friends and family? What was so wrong with me that I couldn’t be content with that?”
She glanced around the basement, at the memorabilia, the memories, the history, all in one place. Suddenly all the accumulated stuff wasn’t just a nuisance to be cleared out and chucked into a rented Dumpster. It was the story of her grandmother’s entire life. It had meaning. Celia had nothing like this. Instead, she’d given up her job at Ray’s print shop and the little house she’d gotten in the divorce for one third of an apartment in Brooklyn, everything she owned reduced to the contents of a bookshelf, a closet, and the space under her narrow bed, in a vast city where she knew next to no one, and barely anyone knew her.
“Because you needed something you couldn’t get here. Doesn’t mean there’s anything wrong with you.”
“But I haven’t found it.”
“Yet.” Her grandmother got to her feet and started rummaging through boxes on some metal utility shelves nearby. “I found some of your stuff, kept it for you.”
“Oh. Sorry. I’ll clear it out with everything else.”
“That’s not what I meant. Ah-hah,” she muttered triumphantly, pulling items out of a white file box. She handed them to Celia. “Recognize these?”
Her granddaughter sorted through the stack of large black-and-white glossy photos, smiling wistfully. “I took these in school.”
“They’re good. Do you still take pictures?”
“Sometimes.”
“But most of the time you’re running around serving that diva boss of yours.”
“Vic isn’t—”
“Oh, sure he is. And that’s fine. He earned it. But is the job serving you?”
“It pays my rent.”
“Answer the question.”
“What am I supposed to do, give up my paying job and be a photographer ? That’s not practical. I’d be out on the street in a week.”
“I’m saying don’t let yourself dry up. Use your talents. Or they will dry up. And then you’ll have nothing. That’s what you need to worry about, not why you couldn’t live the same life as some of your friends.”
“I don’t know. Their lives seem pret
ty attractive sometimes.” Her grandmother snorted. “Don’t believe everything you think you see. Even Matt and Laurie. I’d bet anything almost everyone you know would trade places with you in a heartbeat. Be where you’re supposed to be, doing what you want, instead of trying to force yourself to be satisfied in a place you don’t belong.”
“I have no idea where to start.”
“I just told you. Use your talents. You brought your camera, didn’t you?”
Of course she did. Celia took her Canon Rebel everywhere. (She’d chosen it for its features, but she liked it for its name.) Not that she used it regularly, but she made sure she had it with her just in case. Whisking away a stray tear, she nodded.
“Well, get to it, girlie! Go take pictures of stuff!”
“I will. But not right now. I have some work to do down here.” Holly flapped her hand. “Feh. We’ll just get a couple of huge shovels and empty the place out in five minutes.” She looked around, seeing the basement with new eyes. “Uh, maybe a backhoe.”
Chapter 18
“Talk to me. What have we got here?”
Niall raked his fingers through his hair, vigorously massaging his scalp along the way, and sighed heavily. “You tell me, man.”
“Well, you must have some sort of opinion! Now, come on—we’ve been over the whole ‘go with your gut’ thing. So go with it. Who’d you choose for contestants, out of all of these?”
Niall cast a sidelong glance at Celia, who was grinning like a Cheshire cat while she fiddled with her camera. She’d marched into the meeting with renewed purpose, shooting off excited sparks until her warm brown eyes glowed and Niall was paralyzed with desire. Celia had announced to Ray—quite definitively, in fact—that she had given herself a new role for Night of the Shooting Stars. Not just Niall’s translator, but official photographer, keeping a running photo diary of the entire contest, from rehearsals all the way through the performance. Ray was all for it, suggesting they use her photos in the background reel as well as for posterity. So she’d started immediately, taking shots of the two men laboriously making decisions about the lineup.
