Picture This

by Jayne Denker

  “Gran,” she said carefully, all the while wondering what she was going to say to snap Holly out of it. Was she even supposed to snap her out of it, or—wait—was she confusing an episode of dementia with sleepwalking?

  “Have you seen my big mixing bowl?”

  “Gran, did you hear me? It’s the middle of the night.”

  “I’ve got to get these pancakes made before your grandfather comes downstairs. Are you going to help me or not?”

  Was she supposed to play along? Or was she supposed to talk some sense into the old woman? It seemed easier to appease her. “All right. But you know what?” Celia crossed to her and took the cookbook out of her hands. “Let me do it.”

  “Oh, that’s cute. Are you sure you can handle it?”

  “I’m sure.”

  “The skillet’s heavy for a little girl like you.”

  “I’m all grown up, Gran.”

  “Yes, you are,” she answered, but she patted Celia’s cheek as she said it. Celia wondered how old Gran thought she was at the moment.

  “Why don’t you go back to bed? I’ll, um, call you when they’re ready.”

  “A nap, eh? I suppose I could do with a nap. I’m feeling pretty tired.”

  “Sure. Go on upstairs. I’ll take care of things here.”

  Holly patted her cheek again. “You’re a good girl.”

  She left the kitchen, slippers scuffing on the linoleum. On her way out of the room, she absently turned out the light, leaving Celia in the dark. With a heavy sigh, Celia sank into a chair and covered her face with her hands. If this incident wasn’t proof positive it was time for Holly to move to the assisted living community, she didn’t know what was. And, she had to grudgingly admit, it looked like her parents had been right all along.

  She rested her head on her arms, staring blankly into the darkness. She thought she was too wound up to sleep, but after a few minutes her eyelids drooped, and she drifted off.

  It could have been only minutes, or possibly hours, later, when something startled her out of her doze, made her head jerk up in alarm. She looked around for her grandmother, afraid that the older woman had come back into the kitchen and started cooking again. It was still dark and quiet, and there was no sign of her, no noises upstairs. Celia stood, stretched, and turned to go back upstairs to bed.

  And then she heard it. A rattling noise, like someone was trying the knob on the back door. Celia froze. The photographers were trying to break in. It couldn’t be anyone else—this was Marsden, after all. It didn’t make any sense, but then again, none of what they did made any sense.

  She backed out of the kitchen slowly. The rattling noise stopped. Her heart hammering, she crept to a window and strained her eyes in the dark, trying to see any shadows moving in the yard. But there was nothing. Celia hurried into the living room to call the police. She might have been hearing things, but she was going to err on the side of caution.

  Just as she reached for the phone in its base on an end table, the front door started banging in its frame as the intruder—or was it a different one?—tried to open it. A muffled curse came from the front porch.

  Celia scrabbled for the phone, dropped it. A shadow moved on the wall in the front hall, near the stairs, and she forgot to breathe. One of them was already in the house? But they’d locked all the doors. Keeping her eye on the doorway to the hall, she crouched down and felt around the floor for the phone. She couldn’t find it. She glanced down for a split second to locate it, and when she looked up again, all she saw was a baseball bat, held high.

  “Gran!” she hissed before the old woman could brain her. “What in God’s name are you doing?”

  “Somebody’s at the front door!”

  “I know!”

  “I’m gonna go beat ’em senseless.”

  “What the . . . No, you are not! Give me the bat. I’ll beat them, you call 911.”

  Celia made her grandmother trade the bat for the phone, then she charged into the front hall. She’d had just about enough of this nonsense. Who did these people think they were, invading her town, destroying her grandmother’s lawn and Bedelia’s hydrangeas, making her a virtual prisoner, and ruining her relationship with Niall before it even began? That last accusation was a bit of a stretch, but she wasn’t feeling very compassionate. It was the middle of the night, she was cold and tired, and completely wrung out by . . . everything. Just everything.

  She knew it wasn’t wise to confront what was likely a big guy—some of those photographers were startlingly burly—trying to break into her house, but she had a bat, and the person on the other side of the door only had a camera. Plus she had rage. That gave her the advantage.

  So with the bat resting on her shoulder like she was waiting her turn at the plate, she yanked open the front door with the other hand.

  No one was there.

  But someone was climbing in the living room window that looked out onto the porch.

  “Hold it right there!” Celia ordered, in what she hoped was a threatening tone. “I have a weapon.”

  The shadow of a person froze, one leg in the window.

  “I’ll knock your head right off your shoulders.”

  “No, you won’t,” the shadowy figure said. “I mean, nice try and everything? But you’re the easiest out on the block.”

  Celia frowned. She knew that voice. And it didn’t belong to one of the photographers. Neither did the lithe figure that turned the act of drawing a leg out of the window into a graceful dance move. The person crossed the porch and plopped sideways into the chair nearest her.

  “Since when does Gran lock her doors, anyway? Or is that your doing? Are you going all paranoid in your old age, Ceel?”

  Celia’s arm relaxed, and the end of the bat hit the boards of the porch floor with a smack. “Jordan?” she whispered. “What are you doing here?”

  “What, I can’t visit the family?”

  “It’s not usually on your top ten list of fun things to do.”

  “You’ve got that right,” the younger woman said, draping a shorts-clad leg over the arm of the chair and knocking her clunky boot against the side, acting like it was common practice to try to break into her grandmother’s house in the middle of the night. “But”—she sighed, gathering her dark hair up and letting it fall into smooth sheets on either side of her face—“I had a hankering.”

  “You did not. What do you want?”

  “A hug?”

  Celia snorted. “Right.”

  Jordan shrugged her narrow shoulders. “I just want to crash here for a little while.”

  “Shouldn’t you be back in college?”

  “Semester hasn’t started yet. What are you doing here, anyway?” Celia hesitated, wondering how to explain the past few weeks to her cousin. Realizing she couldn’t, she just said, “Long story.” Luckily Jordan wasn’t the type of person to press her for details.

  “What are all those cars on the street? Did you know there are people sleeping in them? Don’t tell me Gran’s having a house party again. Remember that one time—oh, wait. That was the biker gang, not a bunch of people in SUVs.”

  “That was a legitimate weekend motorcycle club, not a biker gang. And no—this is definitely not a house party. Look, do we have to talk about this now? It’s . . . I don’t even know what time it is.”

  “No, we do not. I’m wiped. Tell me tomorrow. Dibs on the front bedroom.”

  “Nope. I’m already in there.”

  “Jordan?”

  “Gran!”

  The younger woman launched herself out of the chair and into her grandmother’s arms. A siren’s wail drew closer, then the street was illuminated by red and blue flashes.

  “A welcoming party? For me? You shouldn’t have.”

  “Oh, sorry, honey. We called the cops when we thought it was the paparazzi trying to break in.”

  “Paparazzi? How do they know I’m here?”

  “Actually, they’re here for Celia.”

 
; Turning to her cousin, eyes wide, Jordan murmured, “You don’t say. I’m impressed. What did you do?”

  Celia said immediately, “Absolutely nothing,” just as her grandmother supplied, “She’s dating a movie star.”

  Jordan looked Celia up and down. “Ooh, you’re what the old-timers would call a dark horse, aren’t you? You’ve certainly changed since I saw you at the last family picnic, anyway.”

  Then her attention was drawn to the police officer climbing the steps, talking into the radio attached to his shoulder. He paused on the top step and turned the radio down before addressing them. “Mrs. Leigh, Celia. What seems to be the problem?”

  “Oh, hello, Billy,” Holly said. “False alarm. Sorry.”

  “You reported that someone was trying to break into your house.”

  “That’s right. But it was Jordan. You remember Jordan, don’t you?” Officer Billy’s expression was politely and professionally neutral; only a slight lift of one eyebrow revealed his recognition. “Jordan.”

  “William. How’s it hanging?”

  “Haven’t seen you here in quite a while.”

  Jordan shrugged. “I figured it was time for a visit.”

  “To break into your grandmother’s house?”

  “Hey, it’s not my fault. This was the first time in, like, ever that her door was locked. I didn’t want to wake her up.”

  “I see.”

  Out of the corner of her eye, Celia saw shadows drifting up the sidewalk—zombie paparazzi, scenting something photo-worthy. “Um, can we take this inside? We’re about to have visitors.”

  Officer Billy glanced over his shoulder. “I’ll take care of it. So we’re good here?”

  “The goodest,” Jordan reassured him. “Sorry to wake you up and everything.”

  “I’m on the night shift.”

  The girl smirked. “I know. Lighten up, officer.”

  “Go on inside, Jordan. And, er, enjoy your visit.”

  Chapter 28

  Niall hated to admit it, but he was starting to think Ray was rubbing off on him. According to his neighbors, the man was normally a jovial sort, but Niall wasn’t seeing it. Ray struck him as decidedly moody, and lately, as the date of the competition got closer, he’d gradually become more and more of an outright terror. Now Niall felt just as on edge, just as irritable, as Ray had been behaving. He tried to shake it, but he just couldn’t. It was like he was miserable down to the marrow of his bones and couldn’t get to the source to uproot it.

  He knew what was down there at the roots, of course. He desperately missed Celia. Not for the first time, he regretted deciding to keep her out of the public eye, away from the competition . . . and at a distance from himself . . . because it was pretty much decimating him. But the alternative was worse, he knew.

  Trying to get the photographers off her tail hadn’t worked. He’d reasoned if they never spotted the two of them together, they’d give up and go home, and maybe, once things settled down, he and Celia could salvage the situation, but they hadn’t left. They remained camped out in front of her grandmother’s house, and they followed Alan’s car when he escorted Celia to the arts center, even though they were locked out of the actual rehearsals. A few of them tried to hang out at Bowen Farms, hoping to catch him, but Casey and Elliot, Casey’s second-in-command, each toting an unloaded but intimidating shotgun, put paid to that soon enough. Niall felt a little guilty that the men had to take time out of their workday to stand guard on the front porch and back stoop, but they had joked they were actually enjoying pretending to be badasses. At other times, the paparazzi continued to wander the streets of Marsden, sniffing around for gossip, trying to schmooze townspeople who looked likely to talk. From what Niall had heard, however, every individual in town had shut them down. If Niall had liked the place before, he absolutely loved it now, for that gesture alone.

  He also was grateful that Ray had created a safe space for Celia at rehearsals. Although she’d been forced to skip the last two because of her father’s schedule, she was going to attend the final rehearsal tonight, and Niall’s nerve endings were on fire as he waited for her to arrive. He just wanted to see her. Nothing else. He wouldn’t allow anything else. Right?

  When he spotted Celia in the auditorium, Niall’s heart leapt in his chest. She was simply going about her business, unpacking her camera, but that familiar ache started up. He should stay away. Keep her at arm’s length. Maintain a professional distance . . . ah, fuck it.

  “You’re here.”

  Celia glanced up at him, and her eyes were cold. She looked back down at her camera. “You’re talking to me.”

  “Celia—”

  “For how long, though? That’s the question. I mean, is this temporary, or a permanent shutout? Maybe you could e-mail me a schedule.”

  Okay, he deserved that. Elbows locked, he shoved his hands in his pockets, clenched them into fists. “I want to explain.”

  “It had better be one hell of an explanation.”

  Niall didn’t answer for a moment, just watched her rustle around in her bag. It occurred to him that she wasn’t actually looking for anything—she was just keeping herself busy so she wouldn’t have to look at him. The realization was a kick in the gut.

  “I have my reasons,” he said, then immediately regretted it.

  A snort. A delicate one, but a snort all the same. Trust Celia not to be cowed by his posturing.

  He blurted out, “Look . . . I don’t think you can handle it. The . . . sudden notoriety.”

  “You have no idea what I can and can’t handle. Besides, what sudden notoriety? A bunch of photographers wanting to take my picture? Big deal.”

  She sounded cavalier about it, but her voice trembled. Just a bit.

  “Things happen.”

  Celia’s head shot up. “What have you heard?”

  Alarm flared inside him. “What happened?” he demanded.

  “Nothing! Nothing happened. Everything’s fine.” She buried her head in her bag again. “You’re not doing so great at the moment, though.”

  Frustrated, he clenched his jaw and dragged his fingers through his hair. She was right. He wasn’t explaining himself well at all. He tried again. “I want . . . I need to keep you out of it. This whole . . . lifestyle.”

  “Well, congratulations—you’ve succeeded. This resolution of yours—made all by yourself, I noticed—was a little late, considering. But hey, better late than never, right? Thanks for ‘saving me,’ or whatever you think you’re doing.”

  Crouching beside her, he said softly, “This whole thing . . . you, me . . . us . . . it was totally impulsive on my part. A bad call. I’m sorry. I should have thought it through.”

  “So . . . what . . .” She turned her head to study him and, agitated as he was, he still found himself captivated by the liquid motion of her smooth, dark hair sliding forward over her shoulder. “You’re . . . backing off from ... us? Just like that?”

  “I just want you to be safe—”

  “Niall, nothing’s going to happen—”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “You’re not making any sense.”

  He sighed, frustrated. No, he wasn’t, and he wasn’t going to, as long as he held back. But he couldn’t manage to tell her everything. He wanted to. Couldn’t. It was a box he’d sealed up years ago and now was afraid to open. “You can go ahead and hate me. I’d understand.” He half wanted her to; it would be easier for him to keep his distance that way.

  Celia’s lips parted, another retort clearly ready to fly, but instead pain clouded her gaze, and her spirit flagged. “I don’t hate you,” she murmured, “but you’re making it pretty hard to like you right about now.”

  Niall wasn’t sure he could take much more of this. He was so certain that shutting Celia out was the right thing to do. And it worked . . . in theory. Until she was right in front of him. So he was almost grateful when Missy Preston sauntered over, preceded by a cloud of perfume and the sound of
clanking bracelets.

  “Niall, darling,” she said in a warm voice, “would you help me, please?”

  With one more furtive glance at Celia, who was back to fiddling with her camera, he rose from his crouch and turned to the older woman, only to find her violating his personal space something fierce. He stumbled backward a couple of steps. “What can I do for you, Mrs. P?”

  “Oh, Missy, please,” she crooned with a smile. “I was wondering if you could advise me and Nestor about our stage presence. I think he’s just disappearing, he’s so shy. Can you—?”

  “Sure.”

  It was the last thing he wanted to do—walk away from Celia when she was still angry and hurt, and all because of him. But when he spotted Mrs. P studying the two of them suspiciously—and, he had to admit, the tension was so thick between them it was hard to miss—he decided it was best to distract the older woman before she started asking questions or, worse, started making assumptions and spreading stories all over town. He owed Celia that much.

  “Okay,” he said to Mrs. P, leading her back up the steps to the stage with a light touch on her shoulder, which she seemed to love. “Show me what you’ve got.”

  He winced at his poor choice of words, but any flirty response Mrs. P would have tossed him was interrupted by Ray coming out from backstage at that moment. “Well, Crenshaw? Are you ready for tomorrow night?” he asked cheerfully.

  “You bet.”

  Ray, acting like his old congenial self? Niall thought he’d be on the verge of spontaneously combusting, this close to the actual competition, but instead he was almost tap-dancing.

  “I wanted to remind you to pay real close attention to the transitions between acts, all right? If we put Brianna on after Lorenzo, you’ve gotta help the audience make the shift from old farts to young blood. Stuff like that.”

  He knew all that quite well, but he humored the man. “No problem.”

  Ray clapped him on the shoulder as he passed by. “Good man.”

  “What the . . .” Niall muttered, watching him walk away downright jauntily.