Picture This (17 page)

“The reason Mac and I were doing doughnuts in the field.”

“Okay . . .”

“I did it because . . . when we were driving home from hang gliding, I . . . couldn't remember where Mac lived to drop him off. And I was too proud to ask him.” Shocked, Celia grasped her grandmother's hand and started to speak, but Holly wasn't finished. “And . . . I couldn't remember where I lived, either,” she whispered. “It came to me eventually, of course—”

“But it scared you.”

“Scared the hell out of me.” Holly took another drink. “I'm not right in the head. Not all the time. And what you said, about something happening while I'm living alone . . . maybe . . .” She squeezed Celia's hand, and when she looked at her granddaughter, her eyes were damp. “Maybe your parents were right. And you too. Maybe it is time for a change in living arrangements.”

Finding it difficult to swallow around the lump in her throat, Celia managed to say, “I think it's for the best, Gran.”

Holly nodded wearily. “I won't like it, though.”

“I know. But maybe you could try?”

“I don't need minding, I don't need nurses on call, I don't need bedpans.”

“Nobody said anything about bedpans—”

“Not at first. But as soon as you go someplace like that, you sign over your life, and with it goes your health, then your sanity. And another thing,” she went on, regaining some of her fire, “I'll bet they don't allow conjugal visits. That's a deal breaker.”

“It's not a prison!”

“Think again.”

Celia rose and took the glass out of her hand. “Let's just take it one step at a time, okay? It's been a long day. Why don't you go on up to bed?”

The older woman took a deep breath, surreptitiously whisking the tears from her cheeks as she moved to pat down her hair. “I get it. You want some alone time with your fella.”

“Gran! He's not—” But she stopped as her grandmother winked at her. Even in the midst of a personal crisis, she could still tease Celia mercilessly. Celia kissed her soft cheek as Holly passed her.

Then the older woman turned to Niall, who'd also stood. “Are you a gentleman, movie star?”

“I do my best,” he answered as seriously as she'd addressed him.

Holly nodded. “Well, cut it out. That's not what my granddaughter needs.”

“Gran!”

“Girlie, you're gonna wear out that word. I mean it, movie star.”

Niall's lips curled into his wicked grin. “What
does
she need, Mrs. Leigh?”

She smiled as well. “I think you can figure it out for yourself.”

And she made her way up the stairs, back ramrod straight, the defeat she had displayed only moments before well hidden. How long had she been keeping these fears buried, ignoring these lapses of memory, or making excuses for them?

When she was gone, Celia looked at Niall, feeling a little—no, a whole lot helpless. “Well, Mom and Dad got their way,” she whispered. “Now what?”

“You're going to start feeling guilty?”

“Right on schedule.” She stared into Holly's glass, noticed a little bit of alcohol at the bottom, and drained the tumbler before setting it down on the liquor cabinet. She cleared her throat at the scotch's burn. “I guess I'll call my parents in the morning and tell them to go ahead with the condo.” Her heart sank as she looked around the living room. “Oh God, I'm going to have to pack up all this stuff and put the house up for sale.”

“Hey, don't get ahead of yourself. There isn't any rush, is there?”

“I don't know. Don't we have to lock Gran up before she hurts herself ?”

“Wow, look at you being all bitter. I don't think I've seen this side of you before.”

“It comes out when I betray someone I love.”

“Okay, enough.” Niall stepped closer. “I'm ignoring that last bomb your grandmother dropped, but I am going to hug you now. Don't freak out.” She laughed a little, despite the heavy feeling in the pit of her stomach. “Ready?” She nodded, so he reached out gingerly, holding his arms in a circle about a foot from her waist, looking like an incredibly gangly ballerina. “I am now placing my arms about you,” he announced slowly and clearly, as though she were hard of hearing or didn't understand English. “Remain calm. You do not need to do anything at this time.”

“Shut up,” she muttered, meeting him halfway and hugging his waist. Nestling her cheek against his white shirt, she inhaled his scent of soap, a little perspiration from the hot day, and a hint of fried food, then let out a huge breath. She felt herself deflate, weary from all the drama. “Thanks.”

He rested his chin on the top of her head. “For what?”

“Just . . . for being here.”

“My pleasure,” he murmured, and Celia thrilled to the feel of his voice's vibration against her body.

She resisted the urge to hold him tighter, forced herself to step back. “It's late. You should get back to the inn before Casey and George lock you out.”

“Nobody locks their doors around here—didn't you inform me of that?”

“I guess I did,” she said, her face growing warm as she remembered how snappish she had been earlier. And yet he was still here for her now.

“Look, you've got your hands full here. Forget what I said about helping with the singing competition. I can handle it.”

She paused. “What if I
want
to help?”

“Really?”

“It would help get my mind off things, like you said. And besides, I can't leave you alone with Ray. God only knows what would happen, but I'm pretty sure only one of you would come out alive. And that's a best-case scenario.”

Niall's face lit up, but he shut down just as quickly, his expression back to neutral. “No rush. Auditions aren't for a couple of days yet anyway.”

Celia couldn't help laughing. “Oh God. Auditions.”

“With all the promise that word entails. I know you'd hate to miss it.”

“It is really tempting.”

“Don't think about it now.” Niall turned to go, then stepped back into the room to place a soft kiss on her forehead. “Get some rest, okay?”

When Niall was gone, and the rumble of his car faded away down the street, Celia couldn't resist touching her forehead where he'd kissed her. The impression of his lips lingered, a pleasant, warm brand.

She shook herself. Suckered by a good-looking, funny, smart, sexy . . . stop. Yes, he was all those things, plus attentive and—if she dared admit it to herself—interested in her. But he was taken. And even if he weren't, he had his life and she had hers. His might be tied up with Ray's crazy contest for a few weeks, but after that, it was movies and traveling and parties and everything else that came with the celebrity lifestyle. Hers . . . well, hers was all around her, right now.

God, what was she going to do with all of Holly's possessions? There was more than a century of accumulation: furniture, family photos on the walls and the tables and the mantel, knitted throws and footstools and . . . good lord, a thimble collection on a set of tiny shelves hanging on the wall. Board games and books—and were those old VHS tapes?—filling the shelves on the far wall. The house wasn't messy, but it was . . . glutted.

She shut her eyes tightly against the onslaught, but even with her eyes closed, she could feel the sheer volume of
stuff
pressing in on her from all sides. How was she going to do this? She could draft her parents to help, of course, but somehow she had a feeling the brunt of this was going to fall on her shoulders—as usual.

Her cell phone rang. She fished it out of her pocket, looked at the screen, smiled, answered.

“Go to bed,” was the first thing Niall said.

“How do you know I'm still up?”

“I had a feeling. You're not even in bed, are you?”

“What if I told you I'd been asleep for ages and you woke me up?”

“I wouldn't believe you. Turn that brain of yours off and get—some—sleep.”

“I've made up my mind.”

“About what?”

“I'm going to help with Night of the Shooting Stars.”

“Celia—”

“I can handle dealing with Gran and moving her and everything if I have a pleasant escape to look forward to.”

“I'd hardly call this
grand event
of Ray's a pleasant escape.”

“Maybe I like the idea of being your . . . translator.”

“Don't tease me, woman.”

“I mean it. I want to. It'll be—”

“Don't say
fun
.”

“ Fun.”

“You're crazier than I am.”

“S
eriously?”

“You've got a problem with the venue?”

“Nope. Not at all. No problem. Nope.”

Niall propped his hands on his hips and took in the sights around him in the church basement—tables covered with thin plastic tablecloths, aluminum folding chairs. A bud vase with a plastic flower sticking out of it on each table. An old radio in the corner. Rectangular windows at ground level that gave a view of a few stalky marigolds plunked in the dirt outside. A cheerful wallpaper border, in a decidedly eighties pastel color scheme, halfway up the cinder-block walls. From the darkened kitchen came the smells of cut-rate dish soap and disinfectant.

He wasn't sure what he was supposed to do just yet. Ray was busying himself setting up a video camera to record the auditions. He had said something about using the video footage not only to help them decide whom to choose as contestants but also for a background reel to show the audience on the night of the competition.

Apparently Ray was an avid follower of lots of reality shows and was not above boosting ideas from them.

It was much quieter in the church basement than outside. On his way in, Niall had fought his way past at least fifty hopefuls trying to get his attention to increase their chances of being selected. Half of them had burst into song, trying to get an edge under the pretense of warming up.

Niall glanced at the entryway for what felt like the hundredth time. He had sort of hoped Celia would be there already and was disappointed that she wasn't. He hadn't seen her since the night her grandmother had been escorted home by the town's (lone?) policeman. No, he'd heard there was more than one cop. Three or four, in fact. Officer Billy just happened to be the only one he'd seen so far. Something about being the most willing to pull double shifts, Casey and George had said. Niall was kind of proud of himself for collecting these little tidbits of Marsden information. He hoped that, in the end, they would all add up to something. What, exactly, he wasn't sure. But he liked to have a goal to work toward.

“Why are we here, again?” he asked Ray.

“Because,” the older man answered, “we can't have the arts center till
The Vagina Monologues
clears out.”

“They have antibiotics for that.”

Ray just glared at him.

Niall cleared his throat. “Tough room.”

“Why don't you go upstairs and check on the folks waiting to audition? Let them know we'll be starting in a few minutes.”

“Wait. What—
me
?”

“Why not you?”

Niall fidgeted, unsure how to answer. He was used to other people doing that sort of job. Kind of the way he was used to auditions taking place in fancy high-rise offices (instead of church basements), with assistants doing all the updating and organizing and checking on people. All he ever had to do was sit back and ask for a bottle of water once in a while.

Niall didn't want to say that to Ray, however, because he didn't want to sound like an entitled douche. So he just nodded and ran up the stairs, pushed open the door at the top . . . and jumped back as the singing hopefuls crowded toward him. The crowd had doubled in size. He'd had no idea there were that many aspiring singers in the small town. He'd had no idea there were that many
people
in the small town.

“Okay, whoa—settle down!” He tried shouting, but he couldn't be heard over the din, even using his most powerful projection. “Hey!” Nothing doing. “Listen up!” Still chaos.

Then a familiar someone was in front of him, facing the crowd, silently holding one hand high. Everyone who had been clamoring for attention fell silent immediately and waited, politely expectant.

“Oh thank God—”

Several people shushed him harshly. Celia looked over her shoulder at him, smiling placidly. He noticed she still had her hand in the air, little finger extended. Some in the crowd were doing the same. He wanted to ask what kind of Marsden voodoo that was, but he didn't want to break the spell.

When the silence had lasted several long seconds, she looked at him again and murmured, “There was something you wanted to say?”

“Uh, yeah.” He cleared his throat and addressed the crowd. “We're almost ready. Sign in here.” He handed the first person in line a clipboard. “Just pass it down the line, then send it back when everybody's signed up. Have your music ready. Uh . . . that's it. Okay, thanks.”

Celia lowered her hand; the noise of the crowd grew again, but at nowhere near the volume it had been. Niall pulled her inside and shut the door.

“You're magic,” he whispered, awed. “You can silence the masses.”

“We all went to the same school. Hand up, pinkie raised, means it's time to get quiet. We all learned it the first day of kindergarten. Evidently it still works.”

“Do you use that in, like, town court sessions and police traffic stops too?”

“If we don't, we should,” she said, laughing. “Now, how can I help?”

He gestured for her to go down the stairs first, then followed. “You sure you're okay with this?”

“I told you I am.”

“How's your grandmother?”

At the bottom of the stairs she turned to him, and although her expression was mild, her eyes carried a certain sadness. “She's fine. Accepting it.”

“And you?”

“We're dealing with it.”

Niall descended the last step to stand level with her. “Not
we
.
You.
How are
you
handling everything? You need a hug?”

“Absolutely not.” When he raised his eyebrow at her, she explained, “I'll just start crying again if you do. Put me to work instead.”

When Celia opened the doors and started letting in the hopefuls, Niall knew it was going to be more than he'd bargained for. He'd been promised that he was only going to have to show up on the day of the contest, crack a few jokes, crown the winner, and immediately forget it all after the curtain rang down for the last time. But no. Because he had leapt at the chance to drive Celia to Marsden, here he was, weeks in advance, and his Night of the Shooting Stars duties had multiplied exponentially. Including sitting in some church basement, trying to filter out the wheat—the singers with potential—from the tone-deaf chaff.

One problem: He wasn't a singer. Didn't have a musical bone in his body. He'd pointed this out to Ray several times during their rescheduled planning meeting the day before, but the guy told him to just go with his gut. All his gut wanted to do was request another piece of George's fabulous peach pie, which he'd had for dessert at the inn before this bit of chaos ever got under way. He realized he was just going to have to wing it.

At least they were able to cut the crowd in half without many of the contestants having to sing a note, because plenty of the folks who had lined up had no intention of actually competing; they'd just gotten in line to catch a glimpse of the famous Niall Crenshaw. Some asked for autographs and photos, one or two pushed their self-penned film scripts at him, and a ridiculously large number just stood there and giggled, some—mainly females, but not all—occasionally squealing variants of “Omigod, I love you!”

And now Niall remembered why he'd entered Phase Two of being a celebrity, “dodging the masses”—to avoid scenes just like this. It was completely embarrassing. He couldn't even look at Celia when this sort of thing happened, because he wasn't sure if she'd be amused or horrified. He wouldn't have blamed her in the least if it was the latter; sometimes it even horrified him, and he was supposed to be used to it.

After the tenth or twelfth person took up valuable performance time by just standing there, not singing, Niall excused himself. Instead of retreating, as Ray and Celia so obviously expected him to, he went up the stairs and pushed open the door.

He didn't even have to do that weird signal for quiet; maybe Celia's kindergarten silencer voodoo lasted for a couple of hours or something. Whatever, instead of clamoring at him like before, now everyone in line stared at him, rapt. He ignored all the phones raised high, pointing in his direction, flashes going off, and surveyed the churchyard, the light of the summer sunset coloring it orange and gold.

“All right,” he announced loudly, his actor's voice easily carrying all the way to the back of the long line. “If you're not here to audition for Night of the Shooting Stars, step out of line right now.”

“Niall! Marry me!” came a peep from somewhere in the crowd.

“You, right there—you're making my point. Who's here just to see me?”

Hands shot up in the air.

“All of you guys, take one step to your left.”

There was a huge shuffling, and a large number of townspeople moved onto the lawn under the crabapple trees. He spotted starstruck high schoolers, a disturbing number of provocatively dressed cougars, and . . .

“Lester! For God's sake, man, you know me. We've been drinking together.”

The bearded man shrugged. “I never got an autograph.”

“Okay, those of you who are
not
serious about this competition—and that means everybody who just moved over—go home, please. You'll see me around town, and when you do, stop and say hi, and I promise I won't blow you off. Okay? Go on, now. We've got a lot of work to do here.”

The townspeople started to wander off, some grumbling a bit, but most not minding at all. They'd gotten what they'd come for—a Niall Crenshaw sighting. Niall scanned the group that remained.

“Audra? Come
on.
”

“Hey, I'm auditioning. Serious.”

“You're a singer?”

“You bet.”

“Uh-huh.” He sighed. The line was still long, but they could handle the number of people who remained. He hoped. “All right. Let's try this again.”

After the culling, the evening went more smoothly. He, Ray, and Celia smiled attentively, scribbling notes to review later, as they sat through flat renditions of Rihanna songs, sleepy versions of Lady Antebellum tunes, odd takes on Patsy Cline and Nirvana and Johnny Cash and the Beatles, the dismal performances broken up by several individuals with real potential.

Then there was a lull. Ray, sitting to his left, leaned across him to address Celia on Niall's other side. “What's the holdup?”

Celia pushed her chair back and stood up. “I have no idea. I'll go check.”

Just then the next contestant shuffled in, so slowly and stiffly it was as though someone had pressed a real-world slo-mo button. Celia sat back down gradually, transfixed and involuntarily slowed to the grubby old man's speed, as he stepped into the improvised performance space.

“Burt?” Ray was incredulous. “You lost?”

“Ray!” Celia hissed, shocked. Ray gave her an exaggerated shrug.

Niall looked from one to the other. “What's the deal?”

With another withering look at Ray, Celia spoke up, forcing her voice into neutral, as though she were providing information for the videotape. “Contestant thirty-nine, Burt Womack.”

Burt Womack . . . where had Niall heard that name before? Then it dawned on him—he was the guy who drove the rusty pickup all over town at a snail's pace, creating traffic jams wherever he went. Apparently he walked just as slowly as he drove.

“Are you here to sing for us, Burt?” Niall asked, taking his cue from Celia to treat him like a regular contestant, even though Ray wasn't buying it.

He certainly didn't look like the rest of the folks who were auditioning. He was older, probably in his seventies, although it was hard to tell what he looked like under the layer of grime coating him from head to foot, as though he was a matching set with his beat-up pickup truck. He wore oversized olive work pants, a thermal undershirt with an open flannel quilted jacket even though the evening was still warm and humid, and a floppy fisherman's hat that may have been tan at one time but was now covered in greasy fingerprints. Twisted locks of his hair, which probably hadn't been washed in the current decade, possibly the current century, stuck out from underneath, grazing his frayed collar.

Burt tugged at the brim of his bucket hat, leaving fresh prints. “Yup. Auditionin'.” He smiled, revealing several gaps where teeth should have been.

“Uh, Burt,” Ray ventured, obviously trying to figure out how to put his rejection delicately, “you're not exactly—”

Both Celia and Niall shot him vicious looks, so he stopped and shrugged again.

“Fine.” He sighed, sitting back. “Whaddya got?”

“Well . . .” Burt paused, suddenly bashful. “I'm not used to performin' without my band.”

Niall leaned forward, fascinated. “You have a band?”

“Sure do—Dress Left. That's our name. We kick ass. Got, uh, Mike on drums and Paulie on bass and Andy Z on lead guitar. I'm lead vocals, of course. Sometimes keyboard. Can I have 'em come down?”

“What?” Ray burst out. “
No!
Burt, this is a duets singing competition. No bands—not here for the audition, and not in the contest. Save it for Beers's open mic night. Now, you either sing on your own, and in the next two minutes, or you clear out of here. You got me?”

The grizzled man fingered his dirty hat again. “I can try.”

And then what came out may, or may not, have been some Lynyrd Skynyrd song. It was hard to tell. Burt's voice was as ravaged as his appearance, and Niall wondered what, exactly, his band sounded like. Then again, he didn't really want to know.

When Burt was finished croaking out his song, dirty fingers fidgeting with the frayed edges of his clothes the entire time, Celia gamely thanked him and escorted him out of the room, uttering neutral platitudes that gave nothing away (while Ray vigorously crossed Burt off the list) and sending pleasant greetings to his family members.