Picture This (26 page)

“W
hat in the
hell
do you think you're doing?”

Celia jumped a mile at the sound of her father's voice behind her, echoing in the acoustics of the arts center. “What are you doing here?” she exclaimed.

And how had he found out she'd left the house? He must have been only five minutes behind her. Holly must have called him after she'd snuck out of the house by the back door while Zoë had distracted the photographers with a stern lecture about trespassing. She'd practically crawled through the neighbors' adjoining backyards to get to the next street over, then Zoë had picked her up and given her a ride to the arts center in her cruiser. The officer was skittish about it—if word got out that she'd given Celia a ride, everyone was going to want to use the police as a taxi service. Celia had reminded her she was protecting a citizen—and keeping her from going stir crazy, being stuck in the house. But she hadn't told Zoë that last part.

“I told you to stay put!”

“And I told you that you can't ground me!”

“I'm trying to keep you safe. You don't know what those guys are planning.”

“What in the world could a bunch of photographers do to me? Take my picture and steal my soul?”

All activity in the auditorium stopped. Everyone was staring at them going toe-to-toe at the front of the house, below the stage. Had any of her fellow townspeople even heard her raise her voice before?

“Haven't you messed with my life enough already, Dad?”

“Celia.” In one bound, Niall launched himself off the edge of the stage to stand beside her.

Oh, thank God.
“Niall, will you please tell my father I can come and go as I please—”

He looked grim when he said, “Actually, I agree with your dad.”

“What?”
Celia and Alan blurted out at the same time. It was hard to tell who was more dumbfounded.

“You shouldn't be running around with the paparazzi after you. Take it from me—I know.”

“I have a job to do.”

“No, you
volunteered
to take photos of the competition, but it's not necessary. I want you to let your dad take you home.”

Celia searched Niall's face for some sign that he was joking. But the man's handsome features formed an impersonal blank. His eyes were dull, his expression leaden. Her stomach churned at the change in him.

“Really?” she said, and this time she managed to keep her voice deadly calm and quiet. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Ray up on the stage, paying close attention to the whole exchange. She turned to him. “Well? Come on down, Ray. Put in your two cents. I know you want to.” Ray didn't move. She turned back to her father and Niall, who were suddenly a united front. Against her. “No,” she said. “I'm staying in this. I don't care about a bunch of paparazzi. And if you even
dare
to think, for one second, that it'll reflect badly on you,” she snapped at Niall, “I will put you through that brick wall over there. Got it?”

This kraken thing wasn't so bad. It was pretty damn great, in fact. Even though she expected to pay for this moment down the line, with the two men—possibly three, if Ray joined in—giving her grief for acting foolishly, right now she felt a cool flood of something rushing through her. She realized it was relief. And a sense of freedom. She really liked it.

“Celia, you have no idea what you're talking about—” Niall tried to explain.

“Don't call me stupid.”

“I
didn't
—”

“Oh, I think you just did.”

Niall turned to Alan. “Take her home please, sir.” Alan nodded.

“She's staying.”

All three of them looked up. It was Ray.

“Celia's right,” he said. “She has a job to do, so she's staying. Marshall, if you're so worried about your kid, make yourself useful for once and be her bodyguard. What the hell else have you got to do?”

Alan spluttered and spit for a couple of seconds, frowning first at Ray, then at Celia, and back again. Finally he ground out, “Fine. I'm driving you here and home again. I'm staying here while you're here. But you're not going anywhere else, you got me? This is going to wreak havoc with my schedule.”

“What, your golf game?” Celia snorted.

“What has gotten
into
you?” He appealed to Niall. “She was never like this. Not even as a teenager. I think she's having a delayed rebellious phase.”

“Careful, Dad. It might be permanent.”

 

“Look, I'm sorry about . . . earlier. All right?”

Celia dragged her gaze away from the side window of her father's Buick to stare at him. It had been a very long day (and night) at the arts center; Ray, in what was turning out to be a perpetual state of panic during the last week of rehearsals before the competition, had kept everyone late. The singing duos had come and gone throughout the day, but everyone else had to remain the entire time. Celia had a couple of full data cards and aching calves to show for it, but it was a satisfying kind of fatigue.

It would have been more bearable if Niall had talked to her. Or even looked at her. But he'd acted as though she wasn't there most of the time. He had focused on his duties as host, coming up with jokes, discussing the order of the show with Ray, doing anything and everything other than spending one minute with her. During breaks, he'd disappeared into the rabbit warren of hallways and rooms under the stage, doing who knew what.

“I know. I'm sorry too. It's all just so stressful.” She was referring to the competition's rehearsals, but she realized she really meant dodging the paparazzi and being ignored by Niall. Taking photos of the rehearsals was nothing compared to the other stuff.

“I get . . . itchy, knowing you're going through this and I can't stop it, or even help.”

“Yeah, I'm not so sure about you being my bodyguard. And, evidently, our new sound engineer.”

“Well, considering Burt Womack's idea of being a sound engineer is to hit the karaoke machine with a mallet—or his fist—every time it acts up, I figure this whole circus needs my help.”

“I'm surprised Ray let you.”

“He didn't have much of a choice, did he? He really cares about you, you know. He wants you around, so he's gotta put up with me.”

“Dad?”

“What?”

“Are you part of the feud between Ray and Nate?”

Her father frowned and fidgeted behind the wheel. “Not really. Ray and Nate have their hands full hating each other anyway.”

Celia laughed a little. Nate had been at rehearsal as well, keeping an eye on his young daughter. Despite reassurances Darryl would take good care of her during the competition—and he was making good on his promise already, ushering her through their song, letting her take center stage, holding back his boisterous vocals so she could shine—Nate's distrust of Ray and his latest scheme to put Marsden back on the map kept him in an auditorium seat of his own as he assessed the proceedings. Celia knew if even one thing went wrong, Nate would raise hell.

“What happened between them?”

“Doesn't matter. That's ancient history. Boring ancient history.”

“Try me.”

“Oh, come on, Celia. It was . . . the usual. Differences of opinion, grudges, politics, just . . . having to coexist for years and years in the same town.”

“No. There's something else.” When Alan didn't answer, she prompted, “Dad.”

Her father glanced over at her, and she saw a strange expression on his face as they passed under a streetlight.

“What?” she pressed.

Alan sighed, then said in a rush, “When we were in high school, they were competing for a girl. See? Boring ancient history.”

“And what happened?”

“They made damned fools of themselves.”

“I mean, who got the girl? Nate or Ray?”

“Neither of them. While they were trying to one-up each other . . . I stole her right out from under their noses.”

Celia gaped.
“Mom?”

Alan allowed himself a satisfied grin. “It was too easy. They blamed each other, and I slipped through the cracks. With your mom by my side.”

“I . . . don't know what to say.”

“The reason I'm telling you this now is because of your situation.”

“Wait. What?”

“Your young man there.”

“Dad, please don't start about my bad taste in men again.”

“I just think you can take a lesson from what happened with me and your mother. True love should be easy. It shouldn't be a struggle.”

It is easy with Niall
, Celia thought.
When it isn't so damned difficult.

“With me and your mom, it was
right,
you know?”

“Like you and Mom never have your differences.”

“Well, sure we do, but we have a common history between us. We know each other, we come from the same place, we're comfortable. What I mean is, find somebody who knows you. It's better in the long run.”

Celia could barely answer. Her throat was closing up with unshed tears, and she turned her head to look out the window again—anything to avoid her father's pitying yet judgmental gaze.

“Like Matt, you mean?” she whispered. “We knew each other. We had a common history. And that turned out so well.”

“Well, no, of course not. He's just an ass. Always has been.”

“You know, Dad, sometimes I think you wouldn't approve of
any
guy I dated. And
don't
bring up Casey.”

“Him, I liked. Still do!”

“That ship sailed a long time ago, Dad. And I have no regrets.”

“I question your judgment.”

“Yes, you do. Pretty much every damned day.”

Alan cleared his throat awkwardly. “When the show's over, just let Niall go, all right?”

Celia couldn't answer around the lump in her throat. But she didn't have time to protest, because when they neared her grandmother's house, the car's headlights illuminated several photographers standing on the apron. They turned, raising their cameras.

“Where the hell do they take a piss?” Alan wondered. “If they're doing it out in the open, we can get the cops out here so fast . . .” He inched the nose of the Buick up the drive, because the minute he turned the car into Holly's driveway, the paps charged forward, snapping endless photos. Two of the photographers got in front of the car to get a better shot through the windshield. “I should just run them over,” he growled. Instead, he lowered the window, stuck his head out, and shouted, “Get out of the way, you imbeciles!”

They ignored him and kept taking photos, occasionally shouting things like, “Celia! Celia, over here! Come on, we don't want the top of your head! Show yourself to the world!” until finally she felt something snap inside her. The next thing she knew, she'd flung open the car door and jumped out, despite her father shouting at her to stay inside. She'd had enough.

“Fine!” she called to the paparazzi. “Fine. You want my picture? Take my damned picture. Here. You want my profile? Here. Three-quarter ? Here you go. Get your fill so you can get the hell out.”

But while she'd expected them to keep a respectful distance, politely snapping their series of photos, then thanking her and walking away when they were done, instead she found herself in the middle of a chaotic scrum. Yes, camera flashes were going off; they were conducting their business, but not the way she'd have done it. There was even more shouting, then they surrounded her, several of them waving magazines curled back to a particular page. She caught a glimpse of what she supposed was the McManus ad with the photo of her legs. They wanted answers, a hot bit of exclusive gossip.

More shouting. More pushing. She was buffeted from side to side, almost knocked off her feet. And suddenly she felt as though she couldn't breathe. She struggled to put her hands up, to push back, but there were too many of them. She didn't know which way to turn to get out of the crowd.

Then her father was there, grasping her shoulders, ushering her into the house. And she was grateful for his help.

C
elia had no idea what time it was when she woke; it was still dark. She also had no idea what had made her eyes fly open. She tensed up, remembering her father's admonition when he'd dropped her off: Lock the door. Was someone trying to break in? Or had someone already broken in? Celia stayed stiff and still in her bed, listening for any noise downstairs. She wanted no part of the paparazzi any longer; her last encounter had made her wary, made her imagine all sorts of lengths they'd go to, to get a scoop.

And then she heard the noise. A clanking, a thud. Definitely inside, definitely manmade.
Stop it
, she told herself. That didn't mean someone was breaking into the house. Her grandmother could be . . . ah.

Sure enough, Celia found Holly rattling around in the half-packed-up kitchen, nosing among the pots and pans that still filled the lower cupboards.

“Gran? What are you doing?”

Holly barely glanced at her. “Cooking. What do you think?”

“Um, you don't cook.”

“Of course I do. What's the matter with you?”

“Okay. Even if you did—”

“Which I do.”

“Okay. But it's two o'clock in the morning.”

Her grandmother didn't seem to hear her or, if she did, she was ignoring her. She flipped through a cookbook with yellowed, stained pages. “Now . . . where is it . . . You'd think I'd remember how to do this, but I have to look it up every time.”

“Do what?”

“Cook this.”

“This what?”

“Don't irritate me, girlie. This.”

Panic erupted in the pit of Celia's stomach and spread through her body. Even if it wasn't the middle of the night, even if her grandmother actually did cook often, and even if she ever actually cracked a cookbook in the several decades she'd known her, Celia would have realized something was wrong. Holly wasn't herself. It was as though the person she knew as her grandmother had left the familiar body—or part of her had—and had been replaced by someone different. It just wasn't right.

“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.”