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“No. I was going to ask how you’re going to wear Hannah’s costumes. She’s at least six inches taller than you.” She’s also fifteen years younger and built like a stick, but I’m not saying that.
Stella glares a few more seconds, then snickers. “Good save. But you know they have those costumes in a million different sizes. The woman who played Maria three years ago is built more like me.”
I nod. “Well, if you need to run your lines, let me know.” We’ve learned our music and done the basic blocking for the show, but the real work starts this week—at least for me. The director has been focused on the scenes with Maria and the kids. I shake my head. I love working with the teens at the high school, but you could not pay me enough to be the director of a play with seven kids in it.
“Thanks, sugar.” She puts a hand on Mick’s forearm as he sits. “I got my own built-in line runner. And he owes me. Right now more than usual. But if you need some practice, let me know.”
I nod. “Thanks.”
Chapter Twelve
MATT
After the barbeque, I head home. I have some work to do on the upstairs bathroom before Eva comes back from college next week. I installed a new sink as a surprise—this vanity has a lot more counter space than the original. I probably should have done it years ago, but Judy didn’t want to spend the money. The new cupboard has more storage space, and I painted the walls and replaced the mirror, too.
I hang a new shower curtain—to coordinate with the fresh paint—and reinstall the cover plates on the electrical fixtures. When I go to Bend, I’ll pick up some coordinating towels, too. I’m not an interior decorator, but I can match colors as well as anyone.
After dinner, I pack my lunch for tomorrow and throw the bag of candy I bought into my backpack. This is the last week of school, and I like to give the kids a little treat. I’d normally work long hours this week—there are usually a few kids who don’t get their guitars finished before the end of the school year. But this year was an exception. Three instruments still need their tuning pegs installed, but otherwise, we’re done. It really helped to have a second luthier assisting with the teaching. I’m not a fan of Mike’s guitars—he works for a rival guitar company—but he’s a first-rate woodworker.
The doorbell rings, startling me. Blake and Rachel are the only ones who normally drop by this late, and they walk right in. A doorbell at this time of night probably means—I’m not sure what it means. I frown as I stride into the entry. Visions of state police reporting an accident quicken my steps.
I pull the door open. Nica Holmes stands on my doorstep, wearing jeans and a dark coat—my puffy jacket. The one I let her keep, in hopes she’d bring it back to me. “Nica!” I can’t believe she’s here. It’s as if Stella conjured her into existence. “What a surprise!” I give myself a mental head slap. Stupid, inane thing to say.
“Hi.” She just stands there, looking a little lost.
“I thought you were in Georgia.” I snap my lips closed. Way to go, Hertzsprung. Show her you’re stalking her.
“I finished filming a week ago.” Apparently, she’s used to random acquaintances knowing her schedule. “Can I come in?”
“Of course.” I swing the door wider and let her in. “How’d you get here?”
She waves a vague hand. “I borrowed a car from my dad.”
I stick my head out the door. A vintage, bright yellow Porsche 911 sits in my driveway, the last glimmers of the setting sun burnishing the fender. “Wow, that’s some loaner car.”
She shrugs out of the coat, and I take it from her, draping it over one of the hooks by the door. “Dad has three of them. I don’t touch his racing car, and I like the ’75 better than the new one.”
I gesture to the living room. “Would you like something to drink?”
She stands by the couch, gripping her hands together. Her pale face is devoid of makeup, and dark circles shadow her eyes. Her hair, a dark red now, falls around her face in a messy shag. “Actually, do you have anything to eat? It’s been a while.” As if agreeing, her stomach rumbles.
“Sure, come into the kitchen.” I pull a stool away from the high counter as I herd her toward it. “Sit. Is leftover Chinese okay? It’s homemade, so it’s not very authentic. Peanut butter chicken with broccoli.” I pull the still warm containers from the fridge.
She nods, so I scoop some rice into a bowl and top it with a generous serving of the chicken and veggies. “Water? Beer? Wine?”
She pulls her gaze away from the food as if it takes an effort. “Whatever you’re having.” Her eyes dart away again.
“I already ate.” While the microwave runs, I pull a couple of glasses from the cupboard and fill them with cold water. Putting one in front of her, I study her drawn face. Is this about her dad? “Are you okay?”
She sips the water and pushes a few wisps of hair away from her face. “I’m not sure. My dad—” She breaks off and gives a little shiver. “I’m not supposed to tell anyone, but I need to tell someone. I know I can trust you. He’s had a medical emergency.”
I nod. “It’s not quite as secret as you might think.”
Her eyes snap to my face. “How did you find out?”
I mentally curse myself. I don’t want to throw Stella under the bus. “Someone at the Ranch said they saw him. He’s not exactly hiding from his neighbors.”
She hesitates then nods. “That makes sense. Thanks for not publicizing it.”
