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“Or the Marx brothers.” Blake finishes his beer. “You’re a font of Hollywood trivia.”
I shrug. “I love movies.”
Rachel smirks. “Especially Nica Holmes movies.”
“Guilty.” I eat another bite, but I’m not hungry. My stomach has been in a knot since I met Nica. She’s obviously staying at the Ranch. Maybe she’ll come to town for dinner. The Lonely Goatherd is one of the best restaurants in town, and it’s only ten minutes from Copper Butte Ranch. She could walk in that door any minute.
Yes, I chose this seat because it has a good view of the entry.
“We can get you a to-go box if you can’t finish your meal.” Blake puts his cutlery down and pats his stomach with a soft groan. “Old man.”
“Why is everyone calling me old?” I push the plate away and look for our server. “I’m only forty-five. And you two are only a couple years younger. When I was your age, we respected our elders.”
They laugh.
We pay the bill and head out without spotting any famous people. As an officially “cute” town, Rotheberg gets a sprinkling of celebrities among our tourists every year. And a fair number of the rich and famous have second—or tenth—homes in the exclusive Copper Butte Ranch. But early April is not prime star-spotting season.
Rachel and Blake head across the parking lot toward his new SUV. Blake travels a lot for work—concerts, collaborations, recording time—but he officially moved back to Rotheberg around Christmas, after he and Rachel got back together. I love having my brother nearby, but sometimes their happiness reminds me how lonely my life has become. With Eva back at college, I’m feeling it tonight. I turn toward the sidewalk. “I’m going to walk home.”
They exchange a look but don’t try to argue with me. Rotheberg is tiny, and our neighborhood is only eight or ten blocks from the Goatherd. I head down the quiet street, admiring the stars that are visible even from here. Tall streetlights that look like oil lamps illuminate the sidewalks along the main roads, but they were designed to conform to Dark-Sky recommendations, which limit the light pollution that makes the stars harder to see.
Oregon State Highway 24 bisects the town, but on an early April night, traffic is sparse. I cross the two-lane road and cut across the alley behind the first row of shops to the park. The playground’s thick rubber mats give my step a little bounce as I duck under the brightly colored bridge that joins a slide to the rest of the play structure. Across the street, the first floor of the alpine-themed fire department is dark, but light and a burst of laughter escape from an upstairs window. The glow illuminates the diamond cutouts in the wooden balcony railings.
I cross two more deserted streets and angle across the Stadtplatz toward the town hall. The cobblestone plaza takes up an entire city block, with more of the fake gas lamps running around the perimeter. Steep roofs—perfect for shedding our heavy snow—cover the top of the half-timbered buildings across the street. The entire town adheres to a pseudo-Bavarian building code—it’s part of our “Alpine Jewel of Oregon” schtick. Rotheberg looks like it was designed by theme park engineers who read Heidi as children and dreamed of living in the Alps. Blake, Rachel, and I grew up here, so it’s old hat to us, but tourists eat it up. We play into the frenzy by hosting beer fests every month and a Sound of Music festival in the summer.
Which reminds me, I need to add musical rehearsals to my calendar. We start next week, and this year, I’ve finally moved up from generic townsperson/Nazi number 4 to Captain von Trapp. I wanted to play Max Dettweiler—in the stage version of the show, he has the two best songs. I’m not as good a singer as my brother, the “Velvet Drawl,” but I’ve had some training. Maybe next year.
A cat meows, and I pause near a wisteria-covered pergola in the corner of the Stadtplatz to stroke Alf’s fur. “Haven’t seen you much lately, boy. Is someone else feeding you?”
The cat doesn’t respond, of course, and the question is ridiculous, anyway. Everyone in town feeds Alf. The big calico rubs against my leg, then scrambles up the thick wisteria vines to stalk across the top of the wooden structure. The vines rattle against the frame.
“Oh, it’s you!” A woman steps out of the shadow of the pergola. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare your cat.”
I stare. It’s Nica Holmes.
“You didn’t—he’s not my cat. And he’s not afraid of anyone.” I snap my jaw closed on my inane yammering and hope I haven’t drooled.
“He? I thought calicos were always female.”
“Usually. But Alf is a law unto himself. What are you doing out here? Not that you aren’t allowed to be, but—” I shut my mouth again.
She laughs, and the familiar musical chuckle sends a tingle down my spine. My brain seems to splinter into a million glittery pieces: I’m standing in the dark, talking to Nica freaking Holmes!
“A little too much family togetherness out at the Ranch.” Nica wanders into the shadowy center of the Stadtplatz. “I wanted a walk, but I was afraid that photographer would be stalking the Ranch. So I caught a QuikTrip into town. Luckily, the driver didn’t recognize me. Most men don’t.”
“Really?” I follow her across the cobblestones. Behind us, Alf meows again, once, as if to reprimand us for ignoring him, then the vines rustle as he slinks away.
Nica shrugs one shoulder. She’s wearing a trendy denim jacket, a short skirt with sparkly pink leggings and matching cowboy boots, and huge sunglasses even though it’s dark. “Most of my work has been made-for-television movies on the Romance Channel. Men don’t usually watch those.” She peeks over her big lenses at me.
My face warms. I hope my blush isn’t visible in the dim light. “I guess that makes me special. But your new movie will change that.”
“I hope so! That should be a career-making project for me.” She turns in a slow circle, staring up at the sky. “Make or break. The stars here are amazing.”
“Yes, they are.”
She glances at me and points up with a sly smile. “I meant those stars.”
“I’d rather look at this one.” I turn away with a groan. “Ugh, I am so sorry. I sound like a psycho-fan.” I rub a hand over my face. “Can we pretend that didn’t happen?”
