lie—you’ve done something brilliant to your hair. Love the new shade. It’s like a honey-lemon, and it makes you look absolutely delicious with your creamy skin tone and that splash of freckles—I’ve always said it looks like a natural bronzer. You’re simply a goddess.”
Her cheeks a little pink—for she was much shyer and more subdued than Vivien—Helga reached up to touch the high ponytail she’d worn for yoga. “Only you would notice, Trib. It’s just a slight tweak in the color, but Emily did a great job.”
“She always does. It’s simply delicious,” Trib said, taking her arm as well. “Now, let’s see about a couple glasses of that crisp white for you both, and I’ll check whether I have something interesting in the kitchen for you to nibble. Marty wanted to try something with grilled peaches, toasted pepitas, and Brie, and who was I to say no?”
Moments later, Vivien and Helga were seated in a prime location in the corner of the restaurant’s front patio—prime because it was in the shade beneath a vine-wrapped pergola with a nice view of the street but not close enough that passersby or vehicles would interrupt their tête-à-tête. A tall pot placed strategically to give some privacy for the diners from pedestrians held an equally tall boxwood trimmed into a conical spiral. There was a small vase bursting with pink sweet peas and yellow pansies on the table.
“Damned birds,” Trib said as he delivered two glasses of nearly clear white wine and a small platter of grilled peaches topped with oozing brie and a side of house-made crackers. Toasted and seasoned pumpkin seeds—pepitas—were scattered on the plate.
Trib paused to shoo away a pair of wrens that had perched among the red-flowering vines above them. “I’ve got nothing against them personally, but I don’t want them sitting—and shitting—above my customers while they’re eating!”
Vivien laughed and pretended to duck as she looked up. “Oops.”
“Yes. It wasn’t part of my master plan when Hector convinced me I needed to install the pergola with trumpet vine. That’s the last time I listen to that gay old fart. Should’ve just put in a retractable awning, but no, he said this would create a better ambiance.” He pursed his lips. “I’ve got a guy coming to install some netting a few feet above it to keep the birds off, but until then, it’s a manual project to keep them from crapping all over everything. Now, how’s the wine, darlings? And what do you think about the Brie?”
They concurred it was excellent, and although Vivien was itching to tell Helga about what happened at the theater, she was also pleased when Trib pulled up a chair to join them.
“Now tell me true, VL, you really wanted me to play Mortimer, didn’t you?” he said, preening a little.
“Of course I did,” she replied. “But then you’d steal the show from Roger Hatchard and Michael Wold. We couldn’t have that, you know—a small-town restauranteur showing up national celebrities.”
Trib laughed uproariously. “Oh, you’re good, darling. You’re very good. All those years in advertising and PR have served you well. But admit it—you’d be more worried what Maxine would say if I stole the show from her.”
Vivien laughed and toasted him with her wine. “You caught me.”
“Anyway, I admit, I’ll be in the front row on opening night. Roger Hatchard is such a lovely piece to look at. All that leg and that thick head of dark hair even at his age. I had no idea he could act.”
“We are looking for someone to play the dead body in the window seat,” Vivien told him with a sly look. “No lines, you can wear whatever you want, and you’d only be in Act Two.”
“And then I could be backstage, couldn’t I? Can I have my own dressing room? Or, better yet, share one with Hatchard?”
“Nice try. But you can share one with Doug Horner, whoever we get to play Mr. Witherspoon, and Juanita’s friend Ricky.”
“Oh, Ricky’s going to do the show? That’s good—I think his son’s been trying to encourage him to get out more since Clara died. He’ll like that. And you say Doug’s going to be in it too? Poor guy. I wonder how long it’ll be before Juanita accidentally-on-purpose stumbles into his dressing room.”
Doug Horner was the Wicks Hollow veterinarian, and he was a confirmed bachelor in his late sixties. He had snowy-white hair and a bristly gray mustache that looked like a toothbrush. Juanita, who was at least ten years older