was as stubborn as her. She felt like she was pulling it through quicksand, but she managed to push one heel to the ground and move on to the next step.
Bree’s eyes stayed on him. He was across the street, standing on the curb beside a gleaming pearl-colored SUV, with the pearl-dressed woman in his arms. She with her pearly cheek pressed against his chest. He looking down at her with that same smile he had bestowed upon Bree on the metal stairway.
Honestly, what did she expect would happen? She had come out of her way to see this little picture of the cozy couple. All they needed were a few butterflies and songbirds and the scene would be complete.
Did she really expect him to be incapable of thinking of anyone but her for the rest of the play? To be unable to tear his eyes away from her while she lounged upstage in her mossy surroundings?
To be standing beside that gleaming SUV right now, breaking that shiny girl’s heart by explaining he had just experienced an ethereal moment with the green girl holding a potted plant, and by golly, he just had to find her? Right there? Right then?
Yep. That sounded about right.
Instead, there he was, hands in both of his jacket pockets while he waited for the woman to slip inside her SUV, grinning in that same charming, crinkly-templed way.
The engine turned, and he headed toward the parking lot where his truck was parked.
Bree faced forward and resumed her pace.
No, no. She’d made a fool of herself enough tonight, thank you. No need to add Staring at Stranger from a Distance Like Vengeful Imaginary Ex-Girlfriend to her list.
She would just forget him. Put everything about him behind her.
In fact, good for shiny blond girl. Way to find a good one.
Bree hopped off the curb.
Focus, Bree. Task at hand.
“So, Cass, tell me,” Bree said, unlocking her car. “What makes a better impression at a party: a bowl of pistachios or two cut-up bananas and a splash of watermelon?”
“How much watermelon are we talking?”
“One, maybe two cubes.”
“How nice is the bowl?”
“Lime-green plastic. But dishwasher-level clean.” Bree slipped the keys into the ignition. “And quiche! I can steal three, maybe three and a half, pieces of Evie’s quiche.”
“Didn’t she start locking her food up in those plastic containers?”
“Please. These are desperate times. I can pick a lock if needed.”
Bree cranked the car, then reached for the five-hour-old coffee in her cup holder. She took a cool sip while Cassie’s voice went fuzzy.
“Hand it to me. Give. It. Now. Drew . . . No, I’m not doing the mean voice . . . Well, if you weren’t trying to poke his eye out with it—” Cassie’s voice switched over at lightning speed. “Are we talking about a fancy party here?”
Bree turned the wheel with her pinky and ring finger while gripping the coffee cup with the rest. “A high-profile gala where my boss can judge me by my sad food contribution while sorting out the cast placements for the summer season.”
“Ah. So nothing special or important in any way.”
“Precisely.”
She turned onto Church Street to avoid the steady post-play traffic on Main. She eased to a stop at the Plumb Alley crossing, and her eyes ticked up to the rearview mirror while she waited for a pair of joggers to cross.
She frowned.
Behind her, monster truck tires vibrated beneath a block of rattling red metal—although the owner of the ancient Ford F250 resting his fender two inches from her bumper would’ve no doubt called the color “the blood of the latest buck I shot with my Ruger American Magnum.” From her vantage point, which was nearly beneath the massive vehicle, she saw oil dripping from the chassis.
“So, your mom was asking me the other day . . . ,” Cassie started, hesitation deep in her voice.
“You’re going to have to talk louder. I have an earthquake squatting behind me,” Bree shouted.
Cassie raised her voice. “Are you going to make it back next weekend for Anna’s birthday party?”
Bree’s lips pursed, that same involuntary wave rolling through her body whenever she heard her eight-year-old niece’s name. Anna.
Bree had seen a lot in the six months since she’d left her home of twenty-six years and made her way to Abingdon to live with Nana and try her hand onstage. No one had any clue that Nana would pass away that morning four months ago—especially not Bree, who’d found her. Who’d shaken her. Who, in a state of