“Pictures don’t lie.” Kelly shook her head. “First I have cellulite, then a lesbian lover, and now flabby arms. Sort of kills the appetite, you know?”
He studied Kelly and realized she was thinner than she’d been a few months ago. “You’re eating, right?” There were always a few Hollywood women starving themselves, handling the pressure of looking perfect by letting their weight drop to dangerous lows. A ripple of fear stirred the waters in his soul. “Tell me you’re eating, Kelly.”
She shrugged. “I eat enough.” She hugged herself and kept her eyes downcast. “I wouldn’t mind a tabloid saying something about me looking too thin. It would beat the cellulite and flabby arms stories.”
“You are thin.” He took hold of her chin and lifted it gently so that their eyes locked. “Don’t get messed up in all that starving stuff. I mean it, Kelly. Promise me.”
She hesitated long enough to indicate a problem. But then he felt her nod against his hand. “Okay.” Her fingers met his and eased his hand down from her jaw. But instead of letting go, she wove her fingers between his. “I feel better with you here.”
“Good.” He settled back against the sofa. “You wanted to talk about something else?”
“Yes.” For the first time in weeks, her eyes showed some life. “I want a chance at the part in Dream On. The lead female.”
Dayne felt his heart lurch. That was Katy’s part; it belonged to her. “Tory Temblin?”
“Yep.” She gave him a shy smile. “I can play her, Dayne. I hear talk you’re having trouble filling the part.” She paused. “Call me in and try me.”
“You, huh?” He gave her a lazy grin. This was no time to mention an unknown from Middle America. “What makes you think a knockout like you could play a plain girl from the country?”
“You and me.” She lifted his fingertips to her lips and kissed them one at a time, slow and sensual, arousing feelings far beyond his fingers. Her eyes never left his. “On-screen chemistry, of course.”
“Okay.” He swallowed, regaining his composure. “I’ll give you that.” He uttered a soft chuckle. “But you’re elegant and glamorous, Kelly.” He shifted toward her and leaned in. “You’re a wonderful actress, but . . . I don’t know . . . we’re looking for a newcomer.”
“Sounds like a challenge.” Even in her meek, fearful condition, Kelly’s expression was humorous, her trademark confidence back again. “Let me read for it, Dayne. Come on.”
Her smile melted his heart. What if Mitch was right? What if Katy was offered the part and refused it? He still had a film to cast, a movie to make in the next few months. “Okay. Come in Tuesday morning.” He brushed his knuckles against her cheek. The interview was more because he felt sorry for her than anything else. That and the possibility that Katy might not work out. “Eight o’clock, okay?”
“Why?” Her tone was lighter than before, her eyes playing with him. “Is Miss Newcomer having her audition at nine?”
Katy’s face came to mind, but Dayne hid the way his heart reacted to it. Instead he gave Kelly an appreciative nod. “Very good.” He wagged his finger at her. “At least you’re first.”
Their talk shifted to the lives of friends they had in common, how well certain actresses were doing, and how they were able to ignore the paparazzi, take in stride the country’s obsession with celebrity.
After an hour, Dayne looked at his watch. “I have a few things to do around the house.” He touched her cheek, his eyes lingering on hers. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah.” Her expression changed, and something that came close to shame filled her face. She glanced down the hallway toward her bedroom. “You could stay awhile if you want.”
Her message was clear. After the way they’d come together the last time he was at her house, it felt natural to him, too, that they might wind up sharing more than a conversation.
“Not this time, okay?” He worked his fingers up along the side of her face and into her hair. “Remember our promise?” His voice was thick, tinged with a desire that he refused to obey. He kept his tone steady. “The promise we made the other night?”
“Yes. Nothing complicated.” Kelly brought her lips together in a tight line and let her gaze fall to her lap. When she looked up again, a handful of emotions flashed in her eyes. Regret and rejection, doubt and discouragement. “I don’t want complicated, Dayne.” She raised one shoulder. “Sometimes I just want you to hold me.”
Dayne stood and held his arms out to her. “C’mere, you.”
Tears shone in Kelly’s eyes as she rose and put her arms around his waist. Again her nearness moved him, but that was all. A physical attraction. In his heart he felt nothing more than friendship for Kelly Parker. When he pulled back, he smiled at her and kissed the tip of her nose. “Go take a shower, baby. Then call your friends and go out tonight. If the chasers take pictures, smile and have fun, anyway.”
He thought she might pull him close again, maybe try to kiss him. But she had more self-respect than that. She simply gave him another hug and pulled away. “Thanks for coming, Dayne.” She crossed her arms tight against her waist. “See you Tuesday.” She paused. “And tell Miss Newcomer she doesn’t stand a chance this time. I want the part too bad.”
That last part of the conversation played again in his mind as he drove home. What about Miss Newcomer? Would Katy Hart win the role? Would she take it? He thought about Kelly Parker, so frightened she didn’t want to leave her own house. What if that happened to Katy?
It was a possibility he hadn’t considered before, and he was still thinking about it as he drove down Pacific Coast Highway toward his house. Nearly all the fog had burned off, and the day was warming up. He was only a dozen yards away when he slowed down and studied the driveway next to his. Parked there was an old car with a woman at the wheel—a woman staring straight at his house.
That much didn’t surprise him. People were always staring, hoping he’d look out the window or open the garage door or suddenly show up. But most of them had cameras. He squinted, trying to make out more details as he eased his car into the center turn lane. The woman had her hands on the top of the steering wheel. If she had a camera, she wasn’t holding it.
At that moment, she looked over her shoulder and saw him. In a sudden rush, she backed straight into oncoming traffic, and a FedEx truck swerved to miss her. Then she straightened her car and zoomed away. She definitely wasn’t working for the rags if she chose to run when she saw him.
But that was only one aspect that troubled Dayne as he turned left, hit the door opener, and drove his car into the garage. The other detail was enough to make his blood run cold—the make and color of the woman’s car.
It was a four-door, yellow Honda Civic.
Katy could hardly concentrate on the play.
Her conversation with Dayne Matthews had taken place just twelve hours earlier, and already her entire world seemed to be spinning out of control. Before the morning practice, Rhonda brought her news that a disagreement had come up between the house committee and the souvenir committee.
“The parents were about to duke it out when I got here.” Rhonda was sitting next to Katy in the first pew, where they kept their table and directed practice.
Katy frowned. “They’re adults, for heaven’s sake.” She took hold of her yellow notepad and began writing and talking to herself at the same time. “Rule Number 18: Don’t let parents arrive at practice early to discuss committee issues.”
“Exactly.” Rhonda reached for a script and flipped it open. “House wants to be able to seat the lobby of the theater with folding chairs—in case we sell out. But souvenirs said they wouldn’t give up the far-right third of that space because they need it to sell buttons and Tom Sawyer scrapbooks.” She took a quick breath. “Matt Bellonte from house said he’d scoop the souvenirs up and give ’em away before he’d turn down a paying customer who could’ve sat in that space. Then Melody Thorpe said she’d guard the area herself if she had to, but she wasn’
t giving up souvenir space for a few more folding chairs.”
“Good.” Katy felt her tension build. “One big, happy, Christian family.”
“Another thing.” Rhonda smiled, her voice tentative. “Alice Stryker says we should practice lighting techniques. Apparently Sarah Jo washes out in certain spotlights. Mrs. Stryker doesn’t want that happening, because she’s hiring a professional videographer to capture the best performance of the play and use the film to promote Sarah Jo to the next level.”
“Ugggh!” Katy slid down in her seat and covered her face. She peeked through her fingers. “A professional videographer?”
“Yes.” Rhonda checked a page of notes. “Mrs. Stryker tells me we’ll never know he’s here. But he’ll be interviewing Sarah Jo quite often and maybe me. Definitely you.”
“And we’ll never know he’s here?” Katy pressed her fingers against her temple. “Can they do that? Isn’t there something in CKT guidelines against hiring your own videographer?”
“Nope.” Rhonda frowned. “I actually checked. As long as the copyright for the play allows videotaping, then it’s all fair game.”
“Amazing.” She still had her eyes sheltered. “Anything else?”
“Sound.” Rhonda shook her head, as if even she couldn’t believe the next piece of news. “Mrs. Stryker wants a private sound check for the videographer just before the first show.”
“Sure.” Katy dropped her hands to her sides and sat up straight. “We’ll get right on scheduling that. I suppose she wants the nicest mic too?”
“Preferably nothing that crackles.” Rhonda allowed a giggle. “She told me, ‘Look, I know how these low-budget children’s theater groups work. I can’t have a microphone cutting out on my daughter. The videographer and I want to hear every word.’”
“You know what I think?” Katy stood, her enthusiasm all but gone.
“What’s that?”
“I think we better get the kids onstage before I go home and cry myself to sleep.”
They both smiled at the picture, but Rhonda was off right away, zipping up the aisle to the lobby and directing the kids into the sanctuary and onto the stage.
The practice went from bad to worse. When the lead characters took the stage to block out the second scene, Sarah Jo’s voice was all but gone.
Katy walked up and put her hand on the girl’s shoulder. “Honey, what happened to your voice?”
“I—” she clutched her throat and massaged it—“practiced too much.”
“Practiced what?” The girl had practiced four hours the night before and now was required to be at the church bright and early for another four hours. When would she have had time to practice? “Practiced for CKT?”
“Yes.” Sarah Jo shifted her weight from one foot to the other. Her voice was so raspy she was barely understandable. “I practiced my solo. Mama said it had to be better.”
“All right—” Katy worked the muscles in her jaw—“here’re your new instructions.” She looked over her shoulder at the back of the sanctuary. Mrs. Stryker wasn’t in the room. She returned her attention to Sarah Jo. “Today I want you to say your lines in your softest voice ever. And when it’s time to sing, just mouth the words, so you’ll be familiar with the song. Okay?”
“Okay.” The seriousness in the girl’s eyes lifted a little, and her lips showed the hint of a smile. “Thanks, Katy.”
They were fifteen minutes behind schedule by the time Katy was back at her spot near the table, with the scene under way. It was the part in the play where Aunt Polly sits in her rocking chair recounting the trouble with Tom Sawyer when a group of women from church stops in with an invitation. The women’s aid society is throwing a picnic for the townsfolk in a few weeks, and the hope is that Aunt Polly will bake her famous pies. Among the women were the Widow Douglas, Mrs. Thatcher, and Becky.
“I do say, that Becky of yours sure is a beauty.” Ashley Zarelli, playing Aunt Polly, drew the words out, bringing the perfect mix of Midwestern drawl and anxious gossip to the line. “I daresay my Tom’s caught a look at her.”
Sarah Jo, meanwhile, was caught in a conversation with Tom’s cousin and wasn’t supposed to hear the remark. Her line was next, and she was right on cue. “Your cousin’s kinda cute.” Her words were barely audible. “Don’t you think?”
“Tom?” The cousin gave Sarah Jo a strange look. “Becky Thatcher, you must be wacky in the head to think anything good could ever come from that ol’ Tom Sawyer.”
The line was supposed to be Tim Reed’s cue. By the time he heard the part “wacky in the head,” he was supposed to creep along behind what would eventually be part of the set—a white picket fence at the center of the stage. Then he was supposed to run smack into Aunt Polly.
Instead he was nowhere to be seen.
“Tim.” Katy allowed frustration in her tone. She glanced around the sanctuary. “Anyone seen Tim?”
The other kids looked around, but no one had an answer.
“Tim?” She shouted his name this time. Calm down, she told herself. They’re just kids. “Tim, you with us?”
At that moment he darted through the back sanctuary doors and flew up the aisle onto the stage, scrambling to a stop just as he crashed into Aunt Polly. The force dropped him onto his bottom and left his eyes wide. “Aunt Polly . . . what a surprise.”
A wave of hushed giggles sounded from across the stage and the sanctuary.
Katy stood and walked closer to the action. She looked straight at Tim. “Is that something new you’ve added?” She waved toward the back of the room. “You know, proving to the audience how bad Tom Sawyer really is?”
Tim stood and dusted off the backside of his jeans. “Sorry, Katy.”
“Okay.” She gave him a pointed look. “Let’s get serious about this. We open in seven weeks.”
Rhonda met her eyes as Katy returned to the table. “Want me to take the liberty dancers out in the foyer and work with them?”
“Definitely. That’s better than having them sit around giggling at Tim Reed.” She looked at the back of the church one more time, and there by the doors where Tim had come running through was Bailey Flanigan. Katy hesitated. Was Bailey the reason Tim was too busy to make it onstage for his line? She raised one eyebrow at Bailey, but it went unnoticed. The girl was too busy watching Tim.
Rhonda made her way out of the sanctuary, eight girls trailing her. Katy made a mental note to talk to Bailey later. Whatever drama was going on behind the scenes would have to take place outside of practice time. She turned back to the actors onstage, every one of them still watching her, waiting for her to resume. “Okay, take it from Tim’s entrance.”
This time Tim crept across the stage the way he was supposed to and banged softly into Ashley Zarelli. “Aunt Polly . . . what a surprise.”
Katy searched the script. That wasn’t the line, was it? She found where they were, and not only was Tim off base, but he had more lines. She looked at him, summoning the strictest look she could come up with. “Tim Reed, do you know your lines?”
He straightened and scratched his head, his face lined with resignation. “Not exactly.”
“Tim . . .” She gritted her teeth. Somehow she kept from screaming at him. “I expect more from you. You’re one of the oldest kids in CKT, and when you have a lead part I need you to know your lines.”
“Yes, Katy. I’m sorry.” His expression was humble, honest. No question he felt bad about his performance that day. “Can someone prompt me?”
“Nancy.” Katy pointed to the edge of the stage. “Can you sit there and help Tim with whatever he needs?”
“That’s what the creative team’s for!” Nancy Helmes saluted and did as she was asked.
When Nancy was set up, Katy held up her hands. “Listen, guys, let’s take this seriously. Please. This is your show. It’s up to you whether you feel proud of the final product or embarrassed for not trying harder.” She pointed at Sarah Jo. “All except you, Becky Thatcher. You need to
try a little less hard.”
The next three hours were as painful and tedious as the first. The only actor who shone onstage was Ashley Zarelli. In fact, her first performance was so strong, Katy worried about another possibility—because she was both talented and prepared, Ash might upstage everyone in the scene.
Sarah Jo was another worry. Though Katy did her best to avoid the girl’s mother, Sarah Jo seemed less than enthusiastic as Becky. By the end of practice, Katy began to wonder. Had she made the wrong choice? Maybe she should’ve given the part to Bailey Flanigan. She never wanted anyone to accuse her of favoritism where the Flanigans were concerned, but maybe in the process of being fair, she’d gone too far.
Katy stared at her tennis shoes. It was too late now. She couldn’t take the part away from Sarah Jo. Her only choice was to make the part more fun for the girl, help her see that acting in children’s theater was never meant to be a practice ground for bigger and better roles, but rather a place where friendships were forged and the dream of acting could grow and breathe and become.
She crossed her arms and pressed them to her middle. Rhonda and the Helmeses had notes to go over as the kids left the theater, and Jenny Flanigan mentioned she had something to talk to Katy about.
Before any of it could take place, Katy went into the women’s restroom, took the farthest stall, shut the door, and leaned back against it. Why did everything feel so out of control? Her parent committees were fighting, Mrs. Stryker had a professional videographer, and her most reliable student didn’t have a clue about his lines. She was broke until the end of the month with no money to buy a new pair of jeans, and her run-down Nissan had little more than fumes in the gas tank.
Had she left Chicago for this? walked away from acting for a life of lonely chaos and poverty?
Katy knew the answer. Her reason for leaving acting had nothing to do with kids theater or noble causes, not at the beginning. She’d taken the job with Chicago’s CKT as a way to run as far away from the other side of acting as possible, to escape the kind of film career that had cost her everything that mattered back then.