Relieved, Katy sat near the front of the sanctuary. At least that much was going right. She stood and made a circular motion with her hand. “Okay, let’s run it again from the top.”
Half the kids took seats in the mock classroom, while the others disappeared through a door into the hallway. The teenager playing the schoolteacher took her place at the front of the classroom and began talking in a whiny, nasally voice. “Now, class, today’s lesson will be on mathematics.” She turned toward the blackboard.
As she did, Tom and his gang came sneaking into the classroom and quickly took their seats.
The teacher spun around, her face beet red. “Tom Sawyer! Late again! I do say, Tom, you’ll need a paddling before the day is through.” She turned back to the board.
This time, Tom tossed an apple to Becky to get her attention. The way they’d blocked the scene, the apple was supposed to land nicely in Sarah Jo’s hands. But Sarah Jo was whispering to the girl next to her, something about where they were supposed to be sitting by the looks of it. The apple flew across the aisle and hit Sarah Jo square on the head.
“Ouch!” Sarah Jo rubbed her temple. The apple rolled off to the side of the classroom, and more than half the kids started giggling.
“Okay.” Katy wanted to laugh, but she kept her tone serious. She stood and made eye contact with the kids who were smirking. “If that happens during the show, what’re we going to do? Sit here and snicker?” She kept a straight face so the kids would know she meant business.
One of the little girls in the front row raised her hand. “Maybe we should run after the apple if it gets away like that. Then we could give it to Sarah Jo.”
“Good . . .”
The morning dragged on, but they managed to block three scenes, enough to get back on schedule. The group ran through two of the songs until Katy was satisfied. She glanced at the clock every few minutes. She’d finally made up her mind. She was going to call Dayne when practice was over and tell him the news.
She was taking the part.
Alice Stryker pulled her aside after the break and frowned. “Sarah Jo needs to be upstage more; don’t you think? Everyone knows she has the prettiest voice. If you want your show to be a success, people will need to hear her sing.”
Katy only stared at the woman, baffled. How could the mother of such a sweet little girl be so awful? She cleared her throat. “I’ll do the blocking, thank you. If I need your help, I’ll ask.”
Mrs. Stryker smoothed out the wrinkles in her blouse and tossed her head. “I’ll work with Sarah Jo when we get home. Maybe if she projects more you’ll be able to hear her better. I’ve sat near the back of the room, and she simply isn’t loud enough.” She glared at Katy. “If you won’t move her up, I’ll get her to sing louder.”
Never had Katy been tempted to ban a parent from practices, but Alice Stryker was pushing her. She ignored the woman’s last comments and set to work on the second half of practice.
Krissie Schick, the program coordinator, found Katy a few minutes before it was over. “We’re sold out for the first five performances!” She grinned. “Way to go, Katy. I don’t know what we’d do without you. The whole community’s talking about CKT.”
Katy felt her heart sink. How upset would Krissie be when she found out Katy was taking a part in a major motion picture, that she’d miss the next show, and that her future with CKT was in limbo? She hesitated. “Thanks, Krissie. That’s good to hear.”
Krissie was a wonderful person, kind and warm, the mother of four kids. Whenever Katy had been discouraged about a certain play or a performance, Krissie was the one she went to. The woman had an innate ability to read Katy and offer just the right words to lift her mood.
This time was no different. She studied Katy. “Is everything okay? You look a little distant.”
Katy leaned in and hugged her. “You’re so good, Krissie. Always sensitive to what I’m feeling.” She drew back and smiled. “I’m fine. Just a lot on my mind.”
“Okay.” Krissie didn’t look sure. “I’m here if you need me, remember that. I’m always here.”
Guilt stabbed pushpins at the center of Katy’s conscience. Krissie had done everything to make Katy’s time in Bloomington nothing but wonderful. She would have to tell the woman about her decision very soon. Otherwise it would feel like she’d been hiding things from her. Katy couldn’t let that happen.
When practice was over, when she’d answered fifty-two questions about costumes and rehearsal times and made thirty-eight suggestions about how to improve a line or a scene, she looked at Al and Nancy Helmes and Rhonda Sanders and took a deep breath. “Well, how do we look?”
Nancy grinned. “Everything’s shaping up great, Katy. You’re working your magic again.”
“I’m surprised, frankly.” Al winked at her. “This one had me a little worried.”
Rhonda pointed straight up. “God’s on our side—don’t forget that. Of course, it always comes together.”
“God and Katy!” Al linked arms with his wife, and they headed for the door. “Off to get her a half cup of coffee. See you next week.”
Rhonda waited until they were gone. Then she turned to Katy. “You’re going to do it, aren’t you?”
Katy couldn’t lie to her friend. She could feel the way her eyes danced, even before she said a word. “The part?”
“Yes, you’re taking it, right?”
“I am.” Katy folded her hands and squealed. “I’m calling him right now.”
“I can’t believe it, Katy.” Rhonda gave her a quick hug. Her eyes held as much uncertainty as they did joy. “I’m happy for you. Just don’t forget to come back home.”
“I won’t.” She squeezed Rhonda’s hand, grabbed her bag, and together they walked out the door.
Not until Katy was alone in her Nissan did she make her decision. She wouldn’t call Dayne, not yet. She’d call the studio and make travel arrangements. Then she’d call him Monday, as soon as she arrived in Los Angeles. That way they could talk about the contract details in person.
Katy’s heart raced as she started her car and headed out of the church parking lot. She’d already told the Flanigans, and she had their blessing. Now she only had to make flight plans and pack her things. The mere idea of going to LA to sign a movie deal was enough to take her breath away.
She could hardly wait to get on the plane.
Dayne was tired of sitting home alone waiting for the phone call from Katy.
Tonight he called Marc David, his actor friend, the one who was suing one of the biggest gossip magazines for the story about his father. A night out would be a good way to catch up. They agreed to hit the Starleen Café, a three-story state-of-the-art dance club on the outskirts of Hollywood. It was another hot spot among the Hollywood elite, and this one—like the others—had a private area for the stars. The entire third floor was for members only.
Dayne and Marc knew the guard at the elevator door and were waiting for the ride up when a woman from the crowd grabbed Dayne’s arm. “Dayne Matthews! I can’t believe it—Dayne Matthews!” She screamed his name, and everyone in the downstairs section of the club who hadn’t noticed the two actors breeze toward the elevator spotted them now.
“Hey.” He jerked his arm free, and then he remembered the sergeant’s warning about the possibly dangerous female fan. What if this was her? She might be armed. He glanced at the woman and saw that she had her hand in her pocket.
She lunged toward him again, and this time he shoved her back, making her lose her balance and fall onto her backside. The woman screamed and pointed at Dayne. “I’m contacting my attorney! You can’t push me like that!”
The crowd grew restless, casting rude looks at Dayne and Marc. But before the scene could get too out of hand, Marc elbowed him. The elevator was ready. They slipped inside and fell against the back wall. “That was insane.” Dayne’s breathing was hard and fast. “I thought she had a knife.”
“A knife?” Marc eyed him s
trangely; then a knowing look came into his eyes. “The stalker lady I’ve been reading about?”
“Yeah.” Dayne raked his fingers through his hair. He was still trying to catch his breath. “The police told me to be careful of crazy women fans, and when she grabbed me . . .” He shook his head. “I can’t believe I pushed her.”
“You did everything right.” Marc rolled his eyes. “If she calls her attorney, let me know. I’ll be your witness.”
The doors opened, and the atmosphere on the third floor was entirely different. The lighting wasn’t quite so dark, and no one ran toward them as they made their way to a table in the back. Three of the city’s leading men were sitting at the nearest table, and all of them nodded or waved at Dayne and Marc.
“What’s up, boys?” One of them stood and grabbed first Dayne’s hand, then Marc’s. “You look a little lost.”
Dayne ran his hand over his brow. “The natives are restless downstairs.”
“I’m telling you, man—” one of the other actors chuckled—“take the back elevator. No one knows about it.”
The guy was right. Dayne had forgotten about that entrance, but not after tonight. He’d never go through the main doors again. He gave an easy laugh. “Good plan.”
The third guy at the table was a pillar in Hollywood, one with impeccable character even after two decades of starring in films. He was drinking what looked like iced tea. “So, crazy Dayne, no women tonight?”
“Not tonight.” He shook his head. “Living a little cleaner these days.”
The man smiled. “Good for you.”
They talked a few more minutes, and then Dayne and Marc took seats at their table. They ordered drinks, and Marc updated him on his case against the magazine. “It looks pretty solid.” He anchored his elbows on the table. “I’d like to see the suit put them out of business.”
Dayne leaned back and raised one eyebrow. “Don’t count on it. Those rags have more money than we know.” He crossed his arms. “I think it’s a national addiction, finding out the dirt on movie stars. They probably budget to lose a lawsuit or two now and then.”
The waitress came with their drinks. She was a professional, paid to act unimpressed by the recognized faces on the private third floor.
Their conversation shifted to the projects they were working on. Marc was filming the sequel to a blockbuster hit, but he was worried that it wasn’t as strong as the first one. “You have to be so careful.” He drew a slow breath. “Take part in a lousy film and the fans hold it against you for a year.”
“I know it.” Dayne made a face. “Happened to me a few years ago. Could happen again if I don’t get the girl I want for Dream On.”
“New girl?”
“Yeah, an unknown.” Dayne looked down. He didn’t want to give away too much. Especially when he wasn’t sure of his own feelings toward Katy. “I’ll let you know if she comes through.”
They talked awhile longer about Dream On and the scenes Dayne had worked through with Mitch Henry during the week.
Then Marc pulled out a flyer from the inside of his sport jacket. “Hey, Dayne . . . you ever heard of Kabbalah?”
Kabbalah? There it was again. “Lots of people are talking about it.” Dayne took a sip of his drink. “I don’t really understand it.”
“I’m going to give it a try. There’s a center not far from here.” The music was louder than before, so Marc had to raise his voice to be heard. “God is within you, a part of you. If you reach a high enough level of consciousness, you can become your own god. That sort of thing.” He shrugged. “Beats any traditional religion I’ve ever heard of.”
“Yeah, something I should look into.” Dayne wanted to feel good about the possibility, but it still stirred up old guilt in his soul. The remains of a childhood of Christian doctrine.
“So tell me about the new girl.” Marc lowered his chin and shot Dayne a curious look, one that implied Dayne might know more about the girl than how well she could act. “I don’t know her, right?”
“No one knows her.” Dayne felt warm at the thought of Katy. If only she’d call. He was about to say something more about her, how she was from Bloomington and didn’t want anything to do with the wild life in Hollywood, but his phone rang first. He held it up and grinned. “Maybe this is her.”
He slipped into a corridor where it was quieter and flipped his cell phone open without checking the caller ID. “Hello?”
“Dayne . . .” The voice was raspy and breathless, as if the caller was gasping for air. “Help me . . . Dayne, help me.”
“Who is this?” Immediately Dayne thought about the wacko fan. Could she have gotten hold of his cell phone number?
“It’s Kelly.” Her words were slow and fading.
“Kelly?” Dayne paced from one end of the corridor to the other. Had the stalker found her? His stomach dropped to his feet. “Kelly, talk to me!”
“I’m . . . sick.” She took two shaky breaths. “Help me . . . Dayne.”
He felt himself relax. This wasn’t about the stalker. Kelly must’ve had the flu, something like that. “What’s wrong, honey? You sound awful.”
“Pills . . . too many pills.”
His heart did a flip-flop. “Did you try to . . . Kelly, you didn’t do this on purpose, did you?”
“Help me . . . not . . . much time!”
Suddenly Dayne snapped into action. This wasn’t a sympathy call—it was an emergency. “Kelly, hold on. I’m calling for help, honey. Stay awake. Don’t go to sleep, okay?”
“Okay.” There was a clicking sound.
“Kelly?” He checked the cell phone, but the call had ended. He dialed 911 and paced another time down the corridor.
“Nine-one-one, what’s your emergency?”
“A friend of mine took a bottle of pills. She needs help.”
“Okay, sir. Why don’t you give us your name.”
Two minutes passed while the operator got all the information—his name, Kelly’s name, her address. It felt like forever.
When the call was over, Dayne tore back into the seating area and found Marc. “Come with me. Kelly Parker’s in trouble.” He nodded toward the door. “I think she overdosed.”
Marc was on his feet instantly, and five minutes later—despite the fans that tried to circle them—they were in the car and on their way to Kelly’s house. At least two photographers tailed them, and this time they made Dayne furious.
“Are you sure? Kelly Parker overdosing?” Marc faced him, his expression tense. “Why on earth would she do that?”
“Because . . .” Dayne tapped on his rearview mirror and looked at the sedan following them. He gritted his teeth. “Because the photographers are driving her batty.”
When they arrived at her house, the ambulance was already there, its lights flashing. The photographers were bound to get every gritty detail, but there was nothing Dayne could do about that now. He had to see how Kelly was doing. He and Marc raced from his Escalade up to her front door.
Paramedics had her on a stretcher, an IV bag hooked to one arm. “I’m Dayne Matthews. I’m the one who called.” He took a few steps closer. Kelly’s complexion was a scary gray, her body lifeless. “Is she . . . Will she be okay?”
“Her heartbeat’s slow but steady.” The paramedic nearest him looked over his shoulder at Dayne. “We’re taking her in, but I think we got here in time.”
Dayne felt relief spread through his body. The paramedics were moving her out of the house, and suddenly Dayne realized what was about to happen. The photographers would capture the moment for the next gossip rag, and the whole world would know Kelly Parker had tried to kill herself. “Hey.” He held his hand up to the lead paramedic. “Can you wait a minute, let me get rid of the paparazzi?”
The man gave a quick look at Kelly and nodded. “Hurry.”
“Come on.” Dayne grabbed Marc’s elbow and jerked him out the front door. They ran out, Dayne in the lead, and darted into his car. “There’s only two o
f them. Let’s get ’em both.”
“What’re we gonna do?”
Dayne’s mind rushed ahead. “Let’s stage a fight.” He pointed down the street. “See, they’re both over there. Parked in those cars. You up?”
“Definitely.” Marc looked at him, waiting for a sign.
When Dayne’s SUV was just a few yards from the photographers, he suddenly slammed on his brakes, flew out the door, and stormed around the front of the vehicle. “Get out and do something about it!” he shouted at Marc, drawing on his best acting skills.
Marc jumped out of the SUV and shoved Dayne so hard he stumbled back five or six feet. From the corner of his eye, Dayne saw the photographers turn and aim their cameras straight at them. The plan was working.
The shouting continued for almost a minute, while the paparazzi hounds took pictures. Finally Dayne pushed Marc back into the SUV, pretended to kick the door, and raced around to the driver’s seat. When he sped off down the street, the two photographers were right behind him.
After a ten-minute chase, Dayne stopped the vehicle, and both he and Marc climbed out. As the paparazzi snapped pictures, no doubt certain they were about to see the second half of a rollicking fight, Dayne and Marc walked to the back of the SUV, leaned against the bumper, laughed, and shook hands.
“Good job.” Dayne kept the smile on his face. “Kelly’s halfway to the hospital by now.”
Marc laughed to keep up the act. “Mission accomplished.”
They waited three minutes until the photographers got bored of the happy scene. By then they must’ve realized they’d been tricked, because they both took off in the direction of Kelly’s house.
As soon as they were gone, Dayne nodded to the SUV. “Let’s get to the hospital.”
Dayne’s mind whirled as he drove. What had just happened? Kelly Parker was flying across town in an ambulance because life—the life she lived as a premier Hollywood actress—wasn’t worth living. He’d had to stage a fight with one of his best friends just to give Kelly the privacy of being carried out on a stretcher from her own home.