Chapter 10
The ride back to the dance hall is silent except for the constant—and I mean constant—buzzing of Holden’s phone. My phone never rings, unless it’s Ben wanting to know if he should bring home dinner, which, now that I think about it, is pretty depressing.
Every buzz is followed by a frustrated sigh or irritated huff, then the punch of his thumbs as he taps out a response. After a while, he gives up and turns the phone face down on his knee but stops short of muting it.
“Everything okay?” I ask.
His answer is a curt “Fine,” his eyes never leaving the window.
By the time we pull into the parking lot, he’s noticeably different from the guy I had lunch with: stiff, closed off, simmering.
But at least he’s not—
“Well, that’s just fucking great.”
Rude.
I cut the engine and follow his line of sight to the AC repair van parked next to Artie’s rental. “Isn’t that a good thing?”
“I’m not in the mood for an audience,” he says, climbing out of my car.
“We don’t have to keep going. Let’s—”
Well, that’s just flipping great, I think, as the whack of his closing door cuts me off.
Inside, the dance hall is quiet. No sign of the AC guy or Holden, who’d bolted before my feet even hit the ground. Just Artie, perched on the edge of the stage, flipping through a dog-eared booklet.
“You okay?”
I give him a tight smile. “Never better.”
“You guys have a fight?”
“No…at least, I don’t think so.”
He was fine until his phone started blowing up. I guess that’d put me in a foul mood too.
Artie lifts his head. “How’d the dancing go this morning?”
“Um, good. Really good,” I say, though that’s not even slightly true, and the upturn of his lips tells me he knows it.
He slips off his glasses and tucks them in his shirt pocket. “You’re covering for him.”
“No, I’m…” Totally covering for him. “He’ll get there. One way or another.”
“Just keep doing what you’re doing, Maggie. Everything will work out.”
“And if it doesn’t?”
He reaches behind him for his messenger bag. “I want to get the dance in a single take. But if it doesn’t happen, we’ll break it up and shoot it from a few different angles.”
I push myself onto the stage, his words catching me mid-motion. “Does he know that’s an option? Because he really struggled this morning. And before, with Helg—Cynthia. From what I can tell, he was miserable working with her.”
And now he’s miserable working with me.
“I wouldn’t say it’s an option. More like a fallback.” Artie’s eyes crinkle at the corners. “That must’ve been some lunch. First you cover for him, and now you’re defending him.”
My cheeks burn, and I pull at the threads on my cutoffs.
“I’m not trying to embarrass you. It’s just…Holden did the same thing this morning.”
What same thing?
“The short answer,” he says, sliding the booklet into his bag, “is yes, Holden knows.”
I cross my arms. “Then why put himself through this?”
“Because when it comes to acting, he’s a perfectionist. Plan B will work, but it isn’t ideal.
” Laughter carries from around the corner, and Artie lowers his voice.
“Holden knows that, so he’ll do everything he can to make plan A happen.
In his mind, it’s the only way. And there’s nothing you or I can do to change it. ”
He zips the bag and sets it beside him on the stage. “But like you said, he’ll get there. I have every confidence in him. I have every confidence in you, too.”
“With all due respect, I think you’re overlooking the fact that Holden barely tolerates me.”
He told you himself he doesn’t want me here.
Artie smiles. “Trust me, Maggie, dear. He more than tolerates you.”
The dressing room door opens behind us, and Holden trudges across the stage, backpack slung over one shoulder, phone clutched in his hand. He jabs at the screen, then tucks it in his back pocket.
“I was beginning to think you’d snuck out the window,” Artie says, craning his neck to see him.
“Thought about it.” Holden tugs at his collar, fanning his shirt like it’s glued to him. “What’s the deal with the AC?”
“The good news is, he got the part he needed.”
“And the bad?”
Artie checks his watch. “It’s going to be a few more hours.”
Holden hops to the floor and jerks his chin toward me. “Let’s call it. You still good with seven thirty, or do you anticipate more cattle?”
I shoot him a glare.
He meets my eyes, a guilty smile flitting across his face as he hoists his backpack higher on his shoulder and turns for the door.
“Hey, son,” Artie says, sliding off the stage. “You should know, Gabi’s got plans for you tonight.”
He stops, arm dropping to his side. “What kind of plans?”
“You’re taking her to San Antonio. She wants to see the River Walk.”
“The hell I am.”
Artie chuckles. “Have fun and be safe.”
Holden’s hands ball into fists, the muscles in his arms pulling tight. “Fine. Fuck. Whatever.” He yanks his Dodgers cap from his backpack and slaps it on. “Later.”
Sunlight cuts through the dark hall as the door swings open. Then it slams so hard I flinch. “Is he okay?”
“He’ll be better tomorrow,” Artie says, but I’m not sure I believe him. Not sure he does either. “Has he been on his phone a lot?”
I press my lips together, letting the silence answer for me.
“Just be patient,” he says, then cups his hands to his mouth. “Hey, Alisa?”
“In the office,” she calls back.
“We’re out. You good?”
“Good as gold. Enjoy your evening.”
Artie slings his bag across his chest, and we head for the door.
“How do two big movie stars get away with being in public like that?” I ask. “The River Walk will be packed. Even on a Tuesday.”
“Hats, glasses, a very discreet two-hundred-sixty-pound bodyguard…” He shrugs. “Plus, it’s easier to blend in when no one expects to see you.”
“Think he’ll actually go?”
“He’ll go.”
“And his girlfriend’s okay with that?”
Artie’s brows lift, and there’s a glint in his eye I can’t quite read, like my question amuses him. “Better go check on that AC. Your young friend will be here soon, and I’d hate for her to melt. Hope she’s okay with paperwork. Alisa said she could use the help.”
“She’ll be thrilled.” I fish my keys from my pocket and close them in my fist. “Will you be here tomorrow?”
“Not sure yet.” We stop at the entrance, his hand hooking around the strap of his bag. “You know Joey Garcia, the guy who owns this place? Says he knows you.”
“I’ve met him a few times, yes.”
“Old buddy of mine. Grew up together.” He pulls open the door. “He’s letting us have the hall ’til the end of the month. Rent free.”
“That’s nice of him,” I say, not sure where he’s headed.
“He’s a nice guy.” We step outside, the late afternoon sun blazing through the oaks.
“I don’t know how much you know about movie sets, but everything’s always rush, rush, rush.
I hate rushing when I don’t have to, and thanks to Joey, we’ve got some breathing room.
That’s why I’m not worried about Holden.
I don’t need a full cast and crew to shoot that scene.
Hell, I can do it with a skeleton crew if I have to.
” He starts down the steps. “So try not to worry.”
“I’m just…not sure what I’m doing here then.”
“You want to meet Barrett, right?”
“That’s kind of you, but it doesn’t help Holden.”
His mouth quirks. “I don’t know, Maggie. I think it already has.” He veers toward the back of the building, where the AC is, I’m guessing. “Have a good night.”
“Yeah. You too.”
Back home, I sit at my desk with my laptop open to my essay. The few words I managed to get down stare back at me, and of course I’m second-guessing every one.
I was six years old when Aunt Z convinced Mama to restore our run-down barn and rent it out for weddings.
Little did they know it would turn them into wedding planners by default.
Mama hated that part, but I secretly loved it.
Brides are like fairy princesses to little girls, and I grew up surrounded by them.
My brain stalls on fairy princesses, and I try to imagine Graham Barrett’s face reading that phrase. Is it too girly?
You’re overthinking it. He wants an autobiographical essay, and you’re giving him one.
“But he’d say to dig deeper,” I mutter, sinking lower in my chair as my mind drifts back to the Davis-Miller wedding.
Aunt Z and I sipped sweet tea in the backyard, watching the crew Mama hired decorate the barn.
I was eleven, and I’d never seen anything like it.
String lights twinkled in the setting sun like strung diamonds.
White fabric billowed in the breeze. And the flowers.
There were so many flowers—the air smelled like spun sugar.
Mama hated every second of it.
“Don’t worry about her,” Aunt Zilpha said after Mama stormed past in a huff. “She’s not a romantic. Not like us.”
“Why not?”
“Your mama’s practical, whereas I’m the starry-eyed dreamer.” She leaned into her southern lilt, something she rarely did, then snapped her Nicholas Sparks book shut and held it up like proof.
“Am I a starry-eyed dreamer too?”
“Yes, sweetheart,” she said with a smile. “I think you just might be.”
My aunt may have been right once upon a time, but losing Mama so young—especially after what happened with Ben—changed me.
It’s not that I don’t believe in love. I saw for myself the spell it cast on Aunt Z.
I even write about it. But like Mama, I’m practical.
I keep my eyes star-free and only dare to dream with them open.
That’s good. Write that.
I sit up, fingers hovering over the keys.
No, that’s stupid. I slouch in my chair again.
Constance’s voice filters in from the foyer, and I push to my sock-covered feet. I figured she’d come as soon as she dropped off her sister, but it’s already half past six.
“Ben let me in,” she says, stepping into my doorway with her arms crossed like armor.
She’s dressed in cropped jeans, sandals, and a black lace tunic with a long turquoise pendant necklace.
Soft auburn ringlets frame her made-up face.
I glance down at my black leggings and oversized Texas State tee and wonder if she came from work, because she certainly wasn’t this dolled-up last night.
I lean against my desk, tucking a piece of hair behind my ear. “You look nice. Did you sub today?”
“No. Um…thanks. Just had some things to take care of.” Her eyes wander around the room she practically lived in as a teen. “Looks different without the stuffed animals and Patrick Swayze posters.”
While most girls my age stuck to digital shrines, I was a product of my mother, whose love for the eighties knew no bounds.
I’d seen Dirty Dancing three times before I even realized Penny was pregnant.
That’s how young I was when my own eighties obsession started.
I got my first vintage Patrick Swayze poster at thirteen, and that sealed it.
Constance never thought it was weird. She just decided to love it too, like it was simply a choice.
I didn’t realize then how rare that was. Having someone adopt your obsession just so they could share it with you.
She lingers on a photo of me and my mom, her smile going soft. “I remember that.”
“You should. You took it. Our first day of high school.”
“I still have the one she took of us.”
“Me too.” In a box at the top of my closet with the rest of our pictures. And my half of a best friends charm bracelet.
She stops in front of my bookcase, gaze skimming the spines. “Aunt Z finally wore off on you, huh? Magnolia May Calhoun reads romance.” Then her eyes snag on a battered copy of Yesterday’s Son. She plucks it off the shelf and whirls around. “This is why you auditioned. You’re a fan of the book.”
“I am, but it’s not what you think.”
“What is it then?”
I fold my arms over my chest, my own armor sliding into place. “I want to meet the author because he’s giving this writing class that’s really hard to get into, and it’s rumored he’ll be on set, so I’m hoping…”
“No way! You’re still writing?” She drops onto my unmade bed like it’s second nature, and my chest squeezes. “I used to love your poetry. I think I still have some of it.”
“Oh, my. Please burn it.”
“Are you crazy? Even Ms. Thompson loved your stuff, and she was critical of everything.” She sets the book beside her. “Is that what you’re writing now? Poetry?”
“No. Not since…” the last one I wrote for Mama’s funeral. “Not for a while. I write novels now.” I glance at the bookcase. “Romance, if you can believe it.”
“Of course, I can believe it. You always were a total romantic.”
Not anymore.
Constance grins. “Magnolia May Calhoun, romance author.”
Her enthusiasm makes me squirm.
“I’m not an author,” I say. “I’ve just written a few books. They’re not published or anything.”
“A few?” Her gaze returns to my bookcase, like they might be hiding there in plain sight. “Can I read them?”
“What? No way.”
She leans back on her hands, feet kicking the white eyelet dust ruffle as she swings her legs. “You know I grew up on Harlequin. I’m practically an expert.”
I pretend to think it over. “Tempting, but no.”
“Fine,” she says, dragging it out like fiiine. She hops off the bed with Yesterday’s Son and tucks it back on the shelf. “So, Holden…”
I huff a laugh. “I’m surprised you didn’t lead with that.”
“I got sidetracked.”
The doorbell rings, and I close my laptop.
“That would be the pizza.” She holds her hand out to me, then catches herself and drops it. “Come on. I’m starving.”