The Big Picture (7 page)

“Well, no matter. Sam and I are done. Finished. Kaput.” With her yellow bob grazing the floor, she stares at the ceiling. “You’ve got cobwebs you need to sweep down.”

“You’ve got cobwebs in your — ”

“I just don’t understand what’s wrong with that man.”

Um, he has a psycho girlfriend?

“Engaged a matter of days, and the romance is already dead and gone.”

I push away from my desk in my rollie-chair. “Is that what this is about? You just want him to send you flowers more often? Write you love sonnets? Because that sounds like a stupid reason to kick someone like Sam Dayberry to the curb.”

Maxine’s heels do a little tap dance on my wall. “Katie, you don’t understand. I’ve waited a long time for Mr. Right Again. Mr. Simmons has been gone for fifteen years. He would want me to be with someone who cherishes me and adores me.”

“And Sam doesn’t?”

I watch Maxine study her French manicure; her face pinkens as the blood rushes to her head. Maybe it will reengage some brain cells and she’ll come to her senses. I love Maxine. I love Sam. And I love them together.

“I just don’t think he truly appreciates me. Anymore I feel like I’m just somebody he watches TV with. I’m someone to cut his chicken-fried steak. I don’t want that! I want to be the hot mamma who blows in his ear and — ”

“Okay!” I throw my hands over my ears. “Too much information here. Children present.” I mentally shove the image out of my head. “Sam is a good man. And he’s crazy about you. He worships you. Some people will go a lifetime and not have that. You’ve had that opportunity twice — with Millie’s dad and now with Sam.”

Maxine shrugs. “It’s probably just too soon since Mr. Simmons to get married again.”

“Fifteen years?”

With a grunt, she hoists herself upright and sits Indian-style on her bed. “Fifteen short years. It seems like only yesterday . . .” Her voice trails off as her mind wanders to some bittersweet place. “I don’t know, Katie.” She rights the out-of-place strands of hair. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

I smile. “Just give it some time. Pray about it.” Whoa, that sounded weird coming from my lips. Pray about it? I sound like a real Christian. “At least Sam isn’t hanging out with old girlfriends or anything.”

Maxine lounges back against the wall. “Like Charlie, huh? That rascal. Well, you show him what he’s missing tonight, sweet pea. You get all dolled up and smokin’ hot, and he’ll forget about Chancey . . . Shirley . . . Cheesy . . .”

“Chelsea. Her name is Chelsea. I don’t know that he’s capable of forgetting her. And I suspect he doesn’t want to.”

Maxine stands up and rubs her hands. “I guess you’ll have to convince him otherwise.” She winks. “Come on. Let’s do hair.”

And like a willing — yet desperate — victim, I follow my foster grandmother into the bathroom.

“HAVE I MENTIONED YOU LOOK great tonight?” Charlie opens the door to the Valiant, and I walk through, unable to contain my triumphant smile. His eyes again sweep my red and white retro sundress. And even though he’s probably oblivious to the finer details like my cool fifties-style headband and my red ballet flats, I know he appreciates the total package.

“Thanks.” He holds out his arm, and I loop mine through it, always excited to be amongst the buzz of the theatre crowd, but especially pumped to be spending alone time with this boy-wonder. “You’re looking quite fetching yourself.” Tonight he wears a crisp pair of khakis, just lightly faded, and a blue long-sleeve button-down, his cuffs rolled
up to reveal his muscular forearms.

I bask in my happiness, blocking out all thoughts of my mom. Of leaving. Of Millie’s cancer. Of Sam and Maxine. And of She Whose Name I Will Not Utter Tonight. I wave and toss out hellos to towns-people I know and to fellow Valiant regulars like me. I pretend all is perfect in the world, and imagine behind everyone’s smile they think to themselves,
What a lovely couple. How lucky they are. Oh, to be that girl.

Across the lobby I spot James and Millie and throw up my hand in greeting. They are in their Sunday finest for the opening night of the musical. The theatre is like their baby, and I’ve grown to love it as much as they do. It’s so much a part of us. Of me. I can’t imagine leaving it.

No, not gonna to think like that. Not this evening.

I lean into Charlie and breathe. Because tonight I’m this pretty boy’s girl, and I’m going to sweet-talk him into some popcorn.

Fifteen minutes later the lights flicker, signaling it’s time to make our way in.

“I hope you got us good seats.” I grin up at my date and make a grab for the tickets. “Wow, box seats. My favorite.” But pricey. The seats that hang out over the sides in their own suspended box are reportedly where the In Between elite would sit. The dignitaries and old money of the town. And it’s rumored Charlie Chaplin himself once sat in one of the boxes.

“Love to make you smile,” Charlie says. And for a moment our eyes lock and everything stills. He moves in like he’s going to kiss me.

“Oh, excuse me.” A rotund man in a three-piece suit invades our space and our seconds of possibilities. The spell is broken.

Charlie takes a step back. “After you.” His hand at my back guides me up the stairs and to our seats, where we have a bird’s-eye view of the stage and all the theatre.

We sit down, smiling at those around us. His arm nestles next to mine on the armrest as the lights go down, and the opening chords of “The Hills Are Alive” trill from the orchestra pit. Chills race up and
down my spine, and I sit up straighter, not wanting to miss a single thing when the curtains rise. There is no greater time in a play than the moment the curtains lift, revealing the first scene. There’s no feeling like it. It’s when everything comes together, and this whole world opens up right before your eyes.

“This’d better be good.” Charlie’s voice teases my ear, bringing me back to reality, where I realize his hand has slipped over mine. He gives it a squeeze.

I sit back, relaxing into my seat as Maria sings to her hills. I scan the faces of the audience in the glow of the stage lights. Looking back, I see the four seats behind us are empty. “That’s odd,” I say, my voice low. “Millie said the show was a sell out. I wonder why our box is half full?”

Maybe it’s a trick of the light, but I think I see something flash in Charlie’s eyes. He moves toward my ear as the singer’s volume rises.

I shake my head, unable to hear him. He opens his mouth again, but my hand on his shoulder stops his words. “Thank you.” I beam, and my eyes travel to the stage and back to him. “Thank you for tonight.”

His teeth look even whiter in the darkness of the theatre as his mouth spreads into a warm smile. Charlie rubs his thumb over my hand, then lifts his arm. I lean in so he can wrap —

My head jerks behind me as people shuffle into the empty seats, and I catch a whiff of a familiar citrusy perfume.

I twist all the way around in my seat, dread seeping through my body.

Chelsea Blake.

I swallow hard and face forward, pulling my hands into my lap and scooting as far away from Charlie as my seat will allow.

I think I hear him whisper my name, but between the blasting trumpets and the roar in my head, I can’t be sure. I’m suddenly grateful I didn’t e-mail Mr. Diamatti’s grandson and cancel his Friday night appearance. Bring on Mr. Italian Beefcake. If I even go to Charlie’s party, that is.

Chelsea leans down, her face between us. “Hey, guys.” She smacks her gum, and it’s everything I can do not to grab her long blonde hair and pull her over the seats and onto the floor. “Charlie, thanks for the tickets. My dad really appreciates the night out.”

I turn my head where she is not in my peripheral vision and focus on the stage. I would bawl, but it’s just not worth it.

He can have her.

But he can’t have both of us.

At the end of the play, Captain Von Trapp holds his Maria close, and together, with the children, they sing. One couple finally reunited.

And another . . . definitely over.

Chapter eight

DING-DONG!

My stomach does the rumba, followed by a quick cha-cha.

He’s here. Brian Diamatti, aka Joey Farmer, is here.

God, forgive me. I know this is dishonest. But what could I do? Frances opened this can of worms.

I jump off my bed and race downstairs. I have to get to the door before James or Millie. I mean, they know he’s coming. Well, that is, they know I’m riding to the party with Frances, Nash, and a
friend
. If they don’t meet this friend, though, then they won’t ask questions like, “Is this a double date? I thought you liked Charlie — why are you taking a boy to his birthday party?”

After Tuesday night, I ignored Charlie for the rest of the week. He texted me and tried to talk to me at school, but I just shut him down. I don’t even want to know. Don’t care.

But if Brian is as cute in person as he is in the picture, then it will be a good dose of “in your face” for Charlie.

Halfway down the stairs, I hear the door open and Maxine’s voice.

“Why . . . hello, young man.”

I halt at the bottom step.

“Do come in.” Maxine’s voice takes on an odd airy quality. He must really be something to look at. “My granddaughter will be down shortly.”

I’m torn between savoring the moment of Maxine calling me her granddaughter — like I’m the real deal — and charging into the living room before she continues talking and says something embarrassing like, “Katie still secretly watches
Hannah Montana
.” Or “She has yet to pass all of her driver’s test, but third time’s a charm!”

I ease into the kitchen and head toward the foyer.

Can’t wait to see what my Date of Duplicity looks like.

“So . . . you’re Italian?” I frown at Maxine’s odd tone.

“Yes,” a voice replies in a high-pitched squeak.
Aw
, how cute, he’s nervous.

“Do you know George Clooney? I hear he has a villa in Italy.”

I roll my eyes and round the corner, bringing my date into view.

“I don’t live in Italy. My grandfather is Ital — Oh, hello. You must be Katie.”

And unfortunately . . . I am.

My feet freeze to the floor. The room spins and tilts around me as imminent doom closes in. Doom as in “Luke, I am your father.” Or doom as in the time I presented my book report with my pants unzipped.

Doom as in Jesus take me
now
.

“Um . . .” My palms sweat. “Hi?”

Before me stands Brian Diamatti, in all his five-foot, double chin, two hundred and fifty pound glory. Dark eyes squint behind glasses as thick as a car windshield.

He steps forward and grabs my hand to shake. “Nice to meet you in person.”

My tongue, heavy in my mouth, refuses to move. I can only stare.

Seriously, God, I’d like to order up one big Rapture. Or maybe one ticket just for me to the Pearly Gates because I’m looking at phase one of my own dating apocalypse right now.

I look down a full ten inches at this perspiring boy, and take my hand back. “Uh . . . uh . . . nice to . . . meet you.”
Forgive me for lying. Sooo lying.
“I’m crazy, er, I mean Katie! I’m Katie.”

He tosses his head back and laughs, the noise coming out in nasally honks. His lips part, revealing oversized teeth held together by shiny braces and crisscrossing rubber bands.

My eyes laser into Maxine, who for once in her life appears to be speechless. I could strangle her. But what did I expect? I can’t be mad at her for her part in something already so corrupt. I have no one but myself to blame.

You’re totally laughing right now, aren’t you, God? Great. Thanks. Glad to give you this Holy Knee Slapper moment.

Maxine clears her throat, her blue eyes still wide as bike tires. “So . . . young man . . . you’re Antonio Diamatti’s grandson?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Maxine steps closer. “Are you sure?”

He runs a small hand through his orange hair, not-so-artfully parted down the center. “Last time I checked Papa Diamatti was my grandfather, yeah.” He giggles.

Silence hangs as Maxine and I both stare and nod.

Nod and stare.

I look at her.

Help me!

She looks at me.

I don’t do miracles.

Maxine clasps her hands behind her back and pastes on a smile. “I’ve seen pictures of your brothers, Brian. You don’t . . . er . . . that is to say . . .”

“Oh, you mean we don’t look alike. Is that what you’re getting at?”

Maxine jumps on this. “Yes! Exactly.”

“Yeah, my nose is a bit smaller than my brothers’, but other than that, we might as well be triplets.” More snorts. “Which is wild because I was adopted from Canada.”

Maxine’s mouth falls.

Brian throws up his hands. “Shocking, I know.”

I nod. “Totally. Unbelievable.”

Somewhere there has to be a camera on me. Am I on
America’s Funniest Home Videos
? A YouTube prank?

This cannot be real.

“Well, um . . . I guess you should be going.” Maxine jerks her head toward the back door where, just beyond, James and Millie work in the yard.

I swallow hard. “You know, I don’t feel so well. I’ve been trying to fight it all day, not wanting to miss this opportunity to spend time with you, but there’s this tickling in my throat and — ”

Brian grabs my hand and sticks a warm cough drop in my palm. “Probably your allergies.” He sniffs loudly. “I’ve been having lots of drainage too.”

There is no way on God’s green earth I am walking out that door with this boy.

“Katie, tonight means so much to me.”

I can hardly find my voice. “It does?”

“See . . . my precious Felicity died last week.” He bows his head. “Killed tragically by an out-of-control car.”

I suck in my breath, shame roiling through my body.

“She was my everything. I never thought I’d be so lucky that God would bring me together with someone like her.”

“
Ohh
, Brian. I am
so
sorry.” You have no idea
how
sorry.