Picture This (12 page)

Niall cast a desperate look at his intended route up the side street and thought about making a break for it, but Audra was already dragging him down the block. He sighed. If spending an hour or so in the company of Audra and Cousin Robin was what it took to gain some insight into Celia, it was a small price to pay. That and a couple of vodka tonics, of course. No big deal.

C
elia sat cross-legged on the old area rug in the middle of the living room, leaning close to the oscillating fan. When it rotated toward her, she groaned into it just to hear her voice wobble.

“Ah, you used to do that all the time as a kid,” her grandmother said as she ambled into the room. “ ‘Luke, I am your father,' ” she droned in a pretty good approximation of the Sith Lord.

As the older woman dropped into her favorite chair, Celia grumbled, “It's so hot in here. Why is it so hot at this time of night?”

“Well, kid, it is July in the Northeast. There's nothing different about the season, or this house. Must be you. Too much central air in the big city, I'll bet.” Her grandmother winked at her when she rolled her eyes. “And you know there's only one remedy for it.”

“You're getting an air conditioner?” she guessed hopefully as she pulled her ponytail off her neck. The underside of her hair was damp.

Her grandmother chuckled. “I'm too old to need that much cold air. But I am not too old,” she added, standing up again, “to make it to Bedelia's for Front Porch Frozen Margaritas. Let's go!”

“What—
now
?” Celia exclaimed. “Gran, shouldn't you be in bed?”

With a dismissive snort, the older woman said, “I can sleep when I'm dead. But I hear you can't take your margaritas with you. So let's go!”

“But—”

“Did I not make myself clear?” Gran demanded, fists on her hips. “This is nonnegotiable. Up you get. Come on!”

“Gran, it's really not a good idea. You're—”

“I'm what, girlie? Old?”

“Well, you're not young.”

“You're right. Don't make me waste whatever time I've got left. And any time without a margarita is time wasted. Let's go!”

Celia smiled even as she shook her head at her grandmother. Holland Leigh certainly wasn't like most octogenarians, that was for sure. She stood ramrod straight, her chin high, as though she were daring someone to challenge her—about anything. Like she was defying the whole world, all the time. She still dyed her hair a fascinating shade of ginger, painted her nails and toenails—usually bright red—and never left the house without makeup. It wasn't to conceal her wrinkles, though, of which there should have been many more for someone her age.

That phrase got used a lot when people talked about Holly: very active
for someone her age
. Very healthy
for someone her age
. When she thought about her own future, Celia hoped she took after her mother's side of the family, because then she knew she'd have a fair chance of roaring into old age on all cylinders instead of doddering in like most seniors; Holly was living proof of that. Her grandmother ran rings around her, despite their nearly fifty-year age gap—getting up earlier, staying up later, going out with her friends. There was even talk of a boyfriend! (Could he be called a boyfriend if he hadn't seen boyhood in quite a few decades?) Celia wasn't surprised Holly had flat out refused to leave her home to move into a senior living community—it'd cramp her style. Celia hadn't discussed the issue with her grandmother yet. For now, she decided, she'd just be observant and see how, exactly, Gran was failing. And how much. If she was failing at all. So far Celia hadn't seen any evidence of it. What if her parents had been imagining things?

“Chop chop!”

Gran was already out the front door, not waiting for Celia to follow, so Celia found her flats and raced across the humidity-drenched lawn to Bedelia's house next door.

Holly still beat her granddaughter up the wide wooden steps to exclaim, “I get the good seat!” and promptly plopped herself on the cushioned swing suspended from the porch beams.

“There should be room for two on that, Gran.”

“I don't share.” She stretched her legs across the swing, staking her claim. Celia sighed and took a rocker in front of the living room window while Holly bellowed, “Bedelia! Let's move it with those margaritas!”

“Shut your yap, you alkie,” the homeowner shouted back from the depths of the house. “They're coming.” And within seconds the peaceful night air was rent by the sound of ice and alcohol being beaten to slush in what Celia knew was an ancient silver and black Osterizer.

Holly tipped her head back. “Music to my ears.”

“Gran, don't you think you should take better care of yourself?”

Her head came back up and she fixed a sharp eye on her granddaughter. “Have you been talking with your parents again? I get that from them all the time. ‘Slow down. Cut back on the alcohol. No red meat. No salt.' What's the point? I've had my run. If I get hit by a bus tomorrow, I'm at peace with it.”

“Gran!”

“Oh, don't act like I've shocked you! Sanctity of life, blah blah blah. Sure thing. But once you get to my age, if you get desperate to tack on a few more days—miserable ones at that, by the time you're through denying yourself everything good just to get those days—then you're just being greedy. Ah”—she sighed, her mood lifting as the slam of the wooden screen door announced the arrival of the alcohol—“that's the stuff.”

“Enabler,” Celia accused Bedelia, who just winked at her as she set the pitcher down on a small wooden table.

Bedelia, a textile artist, was almost fifteen years younger than Holly, but she moved more slowly. Her hair was stark white and long, halfway down her back, and she dressed in layers of denim at all times—shirt, jumper, and on cooler days, jean jacket.

“That's me,” she said, handing the first glass to Celia's grandmother, whose very air demanded she be served first. “I need a drink to celebrate anyway—never did get to properly wet the head of our latest yarn bomb last night. Everybody—your mother included—was too much of a wimp to go out afterward.”

“Pussies,” Holly muttered, taking a deep slurp of her margarita.

“Gran!”

“Oh, for the love of . . . If you're going to stay with me for a while, you'd better lighten up. Your strings of pearls can only take so much clutching.”

She and Bedelia cackled at this, while Celia turned her attention to the heavy margarita glass sweating in her hand. She took a sip, her eyes crossing at the strength of the drink, and promptly set her glass down on the table next to the pitcher. If she kept drinking that, she would have to make sure she drew it out over a good, long period of time.

“Nice to have you back for a visit,” Bedelia said, “with your new boyfriend.”

“He's
not
—”

“So when do I get to meet this movie star of yours, hm?” Holly interrupted, draining her glass.

Oh God, that was the last thing she wanted. But she knew it was pretty much inevitable, depending on how long Niall was in town. Just knowing he was out there somewhere, likely already wreaking havoc in her little town, had her worried—and intrigued—wondering what he was up to. She could run into him anytime, anywhere . . .

And there she was thinking about Niall again. She shook herself and reclaimed her margarita. Why was she assuming he'd wreak havoc? Why was she assuming she'd bump into him walking down Main Street or in Marsden Mercantile with an armload of groceries? He'd be busy working with Ray, doing whatever it was his “job” entailed. She'd be busy tending to Gran, and . . .
not
running into him. Was that what she wanted?

As quickly as she'd drifted away, she was pulled back to the present by a text
ping
. She reached for her phone, but it was Bedelia's. The woman pulled her cell out of the front patch pocket on her ubiquitous denim jumper and exclaimed, “Oh, look at that. Quite the party going on down at Beers.”

Bedelia handed the phone to Celia. She saw a raucous-looking selfie of her old friend Audra, Bedelia's niece, along with what appeared to be her cousin Robin's eyeball and spiky black hair, and . . . she felt the few sips of margarita curdle in her stomach. “Good grief, he's at it already.”

“Let me see!” Holly demanded. When she got the phone, she asked, “Who's that?”

“That's Celia's new boyfriend,” Bedelia declared.

“With Audra?” Celia's grandmother raised a suspicious eyebrow.

“He's very . . . social. And he's not my boyfriend,” she tacked on, although neither woman paid any attention.

“Audra's very social as well,” Bedelia added, almost as an apology.

Yep, everyone knew about Audra's “social” tendencies, Celia thought. God help Niall.

“And just why aren't you down there with him, Celia?” her grandmother asked.

Bewildered, she shook her head slowly. “Why would I?”

“Well, if my boyfriend was drinking with some hussy—no offense, Bedelia—”

“None taken. Audra's a hussy if ever there was one.”

“He's
not
—”

Before she could get her denial out yet again, another text alert went off. This time it was her own cell. She sighed. Trust Audra to feel compelled to rub Celia's nose in the news that she'd met a celebrity. Reluctantly, she looked at her phone, bracing herself for a repeat of the photo along with an all-caps text with dozens of exclamation points as Audra trumpeted her news.

There was a photo, all right, but not the same one. At the center, far too close to the camera, was a wide-eyed Niall, or at least most of his face. Filling the rest of the photo was Audra, clinging to him on one side, Robin on the other, her face distorted by a beer mug as she drained the last drops, and dairy farmer Lester Biggs looming over the top like a bug-eyed, freshly bearded angel of death, his head tipped back to reveal every last one of his thousand nose hairs.

The text with the photo was from Niall: Help meeee . . .

Against her will, Celia started to laugh.

 

Beers was absolutely heaving—and on a Sunday night, no less. Stunned, Celia fought her way through the crowd, politely greeting all the townspeople who exclaimed cheerfully at seeing her back in town, until she spotted Niall. He was hard to miss, as he was at least a head taller than anyone surrounding him.

Celia wasn't sure how she was going to get near him. It seemed half the town had piled into the bar; everyone was trying to talk to him, and he was doing his best to accommodate as many people as he could. Then he turned around and locked eyes with her.

His gaze, clear and level, drew her toward him. There was no denying the surge she felt, as though her heart—no, her entire body—was trying to get to him faster than her feet could take her there. Somehow she found her way through the crowd to reach his side. He beamed down at her and winked.

Then, as though someone had flipped a switch, Niall's expression seemed to melt, his body loosen. His eyes swung around the room and he raised his mug, sweeping his arm recklessly in front of him. Some of the people nearby got sloshed with beer, but they didn't seem to mind. They just laughed and stayed close. Audra rose up to whisper in his ear, and he laughed loudly.

Suddenly the warm feeling that had been growing in Celia's chest cooled considerably. What was she doing here? He'd asked her to come, had sent a second text that had said, No, seriously. Help me
.
She'd dashed away from her grandmother and Bedelia and sped to Beers in her grandmother's car, fearing the worst, only to find him having one heck of a time, like he'd completely forgotten he'd begged for her help.

“Celiaaaa!” Niall bellowed, his actor's projection in fine form. He reached for her with his free hand, lurched toward her, and plopped a heavy arm over her shoulders. “Come meet all my friends! These are my friends! Do you know my friends?”

“Yeah,” she said, struggling with the dead weight of his limb pushing her down, although it wasn't quite heavy enough to buckle her knees. “I know your friends.”

“Hi, honey!” Audra squealed, also lurching forward to wrap her in a hug. “Welcome home!” In her ear, she added, in not too quiet a whisper, “I love your boyfriend.”

“He's not—” And then she gave up, too weary to protest anymore. Not like Audra was listening anyway. She was back on Niall, hanging around his neck like a millstone, which added to the weight on Celia, since Niall hadn't let go of her yet.

“Time to gooooo, everyone!” he roared, eliciting protesting groans and shouts from the crowd. “I know, I know. Parting is such sorry sweetness. But all good ends must come to a thing. I know we shall see each other again, perhaps in this very bar, another night!”

A cheer erupted, and dozens of patrons responded with a chorus of “Bananas!”

The strange response had something to do with one of his movies, Celia recalled, but she wasn't about to work very hard to remember which one. She was a little distracted at the moment, after all.

“Miss Celia, my coach, please!”

Hardly knowing why she didn't just peel off his arm and dump him on the floor, Celia summoned her last bit of energy and hauled him toward the door. It was slow going, as every man reached out to shake Niall's hand and every woman wanted to give him a hug and sometimes a kiss on his cheek, but eventually they burst into the heavily humid night air, Niall shouting “I'm okay! I'm okaaaayyy!” repeatedly. The door shut behind them; the street was empty and silent. Celia stumbled with him uphill toward Main, where she'd parked her grandmother's car.

He roared, “I'm okaaayyy!” one more time, then stood up straight, took his arm from her shoulders, and said, quite sedately, “Annnnd . . . scene.”

Celia stopped walking, puzzled. “What?”

“Hi.” Niall was looking at her, clear-eyed, no trace of drunkenness in his speech or his mannerisms. “You came for me.”

“Uh, what just happened?”

“Nothing much. Just the usual smoke and mirrors.” He ran his fingers through his hair, then tugged at his collar. “Phew. Sorry about hanging on you. I must reek. It was so hot in there!”