Page 14 of The Cul-de-Sac War

“Not a clue.”

“Who was there looking at it?”

“Some man.” Bree would not say his name. She would not admit out loud that she had remembered his name when he had so flippantly looked her in the eye with that quizzical do-I-know-you? expression and said that horrible word, “Becca?”

Evie took a step toward her. “What kind of man?”

“Well, after a surprising turn of events, I’d say a terrible-human-being kind of man.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Are you helpful in any way at all?”

Bree pointed her toothpick toward the ceiling. “I told him not to drown your chickens.”

Evie’s eyes dropped to Bree’s dress. “And what happened to my dress?”

Bree glanced down to her skirt, where the coffee stains had most definitely dried. Oops. “Oh. I’ll, uh, throw this in the wash the second I get home.”

Evie glared.

Bree lifted a finger, trying to remember Evie’s previous lectures. “But only after putting dish soap on to spot-clean—”

“Vinegar. And you’ll do no such thing. When you get home, hand it over to me.”

Evie huffed with Scarlett O’Hara indignity before lifting her piles of skirt and turning. With some difficulty and a rigid jab, she pushed the side door open. “Spot-clean with dish soap,” she muttered. “Leave it to me to sort everything out . . .”

“Bye, honey!” Bree called, watching Evie and the perma-stormy cloud above her head disappear. “I’ll miss you too!”

“Sort out what?” Stephen, the stage manager, slid up to the cheese tray, his gaze focused on the lobster toasts.

Bree picked up another toothpick of cheese and tomato. “Oh, just a little hiccup at the house. You know, town water supply streaming in. Gallons of water flooding the yard. Same old, same old.”

“Well, good for you two,” Stephen said, shoveling a fifth lobster toast onto his plate. “I admire the dedication you have to making your living situation work.”

And by living situation he meant the fact that after her stepgrandmother’s funeral, the family discovered Nana’s beloved live-in caretaker was to inherit 30 percent of Nana’s home. Another 30 percent went to Bree, and the remaining 40 percent (plus most of the furnishings) went to Bree’s stepfather. At the writing of the will, Bree and her parents lived three hours away in Gatlinburg. Nana had clearly assumed the three would either sell the home and split the profit or let Evie buy them out. Most shocking of all was that Nana had imagined Bree could ever let Nana’s place—her special place—go. The second the will was read to Bree, she stood up and declared, “I’ll take it.”

Almost as quickly, Evie said the same thing.

So here they were, four months later.

At a stalemate.

“Now as for your act tonight,” Stephen said, shifting to face Bree. The thin, bald man settled into his sternest frown and dropped his voice an octave. “If I catch you breaking character to make googly eyes with someone in the audience again, you’re out. You understand? This isn’t some high-school musical production here. If you can’t act like a professional, you won’t stand up there.”

Bree swallowed. She wanted to defend herself against his accusation. She wanted to say, Hey now, I do more than just “stand up there.” I lounge too.

Then again, he did hold the key to her salary.

“Yes, sir.”

“Good.” Stephen turned his attention to the deviled eggs. He dropped a couple onto his plate. “And lose the makeup. There’s a time to be in character, and there’s a time not to be in character. This time’s the latter.”

In character.

In character?

In . . .

She dropped her toothpick on the bone china plate and touched her cheek. Her fingers came back mossy green. Character.