Page 60 of Ardently Yours

We should have been able to bury him and forget about it. First, RealFreedom wanted to dig into the foundation to make the ceilings higher and pour a concrete floor. Then the pipes froze last winter, broke, and flooded down there when they thawed, turning the dirt floor to mud, once more igniting the debate about updating the basement floor. Not to mention my terror that all that water would somehow make Polford’s body rise to the surface.

Then Greg Wilson and his cronies became relentless in their quest to install a hydraulic lift down there. Every time I think I’ve convinced them to let it go, he’s back at it, coming from another angle.

It never ends. I live with constant fear of discovery every single day.

We should have tossed him in the river. The theater was not the “safe” choice I’d hoped it would be.

Rochelle waves her hand. “Wasn’t the paint on that backdrop all cracked and ruined anyway? It was garbage. Someone probably tossed it in the dumpster years ago.”

Jen straightens, her eyebrows coming down hard in her “Scary Stage Manager” look. “Nobody throws away a backdrop without talking to me, first.”

I look down at the fabric and pretend to be absorbed in positioning the selvage.

Maureen and Jen continue out the door, still muttering about the missing canvas.

Bronnie heaves her shoulders, then wanders back to peer over the top of the green laminate island. When she reaches for a tomato-shaped pincushion, I move it farther back. “Why don’t you draw on the chalkboard?”

She squeals with joy, then darts across the room to the green board on the wall.

I shoot Rochelle a stressed glance. “Should we be worried?”

“People have claimed this place was haunted for as long as the building has existed. You heard her. Every theater has one.”

“You looked freaked out,” I say.

“Momentary loss of common sense.” Rochelle’s lips twitch before she turns serious. “You know Arden is right. You don’t have to stay here. Besides, you have to show Phyllis,” she sneers the woman’s name, “that she’s full of it.”

I pause in the act of pinning a Victorian nightshirt pattern to the ivory cotton and shoot her a frustrated look. “I have to stay and act as liaison with RealFreedom.”

“I’ll keep an eye on the theater.” Rochelle widens her eyes. “Ifanything happensthat I need you for, I’ll call you.”

“If Arden and I were together, the press would poke around because the chick who lives in the single-wide trailer is dating a McRae.” I stab a pin into the paper and fabric to secure it. “They’ll start out calling it a feel-good piece, then, before you know it, I’m either ‘pathetic’ or a ‘gold-digger.’”

“Who cares what they say?” she asks.

Another pin slides into place. “After they interview people in town about me, they’ll plaster the old news about the assault all over the national news. Every job I ever have, every person I meet”—another pin—“will view me through that lens, just like the townies. When the reporters realize the guy who did it has been missing for more than four years”—pin—“they’ll dig even deeper trying to come up with a connection.”

Rochelle’s brow furrows in sympathy. “Reporters suck. It’d be hard for a while, but you don’t have to read the papers or turn on the TV. And it was five years between what he did and when he disappeared. The press won’t find anything suspicious, and they’ll move on because they’ll decide”—she shrugs—“it was acrazy coincidence.”

“If I hadn’t been here to act as a go-between for the theater and RealFreedom, Greg would have gotten his way and installed that stupid hydraulic lift. Why can’t RealFreedom be terrible landlords who neglect this building? It’s practically a full-time job to stay ahead of their generosity.”

Rochelle rips at another seam in the old blazer we’re going to repurpose into a Tiny Tim costume. “You could see if I could take over as the liaison. Then you can go on your way, and I’ll be here to keep an eye on things.”

I accidentally poke myself in the thumb with a straight pin and suck away the sting. “What if the members decide to vote on it, and you don’t win?”

“Let’s sneak in the switch and announce it as a done-deal.”

This conversation is dangerous. “It wouldn’t be too much for you?”

Rochelle scoffs. “It doesn’t make sense for you to be the one carrying this load. You're the one with a hot guy waiting in the wings out of state. I’m not going anywhere. It may as well be me.”

I want to believe I could walk away so badly it hurts. “I don’t know.”

“Or”—Rochelle raises her eyebrows—“we could go with Plan B.”

I shake my head. “Nonononono. Plan B is a bad idea.”

“Plan B would mean we could stop worrying all the time,” she says.

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