Page 23 of Just Beachy

“Try that again, please. And try not to make it look as if the container and scooper are difficult to use.”

“Right. Sorry.” I roll my shoulders, take a deep cleansing breath, and plaster a smile on my face.

On cue, I dig the scooper into the carton. But the scooper gets stuck, and when I finally jerk it out of the carton, the block of vanilla is way too big to fit into the sundae bowl. I freeze (okay, pun intended) while I try to figure out whether to attempt to cram it in anyway. Or break off part of the chunk. Or—

“Cut!”

“Sorry.” I manage to keep my smile in place. “Can we try that one more time? I’m sure I can…” I swipe at the hair that keeps falling in my eyes, only to realize I shouldn’t have used the hand holding the scooper to do it. I reach up with my other hand and feel the ice cream in my hair, which I dyed a chestnut brown last night in hopes of disguising my normally blond self.

“I’m sorry, but I don’t think this is going to work,” the casting director says.

“Oh, but I can definitely do better…” Because let’s face it, that’s not exactly a high bar at this point.

“That’s all right. I think we’re clear on how you come across on camera,” she says. “And honestly, even if you could manage to scoop the ice cream better or pretend tocook in a convincing way, I don’t see how we can cast Cassie Everheart, who is still supposed to be in rehab, for a national grocery chain. And how would we handle the whole wine-pairing scenario we offer for each dinner recipe?”

I don’t bother to point out that I’m an actress (though not an impressive one today) andnotthe fictional character I played for the last five years because, really, shouldn’t that go without saying?

On principle, I hold my head high as I leave, even though it makes vanilla ice cream dribble down my forehead.

In the parking lot I check to see whether I still have time to make it to the dinner theater audition for a musical version ofRomeo and Juliet. After all, I’m an actress, not a pitch person. And I’m pretty sure I sing better than I cook.

• • •

“Goodness, what happenedto you?” Grand asks as I drag myself into the town house late that afternoon and plop down on her sofa.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, your hair is an odd shade of brown and there are sticky clumps in it.” Her smile is sympathetic. “You look like you’ve been through the ringer.”

Damn.I guess that explains why the casting director at the dinner theater not only couldn’t see the former Cassie Everheart singing and dancing when she was supposed to be in rehab, but never actually looked me in the eye.

“I went on a couple of auditions. One of them involved scooping ice cream, which is apparently not my forte.”

“Is it still Tonja Kay that’s the problem?” Grand asks quietly.

“I intentionally stayed away from film companies and anyone doing a SAG-AFTRA production that might be afraid of her. But even without her in the picture, I’m apparently way too closely identified with the character I played.” I shake my head woefully. “People look at me and see Cassie. And as far as they’re concerned, I’m either still in, or just got out of, rehab.”

To her credit, Grand doesn’t smile or laugh. “I’m sure things will improve, and that reaction will fade with time.” She gives me a comforting hug. “Why don’t you go take a nice hot shower and maybe wash the color and ice cream out of your hair? I’ll order us some Thai food for dinner.”

Twelve

Once the garage and itsbonus room are secured, Grand and I clean her studio from top to bottom. Then we set up her easel and put everything back in place. Just as we’re finishing, Myra shows up with homemade blueberry muffins still warm from the oven.

“Ummm, those smell delicious.” I pop a large piece of muffin into my mouth and chew it slowly. “Oh my God, they taste even better than they smell.”

Myra smiles. “I’m so glad you like them. It’s nice to have someone to bake for.”

After Myra leaves with promises of future baked goods to come, Grand and I linger over our coffees and share another one of Myra’s muffins, which could be a catchy name if she ever decided to market them.

“So what do you think the thieves were looking for?” I ask Grand between bites.

“I have absolutely no idea,” she replies. “There’s really nothing of value in my studio. Only the canvas I just started working on. And my wedding china. Obviously, I don’t feel good about intruders of any kind, but I can’t see how this could be anything but random. Like I said, bored teenagers out creating mischief.”

“But doesn’t it feel odd that yours was the only place targeted?” I ask as I push my empty plate away.

“I don’t know, Sydney. I have no idea what’s going on.” Grand says this quite forcefully but doesn’t quite meet my eyes.

“Well, if nothing else, having an alarm system should certainly be a deterrent in the future,” I add.

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