Page 70 of The Oscar Escape
“I haven’t been slapped with mandatory community service.”
Dammit, the man had a point.
“Listen, Aria,” Oscar began gently, “I’m assuming the most influential people on the island are on the fall festival committee. Play nice,” he finished as they came around the bend, and the schoolhouse came into view.
She mimicked zipping her lips, then caught her reflection in one of the schoolhouse’s windows. It had her doing a double take. She hardly recognized herself without a stitch of makeup, and her hair loose and wavy like how she wore it as a teenager. She blinked and caught movement inside the structure. She sharpened her gaze as a woman walked past the window. Tall, slim, and with her dark hair piled in a bun, Aria froze as the mystery woman disappeared from view. Did she recognize the lady? No, she must be mistaken. Who the hell would she know on Havenmatch Island?
Oscar tapped her shoulder. “Did you see something in the schoolhouse?”
She could feel him watching her. She took a few steps to get a better look inside and frowned. “It’s not a schoolhouse. I don’t see any desks or chalkboards. It looks like a small theater. There’s a stage. And instruments.” She could see a line of violins, violas, and cellos from where she was standing. There were also racks with brass instruments and a shelf lined with small rectangular music cases—probably flutes or piccolos. “It’s more of a performing arts hall.” She eyed her fake husband. “Have you been inside before?”
“No, I’ve seen it from afar. That old picture we saw in the lighthouse said this place was an artist’s retreat.” He frowned at her.
“What?” she pressed.
“What happened to zipping your lips?” he asked with a headmaster vibe.
She cemented her lips together.
Oscar leaned forward and shielded his eyes. “I see the judge is in there. The last thing we need is the guy adding more time to your community service sentence. Best behavior. Agreed?”
She was about to nod, but the door swung open.
Del emerged from the building and waved them in.
The man had circles under his eyes and a coffee stain on his sweatshirt.
“Thanks for making lunch, Oscar. We could use the break and a good meal.”
“No problem. Aria helped.”
Del didn’t crack a grin, but he nodded in her direction. At least it was something.
And what did she do? Playing the mute sous chef, she smiled—with her lips closed, of course.
As they entered the schoolhouse, she tossed a wily look at Oscar. Utilizing her eyeball communication skills, she eyeball told him that she could absolutely follow instructions and play the quiet game all day long if she had to.
Oscar nodded, but the man’s shoulders nearly touched his ears from the tension in his body.
She’d have to show him. But that didn’t mean she couldn’t eavesdrop on the group and figure out what had Del riddled with stress. She surveyed the room, spied the instruments, then set her sights on the occupants. Eight frowning senior citizens gathered around a folding table by the stage. It was littered with multiple copies of the flyer she’d seen tacked to the kiosk.
She’d have to play this so Oscar didn’t think she was up to something. She pulled a cup from her bag, smiled sweetly, then pointed to the jug of lemonade in his hand.
“Good idea,” he answered. “I’ll plate the sandwiches, and you can get everyone going with drinks.”
Like a community service rock star, she poured cups of lemonade while scoping out the joint. She recognized Etta, Judge Harpswell, and Roberta and Margo, the chocolate shop ladies. Three older men and another woman she vaguely recalled from her sham trial rounded out the group.
“What exactly did the tourism board tell you, Etta?” the judge asked.
Etta deflated into her chair. “This is our last shot to show them that Havenmatch Island’s Love and Lobsters Festival can generate revenue. Otherwise, we’re done. The board will remove us from the list of approved festivals. That’s it. We’ve failed those who have come before us.”
Roberta twisted a salt-and-pepper-colored curl. “How many tickets have we sold?”
Etta sifted through a pile of papers, then cringed. “Fourteen.”
Aria nearly dropped a cup of lemonade in the judge’s lap.
Fourteen tickets for an island festival. That was abysmal.
