a long strand of hair back behind her ear. The gesture was tender, and Lindsey felt her insides melt.
“Because he isn’t good enough for you and you’ll just get hurt,” Sully said.
Lindsey blew out a breath and stepped back. She felt as if she’d been doused with a bucket of cold water. Was it really that hard for him to tell her how he felt? Maybe he didn’t really feel the same way she felt. Maybe he was over their brief relationship and he was really just looking out for her as a friend. The thought was depressing.
“Don’t worry about me,” she said as she turned away. “I’ve been hurt before and I always bounce back.”
Sully didn’t come after her.
• • •
T he donkey head was proving to be more difficult than Lindsey had anticipated. It did not help that she was not the craftiest person in the world. She had decided to make the donkey’s head like a visor that Brian could wear on top of his head and then she would paint it gray and attach a matching cloth that could hang from the back of the mask as if it was the donkey’s neck.
She was working at a table in the back of the theater while the actors rehearsed onstage. Mary and Nancy had brought two sewing machines, and they were zipping away at the costumes while Lindsey’s fingers were covered in clumps of cold paste and soggy strips of newspaper. Bits of newspaper and paste coated the table and her clothes and, she suspected that there were clumps of it in her hair.
“Ah!” She tried to shake a particularly tenacious bit of newspaper off of her hand. It clung like a burr. She tried to use her other hand to pull it off, but all she managed to get were little bits of newsprint. It was maddening.
She muttered a few colorful curses under her breath and tried to wipe the paper off, but it just adhered to her other hand.
“Blech; I hate this stuff!” she said. She scraped her hands on the edge of the table, feeling at her wits’ end.
“Are you all right, Ms. Norris?” Dylan asked as he stopped on his way past the table.
Lindsey noted he was standing a safe four feet away. Smart kid.
“Papier-mâché does not like me,” she said. “Which is fine, because I don’t like it, either.”
Dylan smiled and gestured to the woman beside him. “My mom is a whiz with that stuff; maybe she can help you.”
Lindsey glanced at the woman beside him. “Hi, Joanie, how are you?”
“Fine,” Joanie Peet said, barely sparing Lindsey a glance.
Lindsey thought Robbie Vine might have been onto something when he said if a woman says she’s fine, she is anything but. Dylan gave his mother a concerned glance, and sent Lindsey an apologetic look.
“Can we go now, Dylan?” Joanie asked. She sounded irritated. “I am very disappointed that I had to go backstage to find you. You know you are only here to rehearse and then leave. There is to be no lingering or loitering.”
Lindsey frowned. She’d gotten to know Joanie Peet when she hired Dylan as a page. Joanie was usually quick with a smile, a kind word or a helping hand. She was always first on the list for the newest Debbie Macomber books, and she doted on Dylan, who was her only child.
Maybe she was a little too involved in Dylan’s life, but Lindsey knew it was because Dylan was frequently ill and she needed to monitor his health very carefully. Lindsey could only imagine how stressful that was for Joanie and her husband, Tim.
“I’m sorry, Mom,” Dylan said. “But don’t you want to stay and watch awhile?”
“No. I told you how I felt about your participation in this play,” Joanie said. “The late hours, the stress, it just can’t be good for you. I don’t know why you had to go against my wishes. If you get sick, you have no one to blame but yourself.”
“Mom, it’s my senior year of high school, and I’m graduating at the top of my class. I just wanted to do something fun for a change,” he said.
“But that woman, Violet La Rue, have you heard what they say
“Because he isn’t good enough for you and you’ll just get hurt,” Sully said.
Lindsey blew out a breath and stepped back. She felt as if she’d been doused with a bucket of cold water. Was it really that hard for him to tell her how he felt? Maybe he didn’t really feel the same way she felt. Maybe he was over their brief relationship and he was really just looking out for her as a friend. The thought was depressing.
“Don’t worry about me,” she said as she turned away. “I’ve been hurt before and I always bounce back.”
Sully didn’t come after her.
• • •
T he donkey head was proving to be more difficult than Lindsey had anticipated. It did not help that she was not the craftiest person in the world. She had decided to make the donkey’s head like a visor that Brian could wear on top of his head and then she would paint it gray and attach a matching cloth that could hang from the back of the mask as if it was the donkey’s neck.
She was working at a table in the back of the theater while the actors rehearsed onstage. Mary and Nancy had brought two sewing machines, and they were zipping away at the costumes while Lindsey’s fingers were covered in clumps of cold paste and soggy strips of newspaper. Bits of newspaper and paste coated the table and her clothes and, she suspected that there were clumps of it in her hair.
“Ah!” She tried to shake a particularly tenacious bit of newspaper off of her hand. It clung like a burr. She tried to use her other hand to pull it off, but all she managed to get were little bits of newsprint. It was maddening.
She muttered a few colorful curses under her breath and tried to wipe the paper off, but it just adhered to her other hand.
“Blech; I hate this stuff!” she said. She scraped her hands on the edge of the table, feeling at her wits’ end.
“Are you all right, Ms. Norris?” Dylan asked as he stopped on his way past the table.
Lindsey noted he was standing a safe four feet away. Smart kid.
“Papier-mâché does not like me,” she said. “Which is fine, because I don’t like it, either.”
Dylan smiled and gestured to the woman beside him. “My mom is a whiz with that stuff; maybe she can help you.”
Lindsey glanced at the woman beside him. “Hi, Joanie, how are you?”
“Fine,” Joanie Peet said, barely sparing Lindsey a glance.
Lindsey thought Robbie Vine might have been onto something when he said if a woman says she’s fine, she is anything but. Dylan gave his mother a concerned glance, and sent Lindsey an apologetic look.
“Can we go now, Dylan?” Joanie asked. She sounded irritated. “I am very disappointed that I had to go backstage to find you. You know you are only here to rehearse and then leave. There is to be no lingering or loitering.”
Lindsey frowned. She’d gotten to know Joanie Peet when she hired Dylan as a page. Joanie was usually quick with a smile, a kind word or a helping hand. She was always first on the list for the newest Debbie Macomber books, and she doted on Dylan, who was her only child.
Maybe she was a little too involved in Dylan’s life, but Lindsey knew it was because Dylan was frequently ill and she needed to monitor his health very carefully. Lindsey could only imagine how stressful that was for Joanie and her husband, Tim.
“I’m sorry, Mom,” Dylan said. “But don’t you want to stay and watch awhile?”
“No. I told you how I felt about your participation in this play,” Joanie said. “The late hours, the stress, it just can’t be good for you. I don’t know why you had to go against my wishes. If you get sick, you have no one to blame but yourself.”
“Mom, it’s my senior year of high school, and I’m graduating at the top of my class. I just wanted to do something fun for a change,” he said.
“But that woman, Violet La Rue, have you heard what they say
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