Stars for the Star - 1. Chapter 1

"Cold enough for ya, Beau?"

God, I hate that question. And my co-workers just love to ask, especially when it snows hard.

"Yes, George, it's plenty cold enough, thanks." Hell, even the studs in my ear were cold. I dug in my pocket for my keys to the building. George and I usually opened up the office in the morning.

"Didn't get snow like this in Louisiana, did you?"

"We never even knew what street snow lived on," I responded grimly. God, it was cold.

"So what the hell did you move to Ashtabula, Ohio, for?"

I found the key, and managed to insert it into the lock. "I wanted to see the world."

The tumblers grudgingly clicked and yielded, and we could get into the warmth. Finally. I could hear the faint sounds of dogs barking. The offices of Animal Angels Adoption Center were now open. The volunteer staff had been here much earlier, checking, cleaning and feeding.

"If this keeps up, you won't see much except snowbanks," George asserted, stamping off his boots.

"Y'all know I won't see anything but fundraising letters for the next month."

"It's that most wonderful time of the year."

"Please, George, don't you start." I hung up my coat. I liked George. But I didn't need him trying to dose me with seasonal cheerfulness.

"What? It's Christmas. Have a little holiday spirit."

"When we get a chance to breathe, I'll try to remember that."

"Hey, hey, it's just a workday, right?"

I paused for a moment. "Sorry, George. I had a long night last night." George was basically a pretty good guy. If George didn't actually enjoy torturing me with his native climate, I might have been more attracted to him. Not that anything would have come of it. Maybe in another time, and another life.

Not his fault my Thursday evening had turned shitty.

"Out partying in the big city?"

I ignored that. Who parties in a place like Ashtabula in December? I wasn't going to tell George about my nightmares. "Hey, I'm going to put on some coffee. You want some?"

"Yeah, thanks, Beau. I'm going to need it. Dress rehearsal tonight."

"Good luck with that."

"You're coming, right?"

"Of course I'm coming. It's the biggest fundraising event for the Center this year. If I don't, Adrienne will kill me."

George looked at me with appealing eyes over the coffee maker. "You mean Madame Director has more pull over you than I do?"

"She signs my paycheck." I shrugged. "I'll go, but dinner theater and murder mysteries just aren't my thing, really."

I moved over to my desk in the cramped office space. The place was a crowded confusion of files, sticky notes, and lists of items awaiting action. Most square footage in the building went to vets, volunteers and the poor, abandoned animals waiting for a home. Unlike the County shelter, Animal Angels was privately funded, and ethically run. It was a place I naturally gravitated to after I'd fled Lafayette almost a year ago. After Robert.

Not a moment later, the outer door swung open, admitting a blast of arctic air and a few stray snowflakes. God, don't these Yankees know anything about keeping the heat inside on a cold day?

"Morning, y'all!" Adrienne had arrived. "How are you boys doin' this peachy morning?"

I winced. Adrienne could not fake a southern accent if her life depended on it.

"Hey, Adrienne," George and I both chorused. At least George had learned how to greet people right. Hey, not Hi.

"Y'all ready for rehearsal tonight, George?"

"Yes'm, Miss Adrienne," answered George, attempting his own version of the dialect. At least his result was better than hers. "Murder at Mangrove Plantation will be jus' fine."

I sighed, and tried very hard to block out the noise. There was no way I could deal with the sound of their faux Southern banter in my ears all day. "I've gotten thirty-nine seats at the VIP tables sold," I interrupted, hoping to distract them.

"Why, honey, that's fabulous," Adrienne cooed. She and George both had parts in the play. I guess she felt the need to stay in character.

"You should have tried out," George told me for probably the eight hundredth time.

"Sorry, George. My acting skills are terrible. The drama teacher in high school called me a block of wood."

"But such a nice block of wood," he grinned back at me.

I smiled a little and turned away. It's hard not to at least smile at George; his face is naturally cheerful and kind. "Sure, sure. Whatever."

Adrienne and George chatted a while longer about the performance and dress rehearsal. I tried very hard to concentrate on my own work – I knew I should be calling big donors, asking them to come to the dinner, reminding them of the end-of-year tax benefits awaiting them, and on and on. The scrawl on my list indicated I had thank-you letters to write after my phone calls were complete. And then there was a final phone conversation with the caterer to be managed.

Still, snatches of their conversation penetrated my brain. "…I searched everywhere for the right dress. …It's so hard having to come up with your own costume...did you try the Veteran's Consignment Shop?...found some white shoes…"

George and Adrienne nattered away. I wondered if they were planning on doing any actual work – although I suppose I shouldn't have grudged them their conversation. It isn't every weekend you put on an amateur play, done pretty much from scratch.

The two of them didn't notice the front door open about an hour after the start of business, but I sure did. A breeze straight from the tundra entered my workspace.

A dark-coated figure stamped off his feet on the mat and tried to shake the snow from his sleeves and gloves. Pink cheeks, blond hair and bright blue eyes contrasted nicely with a deep maroon scarf.

Something definitely pinged, and it wasn't just my brain. I stood.

"Hi, is this where I come to adopt a dog?" A pleasant voice.

I put on my best smile. "Y'all've come to the right place," I told the newcomer.

"Oooh, you're not from around here!"

"Umm, yeah. You noticed."

"You're from down south?"

Okay. So this guy was tall and cute, but he was either rubbing my face in my accent, or not very smart. "Yes, sir. Louisiana." I thought maybe I'd save him the trouble of asking.

"So, is it cold enough here for ya?"

I held my tongue for a second. "Plenty cold, thanks."

"Anyway, I was here about a dog."

"Right. You'll probably want to talk to George." I swiveled in his direction – time for him to do some work, anyway. "Hey, George. There's a man here for an adoption."

George stepped over to the desk – there wasn't room for a counter or anything in that space – and put on his best grin. "How can I help?"

"Well, good morning!" Bright blue eyes flashed at George as dark-coat held out his hand. "I'm Harold Nordsen, and I'm looking for a dog."

I blinked. Harold Nordsen? As in Nordsen Industries? They manufactured replacement doors and windows, employed two hundred sixteen people. Yes, I did my research on local VIP's.

"George Dempsey." I watched them shake hands. I could have sworn the contact lasted a millisecond too long.

I felt my eyebrows furrow. Harold Nordsen was definitely flirting with George.

"Great, I'm glad you're here," I heard my colleague continue. "Let's go through to the holding areas and we'll find your new best friend."

My eyes involuntarily narrowed, and my gaze followed the pair through the door to the rest of the facility. I wasn't jealous, was I?

"Something wrong, Beau honey?" Adrienne asked, distracting my attention.

"No, nothing."

"You didn't get any of the Nordsens to take a ticket to the VIP table, did you?"

"No."

"And you're kicking yourself because you didn't."

That really wasn’t why I was annoyed, but I played along. "Well, that family must be worth a small fortune. I mean, their payroll…"

"Beau, I know you did your research thoroughly. And Harry Nordsen isn't a bad guy. But the Nordsens, and especially Walter, the father, are about as uncharitable a bunch of Scrooges as you'll find this side of Charles Dickens. They weren't ever going to give us a dime."

"Oh. I see." I was silent for a moment. "So what's Harold Nordsen doing here?"

"Maybe he wants a dog."

"Uh, huh. Right." Maybe Harold Nordsen wanted a dog. Instead, he'd certainly latched onto George. Friendly, kind, gentle George. My George.

"Don't worry about the last spot at the VIP tables. I can always find someone to upgrade tomorrow night."

I turned back to my lists and phone calls.

But later, when George and Harold Nordsen burst through the holding area door, their laughter derailed my concentration as surely as an explosion. "Oh, he's absolutely perfect.” The he in question wriggled against a dark coat; that coat was already partly covered in light brown dog hair. I tried to hide a smile. Harold held a Jack Russell mixed with something dark; he was going to have his hands full.

"He does seem to like you," George commented, as the tall, angular scion of the Nordsen clan tried to tame his new companion. "There's just a few papers for you to sign."

"Papers?"

"Right." George handed him the usual sheets. "You certify that you have a veterinarian, that your home has a size appropriate for this dog, that you have sufficient income to support an animal, and that you have no history of animal abuse, neglect or cruelty."

"All that?" The tone was a little uncertain. Then the smile was back, plus a little chuckle. "Well of course I've got the house and the income covered."

"I'm sure you do."

"And I can get a vet appointment, I guess. I don't have a record, gosh. So is that all?"

"Yes. You sign, here and here." George pointed, and smiled.

Like me, Harold Nordsen was helpless in the presence of that smile. An expensive pen was flourished, uncapped, and the sound of a scribbled signature could be heard.

"And then here. Aaaaand here," George continued, his grin growing broader. "And then there's the adoption fee."

"How much is it?" A furrow creased the blond man's brow.

This is the question I hate answering. I always hesitate.

"Five hundred fifty dollars," George said, not missing a beat.

"Five hundred dollars?"

"Well, sure, Harold. Think about it – we've already given this dog a thorough vet's consultation, he's been neutered, had all his shots and vaccines, plus we've fed and housed him for two months – you're getting a bargain."

"Yeah, but…" Nordsen smiled wide, and put his hand on George's. "Couldn't we come to some kind of arrangement?"

I saw their eyes connect. Inside, I seethed. It was one thing to be George's friend, to feel I could trust those deep brown eyes. But sharing? And with that specimen? Ugh. The little dog in the blond man's arms needed a home, though. And if George wanted Harold Nordsen, well, that just reminded me not to expect anything good from life.

I looked away. This wasn't Robert telling me he really wanted the twink he'd been fucking on the side for months. This was George, who was not even slightly interested in me at all. Not that I'd ever really given him any reason to be.

"I suppose we could," I heard George continue. "We're having a major fundraising event tomorrow night. It's a dinner theater mystery thing. There's one spot left at one of the VIP tables…" The words hung there.

"Will you be there?"

"I'm in the play. I'll definitely be there." Dammit, I could hear the smile in George's voice.

"And you want a donation, of course."

"Yup. Tax-deductible, too."

"Oh, I get it. Gosh, that's a smart idea."

Golly, Harold was quick, wasn't he? Well, not that quick. It took him a whole thirty seconds to get out his checkbook.

"How about a fifteen-hundred-dollar donation? You can write off most of that, and you get some great dinner theater? And I'll waive the adoption fee for you."

"Hmmm. I don't know…how about twelve hundred?"

"That's fine." No hesitation on George's part.

I signed the thank-you card I was writing little savagely. I was hating myself at that moment. Hating that I was so awkward; hating that George so easily filled the last spot that I was supposed to have taken care of; hating that I had such difficulty asking for money in person. In print, I could say anything, ask for the moon. But not face-to-face. Most of all, I hated that if George wanted another guy, it wasn't me.

I did not watch George usher Harold Nordsen out.

Adrienne went out just before noon – she was getting her hair done for the play – so it was just George and me in the office at lunchtime.

"Hey, Beau, I was thinking maybe I'd get something. How about that new Vietnamese place over on State?"

"No, thanks."

"You sure? It'll be my treat."

"That's okay, George. I'm good." I kept my head down, and continued working on my stack of donor letters. I wasn't going to be caught out by that smile again. And maybe I was just a little petulant.

"You sure you're going to be all right on your own?"

"Of course, I'll be fine. Y'all think I need a guardian?"

George took his time putting on his coat. "Well. If you're sure."

"Go on, George. The place ain't gonna fall down jus' 'cause I'm here."

There was a quick wave of cold air, and then he was gone. I sighed. I hoped that I'd be able to get some work done, free from interruption and drama.

How wrong that proved to be.

George and Adrienne were both still out when the phone rang perhaps forty-five minutes later.

"Animal Angels Adoption Center," I spoke into the phone, trying to cradle the old-fashioned handset between my ear and shoulder while I worked, "how can I help you?"

"I need to speak to Adrienne Richardson, please." The voice on the other end of the line seemed tired and rather raspy.

"Adrienne is out of the office right now, can I take a message?"

"Would you tell her Eldridge Montfort called? I'm terribly sorry, but she's going to need…" the speaker was interrupted by a loud fit of coughing. "…just, not this time."

"I'm sorry? I kind of missed that."

"Adrienne can call me back, if she thinks it's important." Mr. Montfort sounded vague.

I frowned, trying to recall the significance of the name. He was a regular donor, that I knew. "Does she have your number, Eldridge?"

"Yes. She should have it. But just in case…" Mr. Montfort was taken by his cough again. "Just in case, let me give it to you again…"

I scribbled down the number, and circled it twice. Then I put a big star next to it, so I'd remember.

"I've got the message now, Mr. Montfort. Hope you shake that cold of yours," I added.

"Well, it's a damn shame, but…" he coughed again, "…it can't be helped. At my age, I can't…" and there was more coughing.

"That's okay, Mr. Montfort. I'll make sure Adrienne gets the message."

I hung up the phone, and got back to work. Or tried to.

George breezed in a few minutes later – literally. The cold wind sent a couple of stray papers sailing off my desk. "Hey, Beau. I brought you something. Vietnamese shrimp fried rice."

"I told you I was fine."

"C'mon, you know you're hungry."

I made the mistake of looking up from my work to see George smiling. And the smell from the Styrofoam container was definitely spicy and inviting. Damn George and that smile of his. I grabbed the container out of his hand.

"Thanks," I muttered.

"No problem. Any major catastrophes while I was gone?"

"No, pretty quiet. Just a phone call from an Eldridge Montfort for Adrienne."

The conversation seemed to stall. "What did he want?" There was an unmistakable edge in George's voice.

"I couldn't tell. Mr. Montfort was saying he was sorry for something, but he's got a pretty bad cough – he had a really tough time speaking."

"When was this call?"

"About ten minutes ago." I took a large forkful of fried rice. God, it was good – maybe I should have gone out for lunch after all.

"And what exactly did he say?"

I hated to frustrate poor George, but I had to chew and swallow before I could reply. "He said he was sorry, but not this time." I tried to replay the conversation in my mind.

"Damn it! I knew this would happen!"

I don't believe I'd ever seen George so angry before that moment. Or heard him swear, for that matter.

"What's the problem, George?"

"Montfort is crapping out on us again. He did this to us last year, too!"

"Did what?" Sometimes, I can be very dense.

"Last year, Eldridge Montfort signed up to play a part in the dinner theater fundraiser. He had an important supporting role. The week before the event, he calls and cancels, claiming a death of a distant cousin or something. What he really had was cold feet."

"How do you know he chickened out?"

"Eldridge was spotted the day of the dinner, touring the sculpture gallery at the Cleveland Museum of Art."

"What did you do?"

"We had a week. We went to the theater department at Kent State, and begged for someone to come help. We managed."

"But why did he sign up again this year? And why did anyone let him?" I took another bite. The fried rice was disappearing fast.

"Adrienne wants him involved. Eldridge is a major donor; you know that. He loves to be part of things, to be part of the group. Since he lost his wife a few years ago, he's lonely. The trouble is, he gets terrible stage fright. Incredible jitters."

"Couldn't he do props or stage managing or…"

"No – that kind of thing belongs to Rachel Sweeney. It's been her job for years."

"Oh. So what did…"

"At least this year, we thought we were doing a clever thing." George cut me off. "We gave him the role of the Gardener. It's a part with just a few lines, though he has some important action. Damn."

Once again, the polar blast invaded the office as Adrienne returned, newly coiffed.

"Why, George, honey, I do declare, whatever is the matter?" Had she kept up that awful impression of a southern accent all through her hair appointment? God help her stylist.

"Eldridge Montfort called."

"Oh, God, no. Don't tell me." Suddenly, Adrienne's voice was transported back to the Midwest in an instant. "What did he say this time?"

"I don't know. Ask Beau; he took the message."

Adrienne turned to face me.

"He just said he was sorry, and that he just couldn't this year. It sounded like he has a bad cold, too."

"Oh, I bet he does," Adrienne said, lips tight.

"He left his phone number," I offered.

"I've got it. I'll go call him."

Adrienne stomped into her tiny office and shut the door.

George sat in his chair with a thump and a creak.

I turned back to my notes and lists. I felt bad for Adrienne and George. They'd been working on this thing for months. But they must have devised some kind of backup plan, especially after what happened last year. Somebody would have done that, right?

I let out a long breath to clear my head. If I worked without dramatic interruptions and regular cold fronts coming across my desk, I still had hopes of getting my tasks and mailings finished by the end of the day. I did my best to tune out the sound of Adrienne's voice emanating from behind the wretched old imitation wood. The real money around Angel Adoption was spent on the animals, not the administration, that's for sure.

A few minutes later, Adrienne emerged. "Well, that was useless. Eldridge really does sound sick. He must be a great actor, after all." Her tone was dejected.

"Hey, hey, it'll work out," George said, standing.

"That's right," I chipped in without looking away from the current note I was writing. "It's not like he had a big part or anything."

"But this is impossibly short notice. And it has to be great – we want to generate donations and memberships, not chase people away." Adrienne seemed on the edge of tears.

"You'll find someone," I reassured her, not thinking of what I was saying. "You did it last year, and the part you need to fill is has a little action and a few lines. Isn't that right, George?"

George didn't immediately support me, so I put my pen down and swiveled in my chair. He and Adrienne were exchanging an impenetrable sort of look.

I blinked.

"Yes. Yes, that's right." George agreed. He turned to me. "But I don't think we'll have to look very far to find someone to take Eldridge Montfort's part."

Oh, hell. A slow, irresistible smile was spreading across his face. I was so screwed.

 

Dress rehearsal that night was like something out of my nightmares. I still have this one every so often – I'm on stage in a huge theater; lights so bright, I can't see the audience, but I know there are thousands out there – and I have no idea what play I'm in, no idea what my lines are, and I haven't been to a single rehearsal. I'm frozen on the stage, unable to speak. Ugh.

How in God's name did I let myself get roped into this?

It wasn't Adrienne's wheedling, or her promises of a new space heater for the office. No, it was George. George and that damn smile of his. It's a gift I don't have, but George, he can appeal, plead, convince and charm you all in one facial package.

And I like George, damn him.

At least he was right about the number of lines. Adrienne handed me a script right away, and I pored over it. I had precisely seven lines, two of which were "Yes, Ma'am." She let me spend the rest of the afternoon trying to memorize my scenes.

But I still felt incredibly out of place amongst all the volunteer actors at St. Paul's Church in downtown Ashtabula, where the play was being staged in the parish hall. I followed George inside after parking next to his car.

"Remind me why we're doing this event here?" I asked my companion – no, my lifeline – as I unzipped and peeled off my layers.

"Adrienne knows someone here, and Animal Angel Adoption can rent the space for next to nothing."

I nodded. "Cheap is good. Almost as good as free."

The set was absolutely minimalist – just a few bits of furniture and props to suggest each scene.

George pointed out the the director, a tall willowy blond with a determined look on her face. "Gail's a hot shot from the Hannah Theater in Cleveland. She really knows what she's doing.

"Great. Just what I need; a professional. Don't tell me not to worry."

I barely remember that rehearsal. I've tried to blot it out of my memory. I recall the director's voice more than my own, which sounded shaky. I had no idea where I was supposed to be on the tiny area that was marked out to be our stage. I just know that when I got out my first line, "Mrs. Claiborne, them roses ain't in bloom," everyone burst out laughing.

I didn't get the joke. Maybe they were expecting Eldridge Montfort's voice. Or was it my accent?

About the only thing good about the rehearsal is that George was nearby, constantly showing me where I needed to be, or what I was supposed to be doing, helping me make notes in the script.

"You'll have to bring in a set of garden shears tomorrow," he hissed to me at the beginning of the second act. "Everyone has to provide his own props."

I looked confused, so George leaned over and pointed out my next scene. "There. See that? McManus enters, carrying shears. That's you."

I had missed seeing it. , What I did see was that, George was very, very near to me. I had a quick closeup of the smooth skin on his neck and the stubble on his chin; his unique George scent lingered after he'd straightened up again.

We were in the next scene together. His character was supposed to be having a late night tryst in the garden shed with the air-headed daughter of the plantation; mine was creeping about, scared to death of a possible murderer hanging around the grounds. Of course, we back into each other in the staged darkness, frightening one another for a comedic moment. I was scared enough for the both of us, anyhow.

I backed and backed, but managed to miss George completely on the first try. Things went downhill from there, but at least I remembered my lines. Yes, Ma'am.

"Jesus," I muttered to George when it was all over, "I'm just glad we're done for tonight. You've been doing this for how many weeks?"

"Twelve," he whispered back, while Gail the Director reminded us of key points to fix for our one and only performance.

"Remember, everyone needs to be here by four o'clock tomorrow," the director lectured us before letting us all go home. "Arrive with your costumes and props all ready! Don't be late! The show starts at six, with main characters in costume mingling in the crowd for drinks. Dinner will be served to guests at six thirty, and the show starts at six forty-five."

Great. I had less than twenty-four hours to stew over this, assemble a costume of some kind, and obtain a set of garden shears. Where the hell was I going to find garden shears in December? How was I going to sleep?

But the next day at four, I was back at St. Paul's. I met George in the changing area which someone had rigged up in one of Sunday School classrooms.

"Hey, look what I got," I brandished a large brown shopping bag. "I braved a howling snowstorm this morning and went to the Goodwill Store. I got a costume."

"Snowstorm? We just had a couple of flurries," George teased.

I didn't take the bait. "And look at this: real garden shears!" I was unreasonably pleased at the old, worn tool I'd found at the back of the thrift store.

"Nice to have a break in the weather," the cashier had joked. At least, I hoped she was joking.

I extracted my purchases from the bag and changed into my worn Gardener's outfit quickly; I didn't give George a chance to notice. Fortunately, he was distracted by the bow tie he was attempting to tie around his collar. Once attired, I could watch him struggle at my leisure.

Honestly, can't Yankees put on clothes at all?

With an exasperated sigh, George dropped his hands.

"You need help with that?" I couldn't help asking.

"Yes, please."

I stepped up behind him. I reached around to his front and took the ends of the tie. Oh, sweet Jesus, he was close. It would have been very easy to embrace him right then, but a very bad idea. "Sorry, George, I'm not trying to invade your personal space here. You're just taller than me, and it's…easier to do this from…this angle."

If there was one thing my grandfather had taught me, it was how to tie a bow tie. This, I could do.

George stood quite still while I did the sartorial deed. "There. Now turn around."

Suddenly, I was looking up into George's eyes. Deep, brown, full of life and joy. For just one moment, I allowed myself to wonder whether any of that could be shared with me.

Then the door opened, someone else came in to change.

I reached up and adjusted the bright red tie. "That's perfect. You'll steal the show."

On the other hand, by six o'clock, I was a perfect mess.

Some thoughtful soul had provided some supper for the actors – but I couldn't touch any of it. It's not like he had a big part or anything; just a few lines. I heard my own voice laughing at me.

Robert would have laughed at me, too. He always did.

I watched the main characters mingle with the guests and patrons before the dinner actually started. Of course, Harold Nordsen and George were in deep conversation near the bar. I frowned and looked away. Yes, Robert would definitely be laughing.

But the play itself went better than dress rehearsal – I messed up an entrance, but nobody seemed to care. My first line seemed as hilarious to the audience as it had to the cast the night before.

After the first act, George beamed at me. "Having fun?"

I actually thought about it. I wasn't quite as paralyzed as before. "Yeah. Maybe, George." I sounded grudging, but I grinned back at him.

George smiled even more widely. "I knew it."

Our garden shed scene went better, too. We backed, we bumped, we whirled around in mock surprise – and I found myself face-to-face with George. His face was so full of animation and delight – I froze for a moment. I dropped my garden shears with a clatter, while the audience laughed.

"Don't kill me!" George quavered in character.

Kill you? I'd rather kiss you. Suddenly, I remembered I had a line. "Mr. LaGrange, is that you? What are you doing with one of my prize roses?"

"It's just a flower!"

The play was on again.

Between the second and third acts we were supposed to go out and mingle with the crowd, get them to speculate on who was picking off minor characters.

Even though I stood off to one side, Harold Nordsen found me.

"Oh, I never guessed this would be so much fun," he enthused.

"Me neither." I had to agree.

"Where's George?"

"Haven't seen him," I lied. I could see him fine, directly across the room, in conversation with a group of grey haired ladies.

"Oh, that's too bad. Have you been acting long?"

"Only for an hour or so," I wisecracked. It was almost true. "So how do you know George?"

"I don't actually know him, but I know about him. We have some mutual friends. He and I go to some of the same events and parties."

"Old Ashtabula families and all that?" It was the old money network.

"Kind of."

"But you're not big friends."

"Not yet. But he helped me pick out the cutest little dog yesterday."

"I saw."

"Oh, were you there?"

"I sure was."

"I hope I chose the right one," Harold confided, sidling very close. "George seemed to like him."

Even though the room was warm, I felt chilly. Harold wanted George; and George probably wanted Harold. They matched; I didn't.

"I'm sure you did fine." On the other hand, my elation was fast evaporating.

The lights flashed on and off. Time for the final act.

It was a mercy I had little to do in it, except bring in a bunch of roses and hand them off to the Detective character, with a "Yes, Ma'am. I mean, Yessir."

And then I was done.

Except that I had to march out with the rest of the cast, join hands, and take a bow to the cheers of the audience. At least they appeared to have a good time. Hopefully, they'd be generous, too.

Afterwards, there was a crush of people, all trying to congratulate the cast members, or trying to start cleaning up, or just trying to get out of the building. I got cornered by a wide gentleman with a flushed face, who congratulated me on my accent.

"You did the best characterization, young man. Did you study in college?"

"No, sir. I just work in the back office."

"But where did you get that fine southern accent?"

"I was born there. Louisiana."

"Oh, that's incredible! Really? What are you doing here?"

"I moved here almost a year ago. For a job." And because it was as far from home as I could get without going to Alaska.

"Cold enough here for ya?"

"Plenty." I tried to smile for him as I excused myself. He could be a big donor, after all.

I got busy in helping to take the set and tables down, in doing kitchen cleanup, and anything else I could do that didn't involve conversation or thinking about George and Harold Nordsen.

In the end, the building was emptying out when I made my way back to the dressing room. Nobody from the cast was left. There had been some talk of an after party.

I changed and stuffed my things back in my shopping bag. I shouldered my way into my fleece and overcoat. But in the sleeve of my coat, I found something – a little box – maybe about the size of an index card, with ribbon tied around it.

I shook it – no clue what was inside. Curious now, I pulled on the ribbon, and opened the box. It was full of confetti stars; the shiny kind that reflect the light. There must have been a thousand of them, or so it seemed.

Also inside was a little note, written in a hand I could not identify. "Stars for the Star," it read. "You're wonderful."

I blinked. Stars for the Star. Somebody was a secret admirer. Pfft. Somebody must have been dreaming. Who would have done that? Adrienne, maybe. Had to be. I smiled. It was a very nice gesture.

I replaced the note and put the cover on the box. I'd take it back to my tiny apartment, where the stars would escape and find their way into odd nooks and crannies over the next few months, reminding me of my moment on the stage.

The cold hit me hard going through the big glass doors to the outside. The sky had cleared, which meant the temperature was going to plummet. I walked over to my car.

A figure stood waiting there.

"What are you doing here, George?"

"Nice night out," he observed.

"Are you kidding? We're gonna freeze to death."

He looked up at the sky. My gaze followed his. Even with the lights of the city, I could see brilliant constellations overhead.

"No, we won't. They're out for you, you know."

"What?"

"The stars. They're the stars for the star." George sidled up closer to me. Very close. Suddenly, it wasn't the night sky I saw, but his eyes. "You're wonderful," he breathed, just before he kissed me.

And then I couldn't think about anything.

Our lips parted; we had to breathe. George smiled, and so did I.

"Warm enough for ya?" he asked.

"Oh, yes."

I kissed him back.