Page 6 of Every Star that Shines

“Isn’t there anyone else to help? Uncle Roger? Aunt Lily?” Her mother’s other siblings lived too far away, but Roger and Lily both lived in the area. Delanie knew her younger sister, Savannah, wouldn’t be an option—Savannah would have just started her classes, and medical school students couldn’t afford to take time off.

“I’m sure they’ll lend a hand here and there. So if you don’t want to help, I won’t be left in the lurch. I just thought, if you’d be home for a bit, it would be nice to have your company. You’re so good at organizing things, and you probably won’t be as emotionally attached to everything as I will be.”

Delanie tugged on a strand of blond hair, wrapping it around her finger. She didn’t know about that. But it didn’t sound like Cheryl wanted to organize a meet-n-greet. And the thought of doing something tangible and helping to organize the earthly possessions of the woman Delanie loved and admired most in the world held a lot of appeal.

“I’d love to help with that, Mom.”

“You would? Wonderful. Thank you.”

Cheryl started muttering. Delanie heard Savannah’s name, and the names of Cheryl’s siblings, plus the local funeral home, and realized her mother was going through the mental list of people to tell about Nan’s passing. She bit her nail, her eyes filling with tears. How can Nan be dead?

Marie poked her head in the door. Holding her hand up to her ear like a phone, she mouthed Who is it?

My mom, Delanie mouthed back.

What’s wrong? Marie mouthed.

Delanie moved the speaker away from her mouth. “I’ll tell you in a minute,” she whispered.

Marie nodded and held up the brown paper delivery bag, then indicated that she’d be in the living room. Delanie nodded back.

Then her mother said something about Violet and the play.

“What about the play?” Delanie asked before she could stop herself. Nan had been the director of the fall community kids musical in Peace Crossing for as long as Delanie could remember. It was where her own love of acting had begun—that, and listening to Nan’s tales of her glory days on the stage as a young woman, before she gave up her career to marry Delanie’s grandfather and move to Peace Crossing. Since this was the first week of September, the play would have just finished casting. Rehearsals should be starting this weekend.

“Oh, nothing you need to worry about, honey,” Cheryl said. “I just need to remember to let Violet Butler know about Nan. Violet has been the musical director of the play for years now. I don’t know who they’ll find to take over directing the play on such short notice though. It’s a pretty heavy commitment, and not many people have that kind of free time, let alone the expertise or the desire to—”

“I’ll do it,” Delanie said without thinking, then slammed her mouth shut. What was she saying?

“You will?” Cheryl said, her voice filled with delight. “You’ll be here that long? Don’t you have to work?”

Delanie paused. She could probably get her job back at the café if she asked. And just because she’d been fired from Trueheart didn’t mean she couldn’t get other acting work. She was still waiting to hear back from a few auditions.

Who was she kidding? If the studio that had already offered her a series contract didn’t want to be associated with her controversy, why would anyone else? And the last thing she wanted was to go back to the Vintage Café with her tail between her legs and ask for her waitressing job back. The day she’d handed in her apron had felt almost as good as learning she had landed the part of Maryanne.

If she was going to ride this thing out, as Marie advised, what better way to do that than by disappearing for a couple of months? She didn’t have much saved, but she had her Patreon supporter income—assuming she still had any supporters left. Besides, directing the play would be the perfect distraction from her current problems. And maybe getting away from Vancouver would give her the perspective to figure out what to do next.

“No, I can stay for a couple of months. I’ll need a day or two to wrap things up here, but I should be there by Friday. I’ll drive, so you don’t have to worry about picking me up from the airport.” The trip would take two days, or one if she pushed it, but a drive through the Rocky Mountains would be the perfect way to start her mental reset.

“Oh, Delanie, that’s wonderful. I’m sorry the circumstances are so trying, but it will be lovely to have you home. And I’m sure Nan will rest easier knowing you’re the one taking over the play.”

She won’t know. She’s dead. But Delanie didn’t say that. Though she didn’t share her mother’s spiritual beliefs, she couldn’t claim to know what happened to the dead. Let her mother have her comforts—especially as she was obviously reeling a bit from Nan’s death. Besides, Delanie could think of no better way to honour Nan’s memory than by keeping her legacy alive.

“Just one request,” Delanie added.

“What’s that, honey?”

“Don’t tell Caleb’s mother I’m coming home.”

CHAPTER THREE

Caleb Toews pulled up to the worn curb in front of his ex’s yellow split-level bungalow and shifted his Ford pickup into park. His nine-year-old daughter peeked at him through the picture window, holding one gauzy curtain aside, her dark hair tumbling over her shoulders. When Emma saw him, her warm brown eyes lit up and she disappeared. Probably to collect her things.

He shuffled some work orders and a time sheet he still had to submit to the office at Martens Electric from the passenger seat to the clean back bench of the extended cab. Taking a deep breath, he got out of the truck and walked to the front door.

It was a beautiful fall day, with only a hint of crispness in the air. The mountain ash in the front yard had turned bright red, and the aspens lining the bank of the Peace River at the end of the street and climbing the hill behind the subdivision on the other end were a glorious shade of yellow. Autumns in Peace Crossing were often come-and-go events—as in, they had often gone as soon as they had come. But this one had been mild and surprisingly warm, with barely a hint of leaf drop yet, despite the frost a week ago. He hoped that meant they’d see the Indian summer called for by the Farmer’s Almanac—his job was more pleasant when the weather was good.

He rang the bell, and, seconds later, Monica opened it. She looked as beautiful as ever, her dark brown hair framing her perfectly made-up face. He’d once let her pretty blue eyes and pouty rosebud lips get under his skin—much to his everlasting sorrow. But as Emma ran down the stairs to the front landing yelling his name and threw her arms around his waist, he retracted that sentiment. He could never regret having the little girl who was the jewel of his life.

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