Instead of looking horrified or bursting into tears or doing any of the things Molly most feared a teenage girl might do upon hearing her father was seeing a woman other than her mother, Katie Hartwell laughed and dropped into the visitor’s chair opposite Molly’s.
“Ha, I knew it,” she said, letting her legs dangle over the arm of the chair. “So where are we going for dinner?”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Molly
WELCOME TO SNAPPETTES MOTHER/DAUGHTER NIGHT!
Snappette Mothers Dancing with Their Snappette Daughters
–Admission $15–
–All proceeds go to support the Snappettes Dance Team–
Saturday Night @ 8 pm
Little Bridge High School Auditorium
–Go Snappers!–
Feeling nervous, Molly chose to save a row in the middle of the auditorium—not too close, but not too far back, either—for all the friends she had who’d bought tickets but hadn’t yet arrived. Draping the long scarf she’d worn—on which was printed images of books, of course—across the row so everyone would know the seats were taken, she selected the aisle seat for herself, so she could make a quick escape to the lobby or to the stage, just in case . . . well, just in case.
Molly had never before considered the importance of being able to make a quick escape from a theater—or of sitting with her back to the wall of a restaurant, and not the window or door. But these were all things that were becoming second nature to her now that she was in a relationship with a lawman.
She seemed to know more than half the people in the audience, and they recognized her, as well, waving to her as they sat down. Molly waved back. She was beginning to appreciate how nice it was to be the only children’s librarian in a small town—and the sheriff’s girlfriend.
“Scoot,” Henry said as he appeared at the end of the row holding two bags of popcorn. He had no appreciation of Molly’s role as the town’s only children’s librarian, or the sheriff’s girlfriend. “If you’re going to hog the aisle seat, you have to be prepared to move over for everyone else.”
Molly twisted in her seat so that Henry could move past her. “How crowded was it out in the lobby?” she asked anxiously.
“Packed.” Henry moved her scarf and plopped down into the seat beside her. “The whole town is here, practically.”
“Oh, God.” Molly took the bag he offered her and began to shove the overly salted popcorn into her mouth. “What if he’s terrible?”
“You and Katie have been rehearsing with him for like what, twelve weeks?” Henry rolled his eyes. “He can’t possibly be terrible. And even if he is, isn’t that kind of the point? He’s the comic relief.”
“I don’t want him to be the comic relief! The girls and I want him to be good.”
“I’m glad you became a librarian, because you have no understanding of theater whatsoever.”
“Who has no understanding of theater whatsoever?” Patrick O’Brian and his husband, Bill, were standing at the end of Molly’s row, dressed, as usual, to the nines. Patrick was holding a bouquet of roses. Molly’s stomach lurched.
“Oh, no,” she said. “Who are those for?”
“Your honey bunch,” he said. “To celebrate his dramatic debut. Scooch over so we can get in. Or did you drape that scarf across those seats for someone else?”
“They’re for you guys.” Molly stood up to allow them to squeeze past her. “But please don’t give those roses to John in front of everybody. It’s the girls everyone should be celebrating, not him. The girls and their moms have worked really hard on this show. John’s only in one number, they’re in six.”
“Oh, sweetie.” Bill smirked at her as he went by. “John’s the one getting these. Especially if he wears a Snappettes uniform. He is wearing one, isn’t he?”
Molly looked heavenward. Everyone had been asking her about the Snappettes uniform, and if John was wearing one.
“You’ll have to wait and see,” she said, giving her standard reply.
“Well, he’d better. The entire reason this place is so crowded is because people want to see their elected sheriff wear a tiny pleated skirt.”
“Well, that is sexist and wrong,” Molly said. “You people are supposed to be here to support the Snappettes, not to see your sheriff in drag.”
“Honey, we’re multifaceted. We can do both.”
“You guys need to stop.”
“Is he still proposing to you, at least?” Bill asked.
Molly stared at him. “Why on earth would he do that?”
“Because of the song.” Bill sang a snippet of “Single Ladies,” including the part about how if you liked it, then you should put a ring on it. “Rumor has it that after the song, he’s going to come down off the stage and propose to you, with a ring and everything.”
Henry barked with laughter at Molly’s suddenly crimson face while Patrick took the opportunity to punch his husband in the shoulder.
“What?” Molly cried, completely mortified. “That is not going to happen. Who told you that?”
“It’s all over the Little Bridge Island Facebook community page,” Bill said, while Patrick punched him again.
“It’s not,” Patrick said quickly. “Molly, it’s not.”
“I hadn’t heard that,” Henry said, indignantly. “But then, I only go on Insta.”
“It’s not true,” Molly said. How could it be true? She and John didn’t keep anything secret from each other. Of course they’d talked about marriage, but only jokingly. And he would never propose to her in such a public manner. He’d know how much she’d hate that. “We’ve only been seeing each other for a few months.”
“Uh, almost four months,” Henry corrected her. “But I agree, it’s too soon.” He glared at Patrick and Bill. “Guys, it’s too soon.”
“Well, personally, I think it would be adorable,” Patrick said. “And I think that left hand of hers is calling out for a nice six-pronged square-cut two-carat diamond solitaire with a platinum band—”
“Would you please stop?” Molly begged.
“Molly!”
Hearing her name, she looked across the auditorium and saw Mrs. Tifton—her dog, Daisy, in her arms—waving to her. She was sitting with Phyllis Robinette and a number of her other friends from her yoga class in a special reserved section—reserved because Mrs. Tifton, upon learning of Katie and the Snappettes through Molly, had become a major donor to the dance team.
Major? She’d basically paid for the team’s choreography and uniforms for the next five years.
Molly waved back, hoping the widow didn’t mind too much that she’d declined her invitation to sit with her. Mrs. Tifton’s seats were so close to the stage that Molly feared John would think she was sitting there to coach him through his routine.
Or, now that Molly had heard the latest rumor about the two of them—and, Little Bridge being such a small town, there’d already been several, including one that she was carrying his twins, though that had been the day she’d worn an empire-waisted blouse to work, a mistake she’d not make again—that she was sitting there so she’d be in easy proximity to accept his proposal.
The lights flickered, giving them the five-minute warning that the show was about to start. Molly looked around, the butterflies in her stomach feeling as if they’d turned to elephants. “Where’s Meschelle?”
Henry glanced around the auditorium. “There she is. Meschelle!” he shouted, and waved at the journalist. “Over here! We saved you a seat!”
Meschelle sauntered over, carrying another one of her colorful bags, this one covered in real seashells. “Thank you for screaming my name in front of everyone,” she said to Henry when she reached them. “I so appreciate that.”
“Oh, you love it,” said Henry.
“You’re not covering this for the paper, are you?” Molly asked Meschelle uneasily, since she saw that Meschelle had her phone in her hand.
“Why wouldn’t I? It’s a total feel-good story. People love this kind of stuff.”
Molly’s heart lurched. Surely Meschelle meant only the performance, not anything she might have seen on Facebook.
“Yes,” Molly said, “but don’t you think John’s been in the news enough lately?”
“For what?” Meschelle was arranging her enormous tote neatly at her feet. “That High School Thief stuff was ages ago.”
“Yes, but what about the baby thing? And reuniting her with her mother?”
“Again, ages ago, Molly. I don’t think you understand how quickly news cycles turn over.”
“Speaking of the baby thing.” Henry pointed to two women coming down the far aisle of the auditorium. “Isn’t that her? Tabitha whatever-her-name-is?”
Molly craned her neck to look and was pleased to see that it really was Tabitha, looking happy, glowing and healthy, baby Cosette strapped snugly to her chest in a sling. Behind her trailed Mrs. Brighton, looking a little less happy, but nevertheless better than the last time Molly had seen her, at Story Time in the new library. She’d traded her sweater set and boots for an expensive designer shift, boho-chic jewelry, and sandals.