“It is. I sell pottery and candles,” Eva mentioned. She leaned closer to Kitty, voice dropping just enough to be private. “You should come by the rink later to meet the other instructors. See if it feels like something you might want to do.”
Kitty hesitated. “I don’t want to overcommit.”
Eva nodded knowingly. “You won’t know until you find out what it all entails. Mostly it’s a part time position anyways unless it’s time to train for the ice carnival.”
“I’ll come to get more information but no promises,” Kitty said finally.
“That’s all I’m asking,” Eva replied, clearly pleased.
By the time the last table was in place, the square had been transformed for tomorrow morning’s market. People lingered, chatting, already imagining what it would be like when the event opened. Kitty stood for a moment, hands on her hips, surveying the space with a look that was equal parts exhaustion and satisfaction.
“You did good,” I complimented, stepping up beside her.
“We did,” she corrected.
“Thank you,” I softly said.
She turned to me with a slightly confused look. “For what?”
“For not asking me to be someone else,” I mentioned as I took hold of her hand.
She smiled. “I wouldn’t know how.”
Chapter Twenty: Opportunities
Kitty
By the time I unlocked the community center doors for rehearsal, I had convinced myself this might actually go smoothly.
I stood just inside the entryway with my clipboard pressed to my chest, scanning the empty room like it might confess its intentions if I looked hard enough. Rows of folding chairs were stacked neatly along one wall. The stage lights were off, the curtain closed. The room smelled faintly of lemon cleaner and old wood, which felt promising.
I exhaled and flipped to the schedule I had spent the better part of the night revising. Every act had a slot. Every slot had a buffer so that if anything went wrong we had time to adjust. Every buffer assumed people would show up on time and read instructions.
“Good morning,” Marjorie said brightly, appearing at my elbow with a paper cup of coffee. “We’re early.”
“That’s a good sign,” I said, choosing optimism.
She nodded. “I always say the early ones are the reliable ones.”
Mr. Humphreys shuffled in behind her, coat still buttoned, hat still on his head. He waved vaguely at the room and took a seat in the front row.
“Morning,” he said, then closed his eyes.
“Is he asleep?” I wondered.
“Oh, he’s listening,” Marjorie assured me. “He does that.”
I shook my head and moved toward the stage to test the microphone. The sound system hummed obligingly when I flipped it on, which felt like a personal victory. Caleb had made sure everything was good this morning before he opened the music shop. I was glad that he was reliable.
People poured in like the rehearsal had been advertised as a social event instead of a logistics check. Someone dragged in a keyboard on wheels. Another person appeared with a cello nearly as tall as they were. A man in a sequined jacket asked where the dressing room was. There was no dressing room.
I took a breath and smiled.
“Welcome,” I said, raising my voice slightly. “If you could all check in with me first—”
A woman with a clipboard of her own cut in front of me. “We’re the tap dancers. We’ll need the full stage.”
I glanced down at my schedule. “You’re slotted for this afternoon.”
