She frowned. “This is the afternoon.”
“It’s eight o’clock,” I said gently.
She stared at me, then at her watch. “Well, my watch quit. I thought I was going to be late. That’s inconvenient.”
Behind her, a man in a knit hat cleared his throat. “I need an outlet. And a fog machine.”
“A what?” I asked in disbelief.
“For ambiance.”
I opened my mouth, closed it, and pointed him toward the wall outlets with what I hoped looked like authority. “We have outlets for the show but we don’t have a fog machine.”
The microphone squealed and a woman dragged her child away from it.
Mr. Humphreys startled awake and clapped loudly. “That one was excellent.”
“Thank you,” said a teenager holding a kazoo.
I looked at Marjorie. Marjorie looked delighted.
“Oh, it’s nice to see the community so involved,” she said.
At that exact moment, Lydia swept in wearing a red coat and a smile that suggested she was enjoying herself. “Kitty, this looks fun. Are we ready for the big show?”
“It’s rehearsal,” I replied, already moving her toward the sign-in table. “Did you bring the extra batteries I asked for?”
“I thought you were bringing those.” She blinked at me in surprise.
“I asked you yesterday,” I reminded her.
“Oh,” she said, unbothered. “Then no.”
I closed my eyes for a second. Just one.
“Okay,” I said, opening them again. “New plan. Lydia, you’re on runner duty.”
“Runner duty?” she repeated.
“Yes,” I said. “You run errands. Batteries. Gaffer tape. Extension cords.”
She blinked. “I don’t know what half of those are.”
“You’ll learn by going to the hardware store,” I said, already writing a list. “This is growth.”
She laughed, kissed my cheek, and disappeared out the door with my list.
The room began to fill with a low mist and the unmistakable scent of artificial pine.
“What is going on?” I asked the crowd.
“I found a fog machine,” the man in the knit hat said.
“Please turn that off,” I called.
“I need it to feel magical,” the man said.
“It feels like someone is going to have an asthma attack. No fog machines,” I replied.
