He waved back.
No recognition.
No alarm.
No request for a photograph.
“Perfect,” she said.
“We’re standing beside industrial garbage.”
“Privacy has a scent.”
“It’s ranch dressing.”
“Luxury ranch dressing.”
I pulled my coat tighter around my dress.
The gown had been selected by a stylist, approved by Sophie, insured by someone in Los Angeles, and designed without any apparent belief in weather.
Claire’s coat was waiting in the car.
The car was not waiting where Rachel had promised it would be.
“Where’s Marcus?” I asked.
Claire peered down the alley.
“Maybe he joined karaoke.”
“He has the keys.”
“You’re a famous country singer. Hot-wire something.”
“That isn’t one of the traditional skills.”
“You sing about trucks constantly.”
“I have sung about two trucks.”
“Two more than I have.”
My phone buzzed.
Rachel.
Car delayed at front entrance. Too many photographers. Stay inside.
I showed Claire.
She looked toward the door we had just closed behind us.
“Absolutely not.”
“Rachel said stay inside.”
“Rachel thinks granola bars count as lunch.”
