Page 152 of Murder on Charity Lane

Nicholas stepped in from the kitchen. “It isn’t what it looks like!”

“What’s the occasion?”

“There’s no occasion, I’m just that good a boyfriend.”

I eyed him suspiciously. “There’s sparkling pear cider. You hate pear.”

“It’s the apple’s mushy cousin.” He shuddered. “Okay, fine, there is an occasion.”

“I hate occasions.”

“You’ll like this one.” He poured my cider into a champagne glass. “Helene and George love your script.”

“What? No. They read my play? Oh, god.” I felt sick at the thought. I barely knew Helene and George! I hated the idea of strangers reading my play—or, even worse, watching it onstage. Which I knew defeated the entire purpose of playwriting, but still. “Wait, back up. They told you that? What did they say exactly?”

“That they love it, Sophie.”

“They said that or you’re saying that?”

“They said—”

“And you believed them?”

“Sophie. Sweetie. Why would they lie?”

“Because they’re liars!”

“They’re not liars. They love it because it’s wonderful.” He took my hand. “The same reason I love you.”

I tried to catch my breath. “What exactly did they say?”

“That they’re excited to know such a talented playwright. That they cannot wait to see it performed. I told you so! I knew they’d love it.”

“Shut up.” I couldn’t believe this was happening.

He grinned. “So we’re having dinner with them next week.”

“What? Nicholas! What is wrong with your boundaries? You’re not my manager, you’re my boyfriend. You can’t just go around forcing innocent strangers to—”

My phone rang, and I knew it was George and Helene. I almost started hyperventilating before I saw the caller was Mrs. B. Which was weird. Usually she’d just stop by, like a character in an eighties sitcom—or a person from ye olden times.

I answered and switched to speaker. “Hey, Mrs. B.”

“Sophie, there you are!” she said, sounding almost querulous. “Thank goodness you answered. Oh, thank goodness. I’m in a bit of a … what’s the word?”

I didn’t like the frightened tone in her voice. “Is everything okay?”

“A kerfuffle! That’s what I’m in. Oh, I’m fine, don’t worry, I’m perfectly fine. Only could you come get me?”

“Of course,” I said.

“Don’t tell anyone! Promise you won’t.”

“You’re on speakerphone,” Nicholas said.

“Oh, Nicholas! That’s fine. You come, too. I’m at the DeYoungs’ house.”

“In Hope Ranch?” I asked. “What are you doing there?”