Every Star that Shines Page 3

  He rang the bell, and, seconds later, Monica opened it. She looked as beautiful as ever, her dark brown hair framing her perfectly made-up face. He’d once let her pretty blue eyes and pouty rosebud lips get under his skin—much to his everlasting sorrow. But as Emma ran down the stairs to the front landing yelling his name and threw her arms around his waist, he retracted that sentiment. He could never regret having the little girl who was the jewel of his life.

  “Hi, Chickadee,” he said, squeezing her shoulders. “Did you have a good week?”

  “Yep!” Emma let go of him, and Monica stepped aside so their rambunctious daughter could grab her shoes.

  “Hi, Caleb.” Monica gave him a warm smile, then glanced affectionately at the little girl.

  “Hey. You look good,” Caleb said. There was something different about her, but he couldn’t figure out what. A gleam in her eye that wasn’t usually present.

  Monica beamed. “Thanks.”

  Before Caleb could comment further, Emma started chattering up at him while trying to pull on a turquoise canvas lace-up shoe with unicorn decals on the sides.

  “Daddy, you’ll never guess what happened at school today.” She missed her foot because she wasn’t paying attention and tried again, but kept talking. “Addison gave me a friendship bracelet that she made herself. See?” She held up her wrist to display a pink-and-purple striped bracelet made from knotted embroidery thread. “Mom said she’s going to teach me how to make them so I can give her one back.”

  Caleb grinned. “That’s awesome. I’m sure Addison will love it.”

  “Do you think Hannah would want one?”

  Caleb shook his head. Hannah was his sister Rachel’s youngest of four children. Of all Emma’s cousins, Hannah was the only other girl, and Emma could hardly wait for her to get old enough to play pretend with. “Hannah’s only two, which is a little young for friendship bracelets. Maybe when she’s a little older.”

  “And maybe I can teach her how to make them by then, too.” Emma picked up her second sneaker and tried to force it on her foot.

  “Maybe,” Caleb agreed.

  Monica chuckled, then crouched to help Emma get the shoe over her heel and tied the laces, double-knotting the bow. “Sweetie, remember I said I wanted to talk to Daddy for a minute? How about you go wait in the truck?”

  “Sure, Mom.” Emma leapt to her feet and threw her arms around her mother’s neck. “See you next week.”

  “Actually, it might be sooner.” Caleb eyed his ex-wife. “Unless you won’t be able to make it to the parents’ meeting on Sunday?”

  “For the play? Is that still running now that . . . you know?” Monica stood and gave Emma a wary glance.

  Caleb held back a frown. He wanted to protect Emma’s innocence as much as possible, too, but death was a part of life. And it’s not like Molly Davis was Emma’s grandmother. At the thought, he wondered how Delanie was taking the news, then pushed the question aside. None of his business.

  “My mom said Cheryl Fletcher told her they found a replacement director already, but she didn’t say who it was. So I guess the play is still on.” Caleb gave a sardonic snort. “Better be—I’m working on the sets with Noel Butler tonight.”

  “That’s good news. Emma’s been practicing her song, haven’t you, sweetie?” Monica played with Emma’s silky brown hair, pulling it out of the neckline of her pink fall jacket.

  Emma nodded enthusiastically. “I already know all the words by heart.”

  “Wow,” Caleb said, impressed but unsurprised. Emma had only been cast as Lucy the Talking Cricket in the Pinocchio play a week ago. Monica had been a bit worried when Emma had landed a main cast ensemble part in her first year in the play, but he knew she would be up to the challenge. He could see he had been right.

  “Okay, Emma,” Monica said with one last stroke of Emma’s hair, “I guess I’ll see you Sunday. Maybe we can start on your friendship bracelet while we’re at rehearsal.”

  “Yeah? Cool! Can we do green and red? Wait. That’s for Christmas. How about blue and yellow?”

  “I think I have some floss in those colours.” Monica’s mouth twitched in an amused smile.

  “Awesome! I’ll see you soon then, Mom!”

  Before Monica could respond, Emma pushed past Caleb and dashed to the white truck near the curb.

  Caleb shoved his hands in his jean pockets. “So, what did you want to talk about?”

  Monica glanced down and twisted her fingers, looking unusually shy. “I, um, have some exciting news.”

  Caleb’s gut tightened. Had she and Dave finally decided to tie the knot? It would be about time—they’d been living together for two years already. And, call Caleb old-fashioned, but he would rather Emma’s mom be married to the guy she was living with, even if it wasn’t him. Not that he wanted it to be him . . . not even close. It was more of an example thing.

  But a cursory glance showed Monica’s ring finger to be bare.

  “Are you going to tell me, or should we start playing Twenty Questions?” he joked.

  “I’m pregnant,” she blurted.

  The tension in Caleb’s gut vibrated like a plucked guitar string.

  “Er . . . Congratulations.”

  “We just found out. Emma already knows, and she’s super excited to be a big sister.”

  Caleb smiled. “She would be. And she’ll make a great one.”

  “I know.” Monica hesitated. “Also, Dave asked me to marry him. And I said yes. We’re going to Grande Prairie tomorrow to pick out rings.”

  Caleb drew in a deep breath. “Congratulations again. I’m happy for you.”

  Her face softened. “Really?”

  He nodded. “Really. You deserve to be happy, Mon. And Dave’s a great guy. Just answer me one thing, if you would.”

  When she saw his face, her brow furrowed. “Of course.”

  He stepped closer and lowered his voice. Dave was probably still at work, but Emma had rolled down the truck window, and he wanted to be sure she didn’t overhear.

  “Tell me you’re not marrying him because of the baby. That didn’t work out so well the last time.”

  She laid a hand on his arm. “I’m not. I learned my lesson, I promise.” When he didn’t relax, she said, “Trust me, Caleb. This is what I want.”

  He searched her brilliant blue eyes, then stepped back. “Okay. Good. Have you set a date?”

  “Not yet. I’ll let you know when we do.”

  Caleb nodded, then glanced toward the truck. Emma’s head was down. She was probably drawing.

  “How about you?” Monica asked. “Any prospects on the horizon? How did things work out with Kate?”

  “They didn’t.” He and Kate had only gone on a couple dates before Caleb knew it wasn’t fair to her to keep seeing her. Just like he’d known with the two or three other women he had tried dating in the six years since he and Monica had split. It was always for the same reason Monica had ultimately left him—his heart wasn’t truly available. None of them were Delanie.

  “You’re going to have to get over her someday, you know,” Monica said quietly. She wasn’t talking about Kate anymore.

  He looked toward the river and nodded. “Someday I will. See you Sunday.”

  He strode toward the truck, not looking back at the house until he clicked his seatbelt into place.

  By then, Monica’s door was closed. Like his heart.

  Emma glanced up at him, a pink coloured pencil in her hand. “Look at the picture I drew for Hannah. It’s Lucy!”

  He glanced at the partially coloured, fairly realistic drawing of a cricket wearing a pink polka-dot dress and smiled. “Great job, Chickadee. Hannah’s going to love it.”

  Emma grinned. “I thought it might remind her to always follow her conscience.” She returned to her colouring, already re-absorbed in her work.

  He watched Emma a moment longer, then put the truck in gear.

  As proud as he was of his daughter’s moral compass, he wished he could find the words to tell her that following one’s conscience didn’t always work out.

  Sometimes, it left you heartbroken and filled with regret.

  He sighed and pulled away from the curb.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Delanie slowly tilted her head from side to side to stretch her tight neck and shoulders, keeping one hand on the wheel and her eyes on the road. After driving for the better part of two days, her muscles had started to cramp up. In front of her, the straight highway stretched between partially harvested golden fields of grain like a dark ribbon through yellow hair. On her left, the sun brushed the treed horizon, causing her car to cast a long shadow on her other side that jumped erratically with the shifting terrain of the ditch and field. At least this was the final leg of her journey. Her neck wasn’t the only body part that would be glad to be out of the car.

  She had told her mother she would be home by supper that night, but when she had passed through Whitecourt at five o’clock with three hours to go, she realized that wasn’t going to happen. Ignoring her guilt at how late she had dragged herself out of her hotel room that morning—postponing her inevitable return home, if she were honest—she had called her mother to let her know. Then she had swung through the Starbucks drive-through for a chai latte and banana bread to tide her over until she got to her parents’ place.

  Delanie took the final cold sip from her paper cup and tucked it into the cup holder in the console with a twinge of sadness. That was the last Starbucks she would get until she left Peace Crossing and passed through Whitecourt again. Though she had to admit that the lattes at Cool Beans, the local coffee shop in town, were almost as good, and their food was much better.

  Good thing—ever since the events of Tuesday night, she had been co
nstantly exhausted and had barely slept. Strong coffee was the only thing that had kept her going. She would probably be stopping at Cool Beans every day.

  At the thought of all she had endured that week, the familiar pressure built behind her eyes. Frowning, she pushed the thoughts aside and cranked her music, tapping her thumbs on the steering wheel to OneRepublic. She had already cried enough today to leave her cheeks raw. She didn’t want to start again.

  Driving northeast across British Columbia from the coast had been like driving from the middle of summer to late fall, though she knew the weather would have only started turning a few weeks ago. She was amazed that the trees in northern Alberta were still in full leaf—there had been more than one autumn in her childhood when the second week of September saw every leaf on the ground and the threat of snow in the air. But when she crested the hill that allowed her to see the Peace River Valley bathed in the last auburn glow of the setting sun—which now shone directly into her eyes until she lowered her visor—she caught her breath.

  The thickly forested valley was a bonfire of gold, fiery orange, and deep red leaves slashed by uneven trails of dark, thick evergreens. As she started her descent, she came around a turn in the highway and caught sight of the Peace River snaking its way between the hills and the graceful turquoise arches of the bridge that spanned it—the lone connection between the two sides of the sprawling, scattered town. Some of the tension eased from her shoulders. Peace Crossing might be a million miles from civilization, but it made up for its remote location with its breathtaking beauty.

  Her phone vibrated somewhere beneath the travel detritus of to-go bags, napkins, and snack wrappers that had accumulated on the passenger seat, and she tensed. At Marie’s insistence, she had deleted her social media apps from her phone, even if she couldn’t bring herself to delete her Twitter account completely as Marie had advised. However, Josh had called and texted multiple times in the last few days, to the point that every time her phone gave her a notification, she worried it would be him. She should just block his number, but there was always the possibility he might be calling with news that Crystal had changed her mind. Well, he could definitely wait. She wasn’t pulling over now, not on the winding, steep highway into town with its almost non-existent shoulders—it wasn’t safe.

  She came around another curve in the road and gasped. The sun had sunk behind the horizon, leaving a dusky sky painted with streaks of red and pink and purple. The streetlights on the bridge flickered on, and the other lights in town soon followed, turning the scene into something from a postcard. She had been so eager to get out of here as a teenager, to make her mark on the world. Now, she felt a twinge of regret that in two short months, she would once more have to leave behind the little treasure of a town to return to the asphalt jungle and fight to regain the dream she’d worked so hard to build.

  She ground her teeth. She had made so many sacrifices, taking acting jobs she didn’t even want so she would get noticed by the right people to help her career. She had thought it had paid off, that she was about to get her mythical breakout role. But none of that mattered now, did it?

  Tears threatened again, and she shook her head to push them away. When she showed up at her parents’, she didn’t want her mother’s first comment to be how frightful she looked.

  Hmph. As though I’ll be able to avoid that after a day on the road.

  She glanced in the rear-view mirror and smoothed her hair, trying to detangle it with her fingers while keeping the other hand on the wheel. Maybe she should stop somewhere to freshen up before heading out to her parents’ acreage. The gas station at the far edge of town should still be open. She would pop in on the way by.

  Delanie glanced toward the dusky west—the general direction of her parents’ place—and gasped. The first star had just winked into sight in the darkening sky.

  Stars. Except for the occasional ski trip out of town, or that time an ex-boyfriend had taken her on an overnight sailing trip, she had rarely seen the stars since moving to Vancouver. The glorious night skies of the Peace Country, with the splash of the Milky Way and dancing aurora borealis and constellations so bright you could touch them, were one of the things she had missed most . . . besides Nan, of course.

  At the thought, tears sprang to Delanie’s eyes anyway, the salt stinging her cheeks. She plucked one of the tissues from the box she had put on the passenger seat for easy access and dabbed at the moisture, sniffling to stifle further sobs.

  A tidal wave of longing washed through her—longing to reconnect with the roots of the dream that now lay in shambles around her, and with the woman who had inspired it. The play should help. Her mom had brought home the director’s script she had found at Nan’s house, along with Nan’s binder full of notes. Delanie looked forward to reading them in nervous anticipation, trying to ignore the needling suspicion that she was in over her head. If Nan’s notes were as organized and extensive as her craft cupboard, Delanie would be fine.

  As she rounded the final hill, Peace Crossing’s quaint downtown area came into view. Delanie glanced greedily over the familiar buildings, but the aching hunger in her chest remained. She could barely see the theatre from here—it was farther away and lower down, near the river and behind the Anglican church tower.

  When she approached the exit that would take her downtown instead of across the river, she found herself slowing down and signalling. The theatre was probably locked up at this time on a Friday night, but she could at least drive by. On her way to the gas station on Main Street, of course, which would also be open—she hoped. Besides, she could use every extra minute she could get to collect herself before she had to deal with Cheryl Fletcher in person.

  She parked across the street from the ancient hall. Both the Mackenzie Playhouse and the church next door shared a similar design aesthetic—a white stucco exterior accented by dark brown painted wooden beams. Some scaffolding next to the church suggested renovations in progress—maybe the congregation was doing some restoration work on the old structure.

  The front light of the church was on, illuminating its concrete stoop and the several steps up to the front door, and so was the light next to the theatre’s main entrance. Two trucks—one black, one white—sat in the small parking lot the hall shared with the church. Pickup trucks were another thing she didn’t see much of in Vancouver. Here, they were the most common form of transportation—and for good reason, given the kind of work and weather that dominated the area. Both trucks had locked metal tool boxes filling their beds.

  Delanie frowned at the two vehicles. While the church’s front light was probably left on every night as a safety measure, the unlit windows suggested the building was empty. Were the owners of these trucks in the hall, which had hardly any windows to let tell-tale light escape into the night? If so, why? Even if the theatre was also being renovated, it would be fairly odd for anyone to be there now. Carpenters in Peace Crossing didn’t make a habit of working late on Friday nights, the last she knew.

  She shrugged and turned off her older-model Honda Civic coupe. If the hall was open, she could freshen up there. Before getting out, she fished her phone out from under the tissue box to check on the notification. The text had been from Marie, asking for an update.

  Just got to town, Delanie quickly typed back. Thanks for checking.

  The response of a heart and a thumbs-up emoji was almost instantaneous. Delanie smiled and climbed out of the car.

  The right side of the brown metal double doors leading into the theatre was unlocked. Cautiously, Delanie opened it, and the hinges let out a loud complaint. She stepped onto an empty landing no bigger than her apartment bathroom. A short flight of stairs on the left led down to the basement reception hall and dance studio, and the one on the right ascended to a somewhat larger foyer that led toward the bathrooms on one side and into the auditorium on the other. The musty odours of old carpet and wood assailed her nose—the smells of the best parts of her childhood. Filled with reverent awe, she made her way up the steps.