WELCOME TO SNAPPETTES MOTHER/DAUGHTER NIGHT!
Snappette Mothers Dancing with Their Snappette Daughters
–Admission $15–
–All proceeds go to support the Snappettes Dance Team–
Saturday Night @ 8 pm
Little Bridge High School Auditorium
–Go Snappers!–
Feeling nervous, Molly chose to save a row in the middle of the auditorium—not too close, but not too far back, either—for all the friends she had who’d bought tickets but hadn’t yet arrived. Draping the long scarf she’d worn—on which was printed images of books, of course—across the row so everyone would know the seats were taken, she selected the aisle seat for herself, so she could make a quick escape to the lobby or to the stage, just in case . . . well, just in case.
Molly had never before considered the importance of being able to make a quick escape from a theater—or of sitting with her back to the wall of a restaurant, and not the window or door. But these were all things that were becoming second nature to her now that she was in a relationship with a lawman.
She seemed to know more than half the people in the audience, and they recognized her, as well, waving to her as they sat down. Molly waved back. She was beginning to appreciate how nice it was to be the only children’s librarian in a small town—and the sheriff’s girlfriend.
“Scoot,” Henry said as he appeared at the end of the row holding two bags of popcorn. He had no appreciation of Molly’s role as the town’s only children’s librarian, or the sheriff’s girlfriend. “If you’re going to hog the aisle seat, you have to be prepared to move over for everyone else.”
Molly twisted in her seat so that Henry could move past her. “How crowded was it out in the lobby?” she asked anxiously.
“Packed.” Henry moved her scarf and plopped down into the seat beside her. “The whole town is here, practically.”
“Oh, God.” Molly took the bag he offered her and began to shove the overly salted popcorn into her mouth. “What if he’s terrible?”
“You and Katie have been rehearsing with him for like what, twelve weeks?” Henry rolled his eyes. “He can’t possibly be terrible. And even if he is, isn’t that kind of the point? He’s the comic relief.”
“I don’t want him to be the comic relief! The girls and I want him to be good.”
“I’m glad you became a librarian, because you have no understanding of theater whatsoever.”
“Who has no understanding of theater whatsoever?” Patrick O’Brian and his husband, Bill, were standing at the end of Molly’s row, dressed, as usual, to the nines. Patrick was holding a bouquet of roses. Molly’s stomach lurched.
“Oh, no,” she said. “Who are those for?”
“Your honey bunch,” he said. “To celebrate his dramatic debut. Scooch over so we can get in. Or did you drape that scarf across those seats for someone else?”
“They’re for you guys.” Molly stood up to allow them to squeeze past her. “But please don’t give those roses to John in front of everybody. It’s the girls everyone should be celebrating, not him. The girls and their moms have worked really hard on this show. John’s only in one number, they’re in six.”
“Oh, sweetie.” Bill smirked at her as he went by. “John’s the one getting these. Especially if he wears a Snappettes uniform. He is wearing one, isn’t he?”
Molly looked heavenward. Everyone had been asking her about the Snappettes uniform, and if John was wearing one.
“You’ll have to wait and see,” she said, giving her standard reply.
“Well, he’d better. The entire reason this place is so crowded is because people want to see their elected sheriff wear a tiny pleated skirt.”
“Well, that is sexist and wrong,” Molly said. “You people are supposed to be here to support the Snappettes, not to see your sheriff in drag.”
“Honey, we’re multifaceted. We can do both.”
“You guys need to stop.”
“Is he still proposing to you, at least?” Bill asked.
Molly stared at him. “Why on earth would he do that?”
“Because of the song.” Bill sang a snippet of “Single Ladies,” including the part about how if you liked it, then you should put a ring on it. “Rumor has it that after the song, he’s going to come down off the stage and propose to you, with a ring and everything.”
Henry barked with laughter at Molly’s suddenly crimson face while Patrick took the opportunity to punch his husband in the shoulder.
“What?” Molly cried, completely mortified. “That is not going to happen. Who told you that?”
“It’s all over the Little Bridge Island Facebook community page,” Bill said, while Patrick punched him again.
“It’s not,” Patrick said quickly. “Molly, it’s not.”
“I hadn’t heard that,” Henry said, indignantly. “But then, I only go on Insta.”
“It’s not true,” Molly said. How could it be true? She and John didn’t keep anything secret from each other. Of course they’d talked about marriage, but only jokingly. And he would never propose to her in such a public manner. He’d know how much she’d hate that. “We’ve only been seeing each other for a few months.”
“Uh, almost four months,” Henry corrected her. “But I agree, it’s too soon.” He glared at Patrick and Bill. “Guys, it’s too soon.”
“Well, personally, I think it would be adorable,” Patrick said. “And I think that left hand of hers is calling out for a nice six-pronged square-cut two-carat diamond solitaire with a platinum band—”
“Would you please stop?” Molly begged.
“Molly!”
Hearing her name, she looked across the auditorium and saw Mrs. Tifton—her dog, Daisy, in her arms—waving to her. She was sitting with Phyllis Robinette and a number of her other friends from her yoga class in a special reserved section—reserved because Mrs. Tifton, upon learning of Katie and the Snappettes through Molly, had become a major donor to the dance team.
Major? She’d basically paid for the team’s choreography and uniforms for the next five years.
Molly waved back, hoping the widow didn’t mind too much that she’d declined her invitation to sit with her. Mrs. Tifton’s seats were so close to the stage that Molly feared John would think she was sitting there to coach him through his routine.
Or, now that Molly had heard the latest rumor about the two of them—and, Little Bridge being such a small town, there’d already been several, including one that she was carrying his twins, though that had been the day she’d worn an empire-waisted blouse to work, a mistake she’d not make again—that she was sitting there so she’d be in easy proximity to accept his proposal.
The lights flickered, giving them the five-minute warning that the show was about to start. Molly looked around, the butterflies in her stomach feeling as if they’d turned to elephants. “Where’s Meschelle?”
Henry glanced around the auditorium. “There she is. Meschelle!” he shouted, and waved at the journalist. “Over here! We saved you a seat!”
Meschelle sauntered over, carrying another one of her colorful bags, this one covered in real seashells. “Thank you for screaming my name in front of everyone,” she said to Henry when she reached them. “I so appreciate that.”
“Oh, you love it,” said Henry.
“You’re not covering this for the paper, are you?” Molly asked Meschelle uneasily, since she saw that Meschelle had her phone in her hand.
“Why wouldn’t I? It’s a total feel-good story. People love this kind of stuff.”
Molly’s heart lurched. Surely Meschelle meant only the performance, not anything she might have seen on Facebook.
“Yes,” Molly said, “but don’t you think John’s been in the news enough lately?”
“For what?” Meschelle was arranging her enormous tote neatly at her feet. “That High School Thief stuff was ages ago.”
“Yes, but what about the baby thing? And reuniting her with her mother?”
“Again, ages ago, Molly. I don’t think you understand how quickly news cycles turn over.”
“Speaking of the baby thing.” Henry pointed to two women coming down the far aisle of the auditorium. “Isn’t that her? Tabitha whatever-her-name-is?”
Molly craned her neck to look and was pleased to see that it really was Tabitha, looking happy, glowing and healthy, baby Cosette strapped snugly to her chest in a sling. Behind her trailed Mrs. Brighton, looking a little less happy, but nevertheless better than the last time Molly had seen her, at Story Time in the new library. She’d traded her sweater set and boots for an expensive designer shift, boho-chic jewelry, and sandals.
“Yes, that’s Tabby,” Molly said. “And her mother.”
“Wait, she didn’t go back to Connecticut? She’s living here now?” Meschelle’s fingers flew over her phone’s keypad, as if she was already getting started on her follow-up story.
“For now.” Molly couldn’t help smiling. “Tabitha plans to stay as long as her boyfriend is in jail here. And because she’s staying, her mother’s staying, to help with the baby.”
“But that could be years! You know how slowly the court system moves here.”
After exchanging cheerful waves with Tabitha and her mother, who’d noticed her in the crowd, Molly turned back toward the stage, a small smile on her face as she thought of the pie she and John had nearly overturned the day of Larry Beckwith’s arrest. They’d consumed a lot of pie in the days since. “I know. People do crazy things for love.”
She only hoped John wouldn’t take that to the extreme this evening.
“What about Tabitha’s father?” Meschelle demanded.
“Mr. Brighton? Oh, he’s back in Connecticut, working and taking care of the house. I think he realizes this whole thing can’t last.” Molly waved her hand at Tabitha and her mother, who’d taken their seats and weren’t looking her way, to indicate what she meant by “this whole thing.” “Their hope is that eventually Tabby, who is a very smart girl, is going to come to her senses and want to go back to Connecticut with them to raise her daughter, and maybe even go to college. Mr. B is keeping the home fires lit until that happens.”
“Well, that’s good,” Meschelle said, with an approving nod. “That Larry guy is a jerk.”
“True,” Molly said. “But he’s still her baby’s father.”
“Are his parents helping out with child support, at least?”
Molly nodded, thinking of the Beckwiths, who’d shown up at Story Time as well. “They’re as excited about their new granddaughter as the Brightons.”
“Well, that’s good, at least,” Meschelle said with a sigh.
The house lights dimmed, plunging the school auditorium into darkness.
“It’s starting!” Henry dug his fingers excitedly into Molly’s arm.
“Ow. If you’re going to be doing that the entire time—”
“I won’t.” Henry pulled his hand away and plunged it back into his popcorn bag. “It’s just that I can’t wait to see you as a blushing bride-to-be.”
Molly glared at him. “Really? You, too?”
He looked apologetic. “Sorry. The whole thing is just a rumor, I swear.”
“It had better be.” Molly couldn’t imagine anything worse than being proposed to in a public forum, like on a stadium kiss cam or in front of a flash mob. Or the way Bill had suggested John might do it.
Please, she prayed. Please, John, don’t do this.
A hush fell over the auditorium as the blue velvet curtains were parted just enough so that a muscular young woman wearing a red leotard, short white skirt, matching white fringed vest, white cowboy boots, and a red cowboy hat could slip through and address the audience.
“Welcome, everyone,” she said in a loud, clear voice, “to the annual Mother-Daughter Snappettes Reunion Show, this year featuring something we’ve never had before—a dad!”
The applause was thunderous. There was hooting and even some whistling. Molly began to feel that perhaps there was enough good cheer in the room that no matter how John’s performance went, it would be well received.
The young woman—Leila DuBois, whose mother owned the steak house where Molly had gone with John for their first ever proper date—waited for the applause to die down before continuing. “And now, without further ado . . . we welcome you . . . back to the future!”
Loud, thumping music filled the auditorium—so loud that a few startled residents threw their hands over their ears—and then the curtains behind Leila parted to reveal the entire dance team, dramatically lit in pink and blues, already posed with their backs to the audience, their pom-poms raised high.
“Five, six, seven, eight . . . !” shouted their coach.
Then the dance team, Leila and Katie among them, began to lead the audience on a journey through the past five decades, accompanied by their mothers (and, in some cases, grandmothers) and other alumni who’d agreed to join them. They started with snippets of top songs from the sixties (“Louie Louie,” “Respect”) and seventies (“Sweet Home Alabama,” “I Will Survive”) and moved quickly through the eighties and nineties (“Celebration,” “Girls Just Want to Have Fun,” “Like a Virgin,” “Losing My Religion,” and a rousing rendition of “All I Wanna Do”), complete with quick costume changes, very theatrical lighting, and even some crowd-pleasing tumbling.
By the time they got to the aughts, Henry’s eyes were streaming from laughter (he’d seemed to particularly enjoy the team’s dramatic take on “Losing My Religion,” which they’d interpreted literally, employing nuns’ habits and crucifixes). Molly saw that both Patrick and Bill were smiling like lunatics, and even Meschelle had lowered her cell phone and was actually paying attention, a slightly stunned look on her face.
“What,” she murmured, “even is this?”
But of course nothing could have prepared any of them for John’s number. Molly knew what to expect, because she’d attended multiple dress rehearsals, often stopping by the high school after work so they (sometimes with Katie, sometimes not) could grab dinner.
But had they really made some kind of change to it that she did not know about? If they had, Molly was going to be really mad. It was perfect as it was, and the show wasn’t supposed to be about John. It was supposed to be about the Snappettes, through the ages.
So when the lighting changed and she heard the first chords for “Single Ladies,” she raised her hands to her face in nervous anticipation. She was both dreading and excited for what was about to happen.
The crowd screamed when John—nearly a foot taller than everyone else onstage—came bounding out onto the stage with all the other dancers. Although he wasn’t wearing a traditional Snappettes uniform, he still looked very much like part of the team in his red sweatpants, white T-shirt with a sequined S emblazoned across the chest, and confident attitude. The red sweatband around his forehead had been Molly’s idea, and in her opinion, it really brought the whole look together.
She’d been right about it, too. All around her, the audience was going wild, people cheering and calling, “Sher-RIFF, sher-RIFF!”
But John wasn’t distracted. The S on his shirt catching the stage lights and shimmering, he stuck every step of “Single Ladies” along with the girls, right on cue.
What he did not do during the number was leap off the stage and race toward her with a ring to put on her.
Thank God.
Then, suddenly, the entire audience was leaping to its feet in a standing ovation. The show was over, and Molly was very, very relieved, in more ways than one.
“I’m going to kill you for scaring me like that,” she said to Henry, as they both applauded.
He looked crushed. “I don’t know what happened. The rumor mill is usually right!”
“Oh, sure. Like it was about me carrying his twins when all I did was wear a high-waisted blouse and eat a whole Harpooner burger from the Mermaid Café for lunch one day?”
Henry sighed. “I’ll never listen to a single scrap of gossip ever again.”
“I’ll believe that when I see it.”
Everyone agreed, as they filed out, that the show had been outstanding—the best Snappettes performance of all time.
“The sheriff was so good,” people kept saying to Molly.
“This is exactly what the town needed,” others were saying. “It’s good for everyone to have something to come together over, something we can all agree on, despite our differences. And we can all agree that the Snappettes are amazing! And so is our sheriff!”
Molly beamed. It was nice to hear that something she’d helped work on with two people she loved so much had succeeded.
She looked for both John and Katie in the crowd—they were supposed to meet after the performance to get a celebratory dinner together—but she didn’t see them.
“Oh, Molly, there you are!” Joanne and Carl Larson caught up with her in the lobby. “I was hoping we’d see you here. Wasn’t that wonderful?”
“Hello!” Molly exchanged hugs with her former landlady and employer. “Yes. How are you both doing?”
“Great! You need to thank your sheriff for us, Molly.” Joanne was grinning as she squeezed Molly’s hand. “We didn’t think anyone could take your place, but Eric Swanson is working out swell.”
“That’s good,” Molly said. She’d felt guilty about leaving the Larsons, but when the opportunity to move into a sweet little one-bedroom apartment above Island Blooms had become available, she simply hadn’t been able to turn it down. She’d been running herself ragged trying to work nights at the inn while putting in full days at the library, especially after the new library opened. There’d been so much extra work to do.
Fortunately, John had recommended one of his deputies to the Larsons to take her place at the Lazy Parrot, and the transition had worked out perfectly.
“I’m glad Eric’s doing well,” Molly said.
“More than well.” Carl was practically radiating high spirits. The Snappettes could do that to people. “That guy’s got a real feel for hospitality. I don’t know what he was doing in law enforcement in the first place.”
“That’s so good to hear! I have to go now, okay? I’ll see both of you later.” Molly happened to spy John—who’d changed back into his regular street clothes—in the crowd behind Carl and Joanne. He was holding the bouquet of roses that Patrick and Bill had given him and throwing her desperate looks while trying to fend off a large group of other well-wishers.
“Oh, of course, honey.” Joanne gave her one last hug. “Give Fluffy the Cat my love. We miss him over at the inn, but he just loved you so much—it’s better that he’s with you.”
“I will! And thanks!”
And then Molly was across the lobby and at John’s side.
“You were so great!” she cried, rising on tip-toe to give him a modest peck on the cheek. She didn’t want to scandalize any of the “cottontops”—as John affectionately referred to Little Bridge’s more elderly citizens—by doing what she wanted to, which was throw her arms around him and kiss him on the lips.
“Thank you, Molly,” he said, behaving as circumspectly as she was—but only, she knew, because they were in public. “I have to admit, I was pretty nervous.”
“Glad it wasn’t me up there,” Randy Jamison, the city planner, said, slapping John on the back. “Of course, it wouldn’t have been, because I’d have to be dead before I’d be caught up on a stage like that.”
“That could be arranged,” Pete Abramowitz said dryly.
“What was that?” Randy asked.
“Nothing.” Pete winked at Molly, who grinned back at him.
“Do you want to get out of here?” John leaned down to whisper in Molly’s ear.
“Sure, if you want to. But what about Katie?”
“Oh, she and the other girls are heading off to get pizza. They’re starving.”
Molly slipped her fingers in between his. “You must be, too. You expended a lot of energy up there.”
He grinned down at her. “I think I have a little left.”
“Miss Molly! Sheriff Hartwell! Miss Molly! Over here!”
Molly turned toward the sound of the all-too-familiar voice and saw Elijah standing by the lobby’s drinking fountain, his father’s Leica in his hands.
“Hi,” he said. “Hey, sorry to disturb you, but can I get a photo of you two together?”
“Elijah,” Molly began, rolling her eyes.
“Just real quick. It’s for the school paper. I’m the official school photographer. It’s for the last edition, before school lets out for the summer.”
“Sure.” John, suddenly magnanimous, wrapped his arm around Molly’s waist and pulled her toward him, then plastered his “sheriff’s smile” on his face. “How’s this?”
“Oh, great,” Elijah said, snapping away, making generous use of his flash. “That’s just great! You two make a real attractive couple—did anyone ever tell you that?”
“Elijah,” Molly said in a warning voice.
“No, I mean that most sincerely. I’m sure a lot of people say that, but I truly mean it. I’m taking photography next semester, did you know, Miss Molly? I’m going to be the next Angel Adams.”
“Ansel Adams,” she corrected him.
“Yeah, whoever. Anyway, I don’t want to take any boring landscape photos like he does. I want to be a crime scene photographer. All because of you, Sheriff. And you, too, Miss Molly.” Elijah tipped an invisible hat toward Molly. “I won’t be seeing too much of you at the library this summer, Miss Molly, because I’m going up to Tallahassee to visit my dad for a few weeks. But I’ll be back in the fall. I’ll see you then.”
“See you then, Elijah,” Molly said, and was relieved when he hurried off to go take photos of Katie and her friends.
Only then did she turn to John and say, “Tallahassee? His father lives in Tallahassee. Isn’t that where . . . ?”
“Yes.” John’s bright blue eyes were alight with mischief. “Rich Wagner, the sheriff I replaced after he turned out to be hiding a second family in Tallahassee, is Elijah’s father.”
Molly couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “But Elijah has a different last name.”
“He took his mother’s maiden name after he found out the truth about his father.” John shrugged. “He wanted to hide his relationship to the man. Most of the kids at school knew the truth, anyway—but not Katie. She was in Miami when that happened. And not you—you just got here.”
“Oh, the poor thing.” Molly stared after Elijah, remembering how much time he’d spent in the library and his mother’s concern for him. “He certainly seems to be coming out of his shell now, though,” she said, as she watched him flirt with Katie and her friends.
“That’s all because of you,” John said, giving her an affectionate squeeze as he followed the direction of her gaze. “He’s a different kid now than from even a few months ago, wouldn’t you say?”
“It’s all because of us,” Molly said. “You’re the one who let the paper run his photo. You gave him back a sense of self.”
John grinned. “Yeah, maybe. I guess we make a pretty good team, huh?”
Molly side-eyed him. “Don’t get cocky.”
After saying their good-byes, they strolled hand-in-hand through the quiet, night-darkened parking lot. The high school had been built just yards away from the ocean, so all Molly could hear was the sound of the waves slapping against the seawall and the gentle breeze rustling through the palm fronds near the auditorium’s entrance. The summer air was balmy and sweet, and the moon, just rising over the ocean’s dark surface, cast everything in blue-and-white shadows.
“You really were amazing,” she said, as they approached his enormous gas-guzzler of an SUV—which both she and Katie had convinced him to exchange for a hybrid as soon as he got approval from the mayor.
“I was all right. The last part didn’t go the way it was supposed to.”
Molly shook her head. “Yes, it did. You didn’t miss a step.”
“No, there was this whole part that the girls and I threw in at the last minute that we ended up not doing.”
“Why not?”
“Because I didn’t think you’d like it.”
Molly froze, realizing what he was referring to—what he had to be referring to. She dropped his hand and stood by herself in the middle of the parking lot, eyeing him suspiciously. “Wait a minute. Are you telling me the rumor is true?”
He grinned at her from about five feet away, one hand in the pocket of his jeans, the other still holding the roses. “Why? What have you heard?”
She put her hands on her hips. “I heard you were going to jump down off the stage and come up to me in the audience and put a ring on it.”
His grin turned into a smile that crinkled the skin around those too-bright blue eyes. “That was the plan, yeah.”
Her heart seemed to skip a beat. “So what happened?”
“You’re not really the public display of affection type.”
“You’re right,” Molly said, her heart thumping . . . but this time with pleasure, not dread. “I’m not.”
“So I thought I’d do it in private, instead. I wasn’t planning on it being in a parking lot, but I can’t wait anymore.” From the pocket of his jeans, he extracted a small velvet box, then opened it and held it toward her. “I’m not saying today, or tomorrow, or anytime soon. I know it’s only been a few months. I’m just saying sometime in the future. Will you?”
Trying to remain dignified and to suppress the silly smile that was threatening to break out across her face, Molly took a few steps toward him and examined the ring without touching it.
“Is that a six-pronged square-cut two-carat diamond solitaire with a platinum band?” she asked, fighting hard not to hyperventilate.
“It is.” John sounded surprised. “How did you know?”
“Oh,” she said. “Just a guess. Are those roses really for you, or are they for me?”
He gave her a sheepish grin. “They were supposed to be for you, after you said yes. Patrick was going to shower us with them. But I told him—I told everyone—that that plan wasn’t going to work. I know it’s soon, but Katie said I needed to follow the advice of the song and not let you get away, and I happen to agree.” The grin faded, and his expression turned serious. “So what about it, Molly?”
Molly stopped trying to act dignified and let out a joyous laugh. It was loud enough to startle the seagulls that had been roosting quietly nearby, as well as the last few stragglers who’d been heading toward their cars. Even John seemed startled.
“Is that a yes?” he asked, looking alarmed.
“Yes,” she cried, and threw her arms around his neck and kissed him on the lips, not caring this time what anyone thought. “I love you.”
He must not have cared, either, since he said, “I love you, too,” and kissed her back.
