Mama was the town manager, which meant she made sure the roads were fixed and people got permission to build stuff on town property. Though she always said her job mostly involved listening to folks complain about potholes on Magnolia Street.
Rosie slumped down into one of the two chairs across from Mama’s desk. A bookshelf along one wall was filled with books, photographs of Rosie, and jars of colored pens. A bronze lamp cast a yellow haze over the papers strewn across the wood surface. Behind the desk, a large window framed the edges of River Bend Park and the shops in the center of town, all of which were now blurred by rivulets of water. The storm had arrived, and it was a doozy. Rain lashed against the windows as if the sky were spitting bullets. Inside the office, things weren’t much better.
“I’ll pay for all the damage,” Rosie said, propping her elbows on the desk.
Mama raised one eyebrow. “You bet you’ll pay for the damage. You’ll need to work here in the office filing, and you’ll have to use that money you’ve been saving.”
Rosie bolted up straight. “But that money is for a new tripod light fixture. I’ve been saving for months. If you’ll loan me the money, I’ll pay you back in no time.”
Mama was already shaking her head. “Sorry, sugar. The town needs the repair money now. You’re lucky I convinced Sheriff Parker not to press charges. It took some doing. This is the third time in as many months he’s had to call me. I can’t keep the law off your back forever. I practically had to beg him not lock you up and destroy your bright future. Recall how last summer you broke the window of Hardaway Market.”
“Another set accident. These things happen all the time in Hollywood. Who would have thought the sword-fighting for Knights of the Pyramidal Table would get so aggressive?”
“Yes, well, Sheriff Parker mentioned something about how if these ‘set accidents’ keep happening, he’ll be forced to take some action. I assured him your next film would take place outside the town proper.” Mama leaned over the expanse of wood and cupped Rosie’s face in her hand. “I do not want a jailbird for a daughter. Despite your criminal tendencies, I’m fond of having you around. Got it?”
“Got it.” Rosie slumped down. She’d have to continue to use natural light without the tripod, which meant no shooting at dusk. Plus, she’d have to rewrite all the town scenes in her latest film, assuming Miss Betty ever let Henry out of the house again.
“You’ll earn the money back,” Mama said.
Rosie pressed her lips together. It wasn’t right. Mama was punishing Rosie for something that wasn’t entirely her fault, and she had no one else to talk to about the unfairness of it all.
“I bet my father would support my filmmaking if he were here,” Rosie mumbled.
Mama stared down at a pile of papers, fingering the gold locket she always wore around her neck. If only Rosie’s father were around, surely he’d take her side when it came to small mistakes like ruining a bench no one cared about.
“I said I bet my father would support my filmmaking,” Rosie said in a louder voice.
“Your biological father has nothing to do with your crime spree.” Mama tapped her pen against the desk and muttered under her breath, “He wants nothing to do with anything.”
Rosie flushed.
Mama usually avoided talking about Rosie’s father, but she’d also never said anything bad about him … until now. Mama’s mouth pinched in along the sides, and her clear brown eyes went cloudy. She always got this look when Rosie mentioned her father—a worried, sad kind of look—and then she’d change the subject or offer to get Rosie a slice of pie or suddenly remember she needed to pay the bills. But Rosie had so many questions Mama wouldn’t answer. Questions like whether her father agreed with the ending of Citizen Kane (she didn’t), or whether he liked chocolate chips in his oatmeal cookies (she did). Now she had another—did Mama not want to talk about him because she didn’t like him?
Mama sighed. “I didn’t mean that. It’s been a long day.” She pulled a Tupperware container from her desk drawer, opened it, and set it in front of Rosie, offering up a weary smile. The homemade popcorn glinted with bits of cinnamon and sugar—Mama’s special recipe. “Here, you must be hungry. Cinnamon-sugar popcorn has a way of making most things better, and I’ve heard criminals are starving after they commit a felony.”
Forcing her own smile and swallowing down her questions, Rosie scooped up a handful of popcorn. “I should probably take the whole container, then.”
Mama and Rosie snapped together like the two halves of Mama’s locket. They laughed at the same jokes and liked the same old classic movies and the same special foods, like bacon-chocolate-chip cookies and cinnamon-sugar popcorn. Together they made a perfect whole, one that wasn’t worth breaking over a few questions.
Anna Lee burst into the room and flopped down in the seat beside Rosie. She worked as a part-time clerk in the mayor’s office and attended night school at Gloster Community College. She made a habit of changing her hair color on a weekly basis. Today it was purple.
“I’m heading out,” Anna Lee said. “I finished typing up that ridiculous report Miss Matilda made about sanitation showing up ten minutes late to collect her garbage.”
“It’s our job to take these complaints seriously,” Mama said, her mouth twitching in a way that meant she was trying not to laugh.
“Fine. But that doesn’t mean I have to like it.” Anna Lee turned to Rosie. “Did I see you walk in with Sheriff Parker?”
“Yep,” Rosie said. “A small set problem came up today.”
“One that resulted in hundreds of dollars of damage to a poor, unsuspecting bench,” Mama added.
“The bench wasn’t even in the frame,” Rosie said, leaning on her elbow.
“So it was the bench’s fault. I knew that bench had a bad attitude,” Mama said.
“The real problem is that Sheriff Parker has no imagination,” Anna Lee quipped.
“I know,” Rosie agreed.
Anna Lee rolled her eyes. “If he’d stop bothering Caroline every five seconds, maybe he’d actually have time to expand his perspective and appreciate real art.”
“Exactly. I told him he needed to—” Rosie stopped and frowned. “What do you mean he’s bothering Mama? Did he close down Poplar Lane again without telling anyone? What a mess that caused last month.”
“No, he didn’t. And he’s not bothering me,” Mama said hastily.
“He’s in here three times a day,” Anna Lee said.
“He’s the sheriff, and I’m the town manager. We have business matters to work through, and he’s only trying to be friendly,” Mama said, her cheeks flaming strawberry red.
“But—but he makes your job harder,” Rosie said. “People complain about how he’s mean when taking police reports. He even made Mrs. Green cry when she questioned a parking ticket. He’s the opposite of friendly. You said so yourself.”
“He barely says hello to me,” Anna Lee huffed. “If you ask me, he has a crush on Caroline.”
Rosie’s chest tightened as if a fishing line had gotten tangled up inside her. Mama couldn’t possibly like Sheriff Parker. For one thing, he never smiled. For another, he’d given Rosie three separate lectures for the minor, accidental damage that sometimes happened on her film sets. He was much too serious. Mama and Rosie’s favorite romance of all time was Roman Holiday with Audrey Hepburn and Gregory Peck. Sheriff Parker was not as fun-loving as Gregory Peck. He wasn’t fun-loving at all.