Mayor Grant patted her shoulder. “Bless your heart; you still want to be a movie star.”
“Actually, I want to be a director,” Rosie said.
“I get it. You want to be on camera,” Mayor Grant said.
“No, a director is behind the camera—”
“Sheriff Parker was mighty frustrated today,” Mayor Grant interrupted. “When he gets like that, I can’t talk to him about anything productive. A sweet girl like you should have a less-destructive hobby, like sewing.”
“Or fishing,” Miss Matilda offered.
“Now, hold on one minute,” Mama said. “Rosie might have a minor destructive streak when it comes to filmmaking, but she’s also incredibly talented. I’m sure you aren’t suggesting she give up her dream of becoming a director?” Mama was talking in her serious voice, the one she used to tell the city council to simmer down.
Mayor Grant looked chagrined. “We’d never stop Rosie from following her dreams.”
“ ’Course we wouldn’t,” Miss Matilda said.
“Well, good,” Mama said, her voice dipping in volume. “Glad we got that settled.”
Miss Matilda and Mayor Grant went back to arguing. They didn’t even notice when Mama double winked at Rosie and Rosie double winked right back.
Rosie snuck a piece of popcorn, savoring the salty-sweet taste on her tongue. Mama always knew what to say to make people listen. Rosie was lucky to have Mama on her side even if she did make her pay for a silly old bench.
CHAPTER THREE
Days later, Rosie sat at her desk with its flaking white paint and stubborn drawers. Staring ahead at the rippling blue-gray water, her fingers hovered over the keyboard of Mama’s laptop. The house was silent except for the usual whispered creaks from the floorboards. Beyond her bedroom window, tall trees with gilded coral leaves still clinging to the branches bordered the backyard sloping down to Glimmer Creek. The creek was a half mile across here, and the houses on the other side were dots along the horizon.
Looking down, Rosie made herself type the letters—Michael Weatherton—into the search bar. After a moment’s hesitation, she pressed enter. Pages of information on her father filled the screen.
Her father was a professional actor. Mama had told her at least that much about him and that he held small parts on different television shows and films. He lived in Los Angeles, all the way across the country. Between that and working on film sets all over creation, he’d never had the chance to come to Glimmer Creek and meet Rosie.
Rosie looked Michael up every few months to see what new thing he was working on. She always deleted her search history afterward. It wasn’t as though Mama had forbidden her from finding out about Michael, but Mama wouldn’t like it either.
Scanning the computer, Rosie clicked on a new article dated last week. The screen filled with a large photo of Michael himself. His lips turned up in a slight smile. Rosie studied every picture, searching to find herself in the slope of his nose or the tilt of his eyes, but she could never see it.
Leaning closer, Rosie scrolled down the page and read the last few lines from the Hollywood trade magazine:
A last-minute replacement, Michael Weatherton has signed on to a supporting role in Heartland Pictures’ Revolutionary Threat, the untold story of female spies in the Revolutionary War. Jack Relian will direct the period piece, and Julia Laverne will star as the spy who saved George Washington. Filming began last week in Richmond, Virginia. Revolutionary Threat is scheduled for a spring release.
Rosie sat back.
Richmond was two hours away. Two hours! That was shorter than most movies—maybe not Gone with the Wind, but definitely most others. Her father could be here by supper if he got in the car right now.
But—but if Michael was only two hours away, why hadn’t he called? Why hadn’t he asked to visit? Wasn’t he curious about his very own daughter?
Rosie’s shoulders curled over her chest, and a thickness coated her throat. Her lip quivered, and she bit down hard to stop it. There was nothing to cry about. She was certain there was a good explanation for why he hadn’t called. Maybe he was busy with rehearsals for Revolutionary Threat. The article said he was a last-minute replacement, so he must have a lot of catching up to do. After all, movie sets weren’t like going on vacation.
Sunlight poured through the small round window above her bed and slashed across the bookshelf. There was the porcelain doll Michael had given her for her eleventh birthday, and the elaborate makeup kit for her tenth, and The Complete Works of William Shakespeare that had come one Christmas. None of the gifts was quite right, but at the very center of the bookshelf was the one present that was completely perfect—her camcorder.
The gleaming Canon XA30 had built-in Wi-Fi, HD recording, and a high-def optical-zoom lens. Mama had looked up the price after Rosie opened it and nearly hit the floor. She’d wanted to send it back, but Rosie had begged to keep it. That was three years ago, and Rosie had used that camcorder every day since. She had never once spoken to her father, but somehow he’d known to send her this perfect gift for her ninth birthday. That had to mean something, didn’t it?
Opening her bottom desk drawer, Rosie rifled through the tangle of papers and discarded markers until she found the crumpled stack of cards that had accompanied the gifts. She opened them one by one. Michael had taken the time to choose and sign them all.
The final card was especially ornate, with swirling pink clouds, flying angels, and gold raised letters. She remembered it nestled in the cream-colored tissue paper of the camcorder box. Rosie flipped it open and stopped. She peered closer. There, beneath his signature, was a single sentence in her father’s cramped handwriting: When you use this to make your first movie, I’ll be sure to come see it. Inhaling sharply, she read the sentence again. She’d forgotten all about it. If only she could tell Michael about her movies, he’d want to meet her. This card proved it.
Rosie deflated as she remembered one problem—Mama.
Whenever Rosie received gifts from Michael, she asked to call him, but Mama wouldn’t let her. Mama claimed he was out of the country on a film set or in between phone numbers or—worst of all—he wasn’t quite ready to talk to Rosie. Mama always said it wasn’t the right time for them to meet. Though lately Rosie had started to wonder if Mama really knew when the right time was. Maybe Mama never wanted them to meet.
“Rosie, darling? Where are you?” Miss Lily’s voice drifted up to her.
“Coming,” Rosie called, tucking the cards into her desk drawer.
Miss Lily waited at the bottom of the stairs. Her snow-white hair was pulled back into a low bun, and she wore a long poppy-colored dress. Rosie galloped down the steps and gave her a quick hug.
“Darling, I’ve missed you. Ever since school started back up, I hardly see you anymore. It’s been weeks! Come along. I’ve brought all the fixings for a lamb curry,” Miss Lily said, heading into their kitchen. She lived next door and made supper for them on nights when Mama had a city council meeting.
Rosie followed Miss Lily down the hallway. Mama and Rosie’s house was nearly a century old and had all the creaks and dents to prove it. The rooms were filled with battered chests and sloped wooden floors. The outside had a chipped curlicued porch and arched windows dusted with dirt. The white siding needed a good paint job, and the floorboards on the front porch bowed like a hammock if you stepped on the wrong one.