Center Stage: Magnolia Steele Mystery #1 (2 page)

One thing I’d learned very early in life was that once my mother made up her mind, no amount of talking would change her opinion. Yet fool that I was, I wasn’t about to let it go. “You name one instance of me seeking attention.”

“One?” Her eyebrows shot up so high they touched her bangs. “I’ve got more than I can count. How about Roy’s eighth-grade graduation party? Or my Bunco night.”

“Which Bunco night?”

“
All
of them.” She shook her head as she turned on a street headed downtown. “When you were a cheerleader, you were in the middle—”

“What?” I protested. “My cheer coach put me there!”

“You were still front and center.”

“This is ridiculous.” I shook my head. “I’m not having this conversation.”

“Because you know I’m right.”

“Because there’s no talking sense to you when you’ve made up your mind about something.” She pulled up behind a building on Main Street, and I sat up straighter in my seat. “Your kitchen is
downtown
?”

“Yep. Has been for about seven years.”

I knew she’d kept a lot of her life from me as punishment for running away, but it had never occurred to me she’d keep something this big secret. “Isn’t the rent expensive?”

A grin lit up her face. “We can afford it.”

Franklin, Tennessee, had a picturesque downtown. Brick buildings and trees lining the sidewalk. A roundabout with the statue of a Civil War soldier in the middle. Franklin was home to several Civil War battle sites, and the history added to the charm. Downtown was a huge draw for local residents and tourists alike. I could only imagine that the rent was pricey. The smile on my mother’s face confirmed it.

She pulled into a parking space behind a row of buildings, next to a white van with the words Southern Belles Catering painted on the side.

“You have a van too?” I asked in surprise.

“Two vans.”

“Wow.” We walked inside the back door, past two women who were loading foil-covered pans into the back of the van.

“Hey, Lila,” one of the women said.

“Y’all ready for our big night?” my mother asked cheerfully.

“Yes, ma’am.”

I followed my mother into a small kitchen prep room, my chest tightening when I saw the woman placing appetizers onto a pan. It was my mother’s best friend and business partner, Tilly Bartok.

“Lila, everything’s ready on my end,” she said, concentrating on her task. “Did you find a replacement for Patty?”

“I did.” But Momma’s voice sounded off, even to me.

Tilly’s head shot up and her mouth dropped open when she saw me. “Maggie? Is it really you?”

I nodded, unable to push words past the lump in my throat.

Tilly rounded the stainless steel prep table and reached for me, pulling me into a tight hug. “I thought I’d never see you again, girl.”

Tears stung my eyes as I rested my cheek on the shoulder of the woman who had been like a second mother to me. While my mother fit her surname to a T, Tilly was her soft and comforting counterpart. She was the one I’d always turned to when I needed sympathy—especially after my father took off. My mother was the one I turned to when I needed action.

Tilly leaned back and grabbed my cheeks in her hands, searching my face. “You haven’t changed, sweet girl. You’re still as pretty as the day you left.”

“And you haven’t aged a day,” I said with a soft smile. Her jet-black hair was pulled back into a bun, but it was still sleek and shiny with no hint of gray. Other than a few crow’s feet around her eyes, her face was free of wrinkles. The only noticeable change was the additional twenty pounds around her middle.

She looked me up and down, her eyes widening as she took in my uniform. “What are you doin’ wearing that?” Her gaze jerked up to my mother. “She’s not filling in for Patty, is she?”

“She sure is.”

“She can’t be wait staff! She’s a Broadway star!”

“Not anymore she’s not.”

Tilly looked like she could have been knocked over by a feather.

“It’s okay, Tilly. I want to help.” My mother released a soft scoff, but I ignored her. “Looks like you and Momma are doing well for yourselves. A downtown storefront. Two catering vans. I remember when you started, cooking in our kitchen and using your minivan.”

Pride filled her eyes. “We sure have come a long way.”

“We don’t have time for this trip down memory lane,” Momma interrupted. “We’ve got a party to cater. This event could take us to the next level. We can’t afford a screwup, so let’s go. You both can cry over each other later.”

Tilly gave me a squeeze. “You can ride with me in the van and tell me all about your New York adventures on the way.”

“Good luck with that,” Momma muttered as she headed out the back door. “She’s got more secrets than a CIA agent.”

L
uke Powell lived
in a sprawling home on multiple acres that backed up to the Harpeth River. He’d only been successful for six or seven years, but in that time he’d amassed millions and achieved mega-stardom. Like a lot of people who had acquired a fortune after being born into nothing, he wanted everyone to know he’d done well. His house was a white, southern-plantation-style, two-story house with a center entrance and a wrap-around porch on both floors. There was a gated entrance, and the long driveway U-turned on a circle drive in front of the house.

But that entrance was for guests. We were staff, of course, which meant Tilly pulled the van up to the side of the house so we could enter through the catering kitchen. Like many sprawling estates, Luke’s house had a special kitchen just for servicing parties. It chafed that I’d fallen back to staff level in less than twenty-four hours, especially since I’d been the darling of several
Fireflies at Dawn
parties. Just last week I’d attended a party thrown by Sarah Jessica Parker and Matthew Broderick.

I helped Tilly and several of the staff members carry trays into the kitchen. As we slid the trays into the warming drawers, Momma stood to the side talking to Luke’s personal assistant.

“Luke is feeling a little on edge tonight,” the twenty-something woman said, keeping her gaze on her smart phone screen as she furiously typed. “His release sales aren’t what he hoped for, and now I’m worried the seafood theme will upset him.”

“You picked the seafood theme weeks ago, Amy,” Momma said, her Alabama drawl thickening. I knew from experience that meant her patience was wearing thin. “It ties in with the beach theme of the album.”

“His agent now thinks it was a mistake to record a country album with a Jamaican tone.”

“Be that as it may, we still have seafood appetizers.”

The assistant gave my mother a pouty look. That had never worked for me in the eighteen years I’d lived with the woman. Bless her heart for trying, but it wasn’t going to work for her either. “Are you
sure
you can’t change it?”

My mother’s jaw set, and I saw the tic in her eyelid.

“Uh-oh,” Tilly mumbled.

Do not get involved
. Yet I found myself walking over to them anyway. I dusted off the sweet southern accent I pulled out whenever I wanted to get away with something in New York. It often worked with men, but it was fifty-fifty with women. “So let me ask you this,” I said. “The problem is that the seafood will remind him of his album?”

My mother shot me a glare that said,
Stay out of it, Magnolia
.

The assistant looked me up and down, then rolled her eyes in dismissal. “I thought that part was obvious.”

Her attitude didn’t dissuade me. I was used to fighting tooth and nail to get what I wanted. “But his second album—
Freefall
—had several songs about the Gulf of Mexico, right? Like ‘Beach Baby.’” I started to sing the chorus. “
I want to play all day in the sand, beach baby
.”

The assistant suddenly looked interested. I couldn’t help thinking it was partially because I could actually sing, but then again, we
were
in the country music capital of the world. Almost everyone could sing here. “Yeah.”

“So if he’d like to take the focus off his new album, why don’t you treat the party as a celebration of his career? Concentrate on his successes and call this his experimental album. Play it like he’s so successful he can afford to take risks and be a little fringe with some projects.”

Her eyes lit up. “That might work. Are you a publicist filling in for the caterer?”

“Nope. Just a dried up has-been Broadway actress.”

She acted like she met a couple of those every other day. “Stick around after the party. I suspect Luke will want to talk to you.” Then she spun around and left the room.

My mother was furious. “What in the Sam Hill are you doin’, Magnolia?”

“Helping you, in case you hadn’t noticed. I got her off your back.”

“You were busy trying to find yourself a new career.”

“As a
publicist
?” I asked in disbelief. “I’d rather be forced to sing the national anthem on live TV at five in the morning in a North Dakota blizzard. I just had an idea for how you could satisfy his ego without making a last-minute change to the menu.”

My mother was not appeased. “You had no
right
buttin’ in
my
business.”

“What are you talking about, Lila?” Tilly asked in disbelief. “She smoothed that over.”

Momma’s eyes narrowed. “It wasn’t her place.”

Several of the catering staff had stopped to stare at us, their mouths gaping like catfish as they took in our showdown.

Tilly crossed her arms under her breasts. “The problem is that the both of you are mule-headed—too stubborn to admit when you’re wrong. She saved us a potential beef with the client, and we do
not
want to piss off Luke Powell’s assistant. We need the referrals this job’s gonna get us.”

But my mother’s frown only deepened. “You may have helped this time,” she said, pointing a finger at me, “but you have no idea how we run our business.”

“Maybe not, but I do know how temperamental A-listers can be. I understand how they think. I’ve defused situations liked this as both a waitress and an actor.”

“Because you’re just as self-centered as they are,” Momma spat out, her eyes alight with fury. “You ran off without a backward glance, and now you think you can just waltz in and try to insert yourself into my business. You have another think coming, missy.”

“Lila!” Tilly said in horror, grabbing her arm and tugging her to the side. “Your prodigal girl has finally returned. Why can’t you just be happy about that?”

Momma watched me for several long seconds, then turned away. “We need to unpack the crystal.”

Tilly sighed and patted my arm as my mother walked away. “She’ll come around.”

I wasn’t so sure about that. Which meant I needed to get my shit together fast. Especially if I was paying her rent. I hadn’t even bothered to ask how much she was charging.

Luke’s assistant returned twenty minutes later to inform us that the party theme had indeed been changed and new banners were being rush printed. Thank goodness we didn’t have to deal with anything but the food and booze. The theme shift would be someone else’s headache.

We had forty-five minutes until the party was scheduled to start. The bartending crew had arrived, and they’d checked in with Momma and Tilly before splitting off to set up four stations. One of the men walked past me as I placed the last shrimp in an elaborate display.

Tilly grabbed his arm, and he shifted the box in his arms. “Colt, wait up. Take Magnolia up to help you.”

I sucked in a breath when he turned to face me. He was movie-star handsome, and his bright blue eyes would rival Zac Efron’s. His dark blond hair was cut close on the sides but swept up and gelled on top. He had a light hint of stubble.

A slow, country boy grin spread across his face, and his voice was pure silk and honey when he said, “Magnolia? As in Mrs. Steele’s daughter?”

He had to be a wannabe country singer. He was too smooth to be a Christian artist. Too pretty to be just a song writer. Nashville and Franklin were teeming with all three. You could practically trip over them when you walked out your front door.

“One and the same,” Tilly said, dropping her hold on him and pushing me toward him. “We’re in a bind tonight with Patty being off, so she’ll be filling in. She used to work for us when she was in high school, so it’s been over a dec—”

“A few years,” I interrupted, giving him an innocent smile. No actress ever wanted to volunteer her age, and while I took offense to my mother’s supposition that I always liked to be center stage, I wouldn’t deny a little vanity. “I think Tilly’s sayin’ I’m a little rusty and could use a refresher course.” The words were spoken in a slight drawl, unintentional this time. I’d been in Tennessee for less than four hours, and I was already reverting to my roots.

Colt gave Tilly a mega-watt smile. “Of course. I’d be happy to. Come on, Magnolia, you can help me stock the bar.”

I grabbed a box and followed him through an elaborate dining room with a table that looked like it could easily seat twenty, then into a large round foyer with a gray and white marble floor and a massive chandelier. Large, sweeping spiral staircases flanked each side, leading up to a large landing.

There had to be twenty or more people bustling around, covering high-top tables in crisp white cloths and centerpieces filled with candles and seashells. Bartenders were stocking two bar stations downstairs, and a few of Momma’s staff were setting up the obligatory chocolate fountain.

Colt led me upstairs, shifting the box in his arms, and I struggled to keep up with him.

“Magnolia Steele, huh? I’m surprised you’re working this event. Aren’t you some big Broadway star?”

“No,” I said, trying to keep my tone breezy. “I’ve spent the past eight years auditioning and working my way up the ladder. You know, chorus and secondary roles.”

“But you got the lead in some new play. Lila couldn’t stop talking about it.”

“She did?” I asked before I could stop myself. My mother always seemed so disinterested in my acting aspirations. “I mean . . . yes, but it didn’t work out. I’m taking a little break.”

“But you haven’t been home in years. Why now?”

I forced a smile. “It’s always good to return to your roots, don’t you think? Where are you from, Colt?” If my time with the Broadway crew had taught me anything, it was that people liked to talk about themselves. What better way to deflect his question than to make him the subject of our conversation? “Your accent sounds Georgian, but not Atlanta. Further south.”

His eyes widened in appreciation. “Very good,” he said, coming to a stop beside a bar station on the top level of the party. He hefted the box down next to a couple of others already waiting by the bar. “I’m from a place you’ve probably never heard of—Waycross. How’d you know I was from southern Georgia?”

“You’re right,” I laughed. “Never heard of it. And it’s part of my job to know accents, although I confess I’m a bit obsessed about the differences between southern ones, mostly because a lot of actors try to pull out an Alabama accent for the role of a Texan.” I stopped talking, realizing I’d inadvertently shifted the conversation back to me. “So let me guess why you’re here in Nashville—you’re a country singer. Colt what?”

“Colt Austin. And not just a country singer. A song writer too.” I heard the defensiveness in his voice. “I know what you’re thinkin’.”

“If it’s that you’re here for the same reason every other male in his twenties who wasn’t born in the Nashville area is here, then yeah, but you have the right look, which isn’t true of all of them. The
real
question is if you can sing.”

“Oh . . . I sing. And play the guitar.” He flashed his grin, and this time I noticed the dimples on his cheeks. Sexiness exuded from him like the delicious aroma from cookies fresh out of the oven. I suspected he couldn’t help himself. “I’ll play for you, Magnolia Steele. After we finish tonight.”

Holy seven circles of hell, I didn’t usually fall for his type, but I was feeling a slight tug in my ovaries. I suspected most women probably fell at his feet, and even I was a bit affected by his charm. I put my hands on my hips. “It’s my first night back in town, Colt Austin. What makes you think I want to spend it with you?”

“The fact that you’re working Luke Powell’s party and talkin’ to me now.”

I pulled out my best sassy attitude. “I’m working this party because my momma was in a bind. You’d do the same for your momma, wouldn’t you, Colt?” Any self-respecting southern boy would practically lay gold pavers in a path for his mother if she asked him to. “And as for standing here, talking to you now, Tilly asked me to help you. And since she’s like a second mother to me, I’d do anything
she
asked. Don’t read anything more into it.”

He clasped his hands over his heart. “That was a mortal blow.”

“And yet, somehow you’ll survive. Now tell me what to do.” When he gave me a devilish grin, I added, “To help set up the bar.”

We unpacked the boxes, setting out the various bottles, and Colt flashed me a grin as he arranged his tip jar. It was undoubtedly an open bar party, but I was sure Colt would get plenty of tips from the female guests and a few of the male ones too.

“I better head back to the kitchen. My own job calls.”

“I’ll be watching you, Magnolia Steele.”

I lifted an eyebrow. “I think you’d do better to pay attention to your own job.”

A trickle of guests arrived soon after, and I fell back into serving like a duck took to water. I had so many years of waitressing under my belt that it was practically second nature at this point. The party was in full swing within an hour, but there was still no sign of the host. I was glad Tilly had assigned me to the relatively sedate downstairs living room area. Most of the guests were milling around the upstairs landing, the large entry foyer, or the public area of the pool. I caught Colt watching me from upstairs a few times, but I did my best to ignore him and do my job. The last thing I needed was a man in my life. For the most part, I blended into the background. I caught the attention of a few men, but I was sure none of them recognized me.

Then my luck ran out. I was walking around with a tray of bacon-wrapped shrimp and mini sliders when I heard a voice that sent chills down my back.

“Maggie?”

I froze and turned around in slow motion.

“Tanner.” I hadn’t seen Tanner McKee since the night of our graduation. The night I’d lost my virginity to him. The night my whole life had changed.

His mouth dropped open in shock. “It’s really you.”

“Hey.” I gestured to him with the tray of sliders, the buns scooting dangerously close to the edge. “You look good.” And he did. He was dressed in a gray suit paired with an ice-blue tie. His light brown hair was shorter, but his brown eyes were the same milk chocolate color I remembered. “What are you doing here?”

He swallowed. “
Me
? What are
you
doing here? And working as one of the wait staff . . .” He looked around, definitely confused. “Why aren’t you in New York?”