Page 79 of No Offense

“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. Heiswearing 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. Ofcourse 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, almostfourmonths,” 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 aboutthe 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!”