Page 64 of The Cul-de-Sac War

“Good stage smile, Bree!” Birdie yelled again into her ear with another thumbs-up. “Too big, maybe, but good to see you’ve been working on it!”

Birdie moved to the front of the group. She raised her hands and rested them on her waist, feet in position, chin raised. Everyone else followed.

Birdie waited four beats and gave a sharp nod.

And as if it couldn’t get any louder, the mass tap dancing began.

And singing.

They were a level 8 earthquake in tap shoes.

Out of the corner of her eye she saw Mrs. Lewis step onto her front porch in her bathrobe. She gave Bree a little wave.

Bree waved back and kept tapping.

Flap-flap-step-step-brush-hop-step

Flap-shuffle-ball change-brush heel

Flap-flap-brush-hop-step-ball change

Bree followed along with the steps, stumbling every few beats as she strained her neck to look into Chip’s window. Every time she managed to catch a glimpse of him, she lost her place and needed at least eight beats to get back into rhythm.

“Brush hop left,” Luke said after Bree missed her turn and they collided.

Bree stumbled back to position.

It didn’t matter though, because through the window, she saw what she’d been hoping to see. Her smile widened as he moved to the window. With a perplexed expression, he watched the performance.

Their eyes locked.

Bree saw curiosity in his gaze. Some daring. As if he wanted to say, And what are you up to now, Miss Bree Leake of 425 Stonewall Heights?

And then, to her utter delight, she saw him reach into his pocket. Pull out, at exactly 12:03 p.m., his phone.

And, with recognition snapping into place, stare at her.

Chapter 12

Chip

Chip fumbled for the Accept button on his phone—the movement he’d been waiting to make all morning. Right now he could barely hear himself think, let alone concentrate on a potentially life-changing phone call. He was supposed to be an organized and successful businessman. But what about the insane, musical-twist-on-a-tailgate-party currently shaking down his house?

Chip stared at the group sashaying in a circle full of jazz hands. How would he ever explain this?

The phone rang a second time. He moved away from the raging party and toward another part of the house, dodging paint buckets and chop saws and panels of Sheetrock he had yet to install in the dining room. He stopped in the corner of the dining room, standing at the farthest square foot possible from the noise. When it rang a third time, he pressed Accept.

And magically, as if God and His angels had thrown down the Cone of Silence over his house, the music stopped.

“Chip McBride here,” Chip answered in his most clipped-yet-friendly, easygoing-yet-professional voice.

An eruption of trumpets and drums and tap shoes blasted through the walls again. He slid toward the kitchen.

“Chip, it’s Clarence Richardson. How are you?”

“Oh, Mr. Richardson,” Chip said, scrambling to open the refrigerator. He opened it and stuck his head inside, next to a gallon of milk. “Doing well. Glad you called.”

“Yes, well, I’m sorry to say I missed seeing your painting at the King Museum yesterday evening. I know some young artists can get bashful about an unfinished product on display, but still, I had hoped you would understand the spirit of the event.”