Page 73 of The Cul-de-Sac War

“Well, well, if it isn’t our favorite guy in town.”

A steady stream of Google images flooded his phone, but Chip’s eyes flickered upward.

At the sink stood Dan, Bree’s stepfather, washing his hands beneath a steady flow of water.

“Mr. Leake,” Chip said, lowering his phone. “What a pleasant surprise.”

“Likewise,” he said, turning the faucet knob and reaching for a paper towel. He ripped one off with a glimmer in his eye. “So you’re here to see Bree’s finale. That’s awfully neighborly of you. What would that make this? Two performances in the past four weeks?”

“Oh. Um. Yes. Yes, it is.”

Had Bree told them he’d been to her show?

Why would she do that?

What else had she said about him? And perhaps most importantly, why on earth did that give him the urge to smile? What sort of bizarre, sadistic man was he? The woman ruined your view, man. Don’t feel pleased that she’s talking about you to her parents.

His eyes fell back to his phone and pictures of a theatre with an impressively realistic-looking blue sky for a ceiling. The text fell down the page titled, “The Landmark Fox Theatre: An Adventure in Lights.”

In truth, Chip had planned to slip out after the meeting with Mr. Richardson. He might get to his folks’ in time for the dessert his mother made for family supper. It was cheesecake week. He never missed cheesecake week.

Regardless, he had no intention of experiencing A Midsummer Night's Dream a second time.

“I actually plan to—” But then Chip stopped. He looked up to Dan. Grinned. “You know what? I was just about to buy a last-minute ticket. You wouldn’t mind if I snag a seat by you, would you?”

“By us?” Dan’s eyes lit up. “Oh, of course. That’d be great.”

Two minutes later Chip hummed to himself as he moved back down the hall, skimming the Fox Theatre article along the way:

The historic 4,768-seat theatre of Atlanta, Georgia, has thrilled thousands of entertainment-goers since its erection in the 1920s. Since taking on the whimsical task of creating a skyline effect in 1929, with its sky-blue interior paint and ninety-six 11-watt incandescent bulbs . . .

When he swung open the door to Gilliam Stage, he found Mr. Richardson in the exact position he was in before, staring up at the ceiling as though it truly was a night sky.

Chip slipped beside him, hands clasped behind his back, resuming his position as he looked up. “Now, just thinking here, if you were to go with a trompe l’oeil ceiling simulating that starry midnight sky, I think you would want something special to set you apart from the rest of the world. Have you considered, perhaps, the touch of a sunset?”

“A sunset?” Mr. Richardson’s brow furrowed for a solid minute as he stared up at the ceiling.

“Yes. Perhaps a changing sunset?”

Mr. Richardson pursed his lips.

Finally, uneasily, Chip said, “Or perhaps—”

“A sunset,” Mr. Richardson repeated. “The movement of dawn to dusk.” He dropped his head and stared at Chip. “The changing of the stars. An Appalachian sky.”

“Well,” Chip began.

“And the murals across the walls would represent the changing of the seasons, the local life of the town.” He dropped his head. His voice fell to a whisper as he looked into Chip’s eyes. “But do you think it’s possible?”

Chip recognized that look. It was the look all his clients had when they thought something they wanted was within reach. And all they wanted was to hear their dream was possible.

Chip gave his most confident smile. The smile that nine times out of ten solved whatever problem was standing in his way. “Absolutely. I think that is a terrific idea.”

And frankly, it was. It really was.

“Absolutely,” Mr. Richardson repeated, as though hearing the words but not yet registering them. His eyes shifted to the stage, where cast members were gathering. “Absolutely.”

Suddenly Mr. Richardson swept up Chip’s hand in a hearty grasp and started pumping. “And of course, with a ceiling like that we’d have to change the color of the seating—”