Center Stage: Magnolia Steele Mystery #1
give my mother as little fodder for gloating as possible.
    “You lost your job because of a little trip?” she asked in disbelief.
    “It was more than just a little trip.” I’d knocked down part of the set when my understudy—who also filled the role of Girl on Train #3 in the sixth scene of Act One—had started taunting me on stage. I’d lost it and tackled her, knocking over a good bit of the backdrop. Of course my mic had picked up my expletive-laden rant. If my mother found out about that part, there was a good chance she would disown me.
    “Did you embarrass yourself?”
    “You could say that.” Scarlett’s costume was a short, tight, strapless dress, and the understudy had grabbed the front and ripped it down the middle. While topless scenes weren’t unheard of on Broadway, there definitely wasn’t one in the Fireflies at Dawn script. There were more photos and videos of me on the Internet than I could count.
    “Are you going to tell me anything , Magnolia?”
    I looked out the window, taking in the rolling green hills. It was springtime in middle Tennessee, and I’d forgotten how beautiful it was here. “I got fired, Momma. Is that what you wanted to hear? But I’m pretty sure I was going to get fired anyway. My director was about to replace me with his newest conquest.” He always used his muse, and apparently I no longer fit that role.
    “And who was his previous conquest? You?”
    My silence was answer enough.
    “Then I’m glad you didn’t go down without a fight,” she said with a hard edge in her voice.
    I whipped my head around in surprise.
    “Don’t look so shocked, Magnolia. It sounds like that man used you, then tossed you aside for another pretty bauble. I taught you to stand up for yourself. Good for you.”
    Had she known all of the details of the fight— Man on Train #2 and the Conductor in scene six had dragged us apart, but not before Man on Train #2 rounded to second base right in front of the one thousand two hundred six people in the audience—she probably wouldn’t have sounded so proud.
    She’d find out soon enough. Of that I was sure.
    “Have you catered a party since you left?” she asked.
    “No.”
    “You’re to remain in the background, Magnolia. No looking for the spotlight. You’re not center stage at this event.”
    “Momma,” I sighed. “Trust me. That last thing I want to do is draw attention to myself.”
    “You can’t help yourself, darlin’. It’s in your blood . . . your father’s influence.”
    I rolled my eyes. “Not that again.”
    “Which part?” she demanded, narrowing her eyes. “That you can’t help yourself or that your father always demanded to be the center of attention? Both are true, but for the moment, let’s focus on your need for attention.”
    I turned in my seat, my irritation growing. “Need for attention? I told you that I wanted to hide in my room. Does that sound like someone who wants attention?”
    “Like I said, you can’t help yourself, Magnolia.” She waved her hand in my direction. “It just oozes out of you. Like sap from a tree. Or oil from a sausage on the grill.”
    “I could do without the mental image.” I cringed. “Besides, you’ve barely seen me in the past ten years.”
    “And whose fault is that? You refused to even come home for a visit. I have a business to run. I can’t just traipse off to New York whenever I feel like it.” She wrinkled her nose. “All that’s beside the point. Your need for attention is innate and you know it. It’s like breathing to you.”
    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

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