The True Love Quilting Club Read Free Page B

she waited tables, went to auditions, lived in cramped, cockroach-infested loft apartments with numerous roommates, and she never, ever stopped wishing and hoping and dreaming of her big break. She was going to be a star. Her mother had deemed it so.
    She dated rarely and always casually. Love, she knew, could derail plans for fame faster than a stalled car on an Amtrak rail, and heaven forbid if she ever got pregnant. Unplanned pregnancies had ruined the careers of many an aspiring actress.
    The only time she’d ever come close to losing her heart was at fourteen, back in Twilight. To the first boy she’d ever kissed, dark-eyed, black-haired, enigmatic Sam Cheek. His kiss had been a bottle rocket of sensation, and she’d never forgotten it. Mainly to remind herself of what she had to avoid. That kind of electric chemistry caused nothing but trouble for a girl with big plans.
    Emma could still picture that beautiful boy. Once in a while she wondered what had become of Sam. Did he have a wife? Kids? What had he done with his life? He’dtalked of becoming a veterinarian. Had he achieved his goal? But for the most part, she kept her thoughts where they belonged, on her goal of stardom.
    “Two twenty-five and that’s my final offer,” said the woman behind the glass, snapping Emma back to the present.
    “It’s special,” she whispered.
    “There’s no market for sentimentality.”
    “Please.” Emma blinked. “I need at least three hundred.”
    The woman eyed her. “Let me guess. You came to New York with stars in your eyes. You were gonna make it big on Broadway. Am I close?”
    Numbly, she nodded.
    “You been here awhile. You been knocking on doors and knocking on doors and knocking on doors, and nobody’s answering. Sure, you’ve landed a few parts, off, off, off Broadway that didn’t pay a plug nickel. Or maybe you were even crazy enough to pay to be in some slipshod production. You’ve waited tables and worked as a receptionist and passed out flyers in Times Square. Anything to make a buck.”
    It was an Alice in Wonderland moment. How did the woman know this about her? Was she that obvious? That much of a cliché?
    “Pipe dreams,” the woman intoned.
    “Pardon me?”
    “You’re never gonna make it. If you were, it would have happened by now. You’re not pretty enough. Too short, too redheaded, too fair-skinned. You ain’t connected.”
    “How do you know?” Emma glared, getting pissed off now.
    “If you had connections, you wouldn’t be here pawning sentimental crap.”
    “I could have a drug addiction,” Emma argued.
    “Do you?”
    “No,” she admitted.
    “Pipe dreamer.”
    Her anger flared higher. “Stop saying that.”
    “Dreamer of pipes,” the woman taunted.
    Emma didn’t have to put up with this, even though deep inside she feared the woman’s estimate was far more than accurate. She stuck out her palm. “Just give me the brooch back.”
    “Tell you what,” the crone said. “Because I feel sorry for you, I’ll give you two eighty—”
    “I don’t need your pity, give me my damn brooch back, Hagzilla or I’m calling the cops.”
    An amused smile played over her thin, dry lips. “Three hundred, but only if you promise to give up on this stupid dream and use the money for bus fare back home, Cindy Lou Hoo.”
    “Why the hell do you care?” Emma snapped.
    The woman’s tight, hard eyes grew murky with an unexpected softness. “Because once upon a time, I was you.”
    Emma snorted.
    “You think that’s funny? You don’t believe me?”
    “No, not really.”
    “Hold on, I can prove it.” Hagzilla dug around in a drawer, pulled out a yellowed, tattered playbill. Death of a Salesman , 1989. She flipped to the dog-eared page that listed the cast. “There.” She pointed a grubby finger at a name on the list. “I played Miss Forsythe. On Broadway, and look where I ended up.”
    “Did you have a drug problem?” Emma asked hopefully.
    The woman glared. “Three hundred