I wrapped my arms around him, glad the kids were heavy sleepers.

“Tomorrow,” I whispered.

NINE

The next morning, I’d agreed to meet with Joanne Claussen to work off some of my volunteer hours. Every family involved in the Snow White production was required to put in at least fifteen hours of volunteer time in some capacity. Jake had done some set arranging and I’d sat at a booth at the grocery store selling tickets, so we were almost done. When I’d seen the request for someone to help with the programs go out on the email loop, I’d immediately responded. Finally, a job I could do from home.

After Jake took Emily to school, I got the other three settling into their projects for the morning. Sophie and Grace were building models of igloos out of sugar cubes and Will was finishing the last of a series of study guide questions on To Kill A Mockingbird.

“How long will you be gone?” Grace asked, pouting. She was still in her pajamas.

“An hour, at most,” I told her.

Sophie had a pile of sugar cubes carefully laid out in front of her. She had the basic shape of her igloo outlined in pencil on a blue piece of cardstock. Will reached across the table and grabbed a sugar cube and popped it in his mouth.

“Hey,” she complained. “That’s the fifth one you’ve eaten!”

Will grinned. “I know. They’re good. They’re like little bites of sugar.”

“That’s because they are,” Grace said loudly. “Don’t you know anything??”

“Enough,” I said. I pulled my sweatshirt over my head and grabbed the keys off the counter. “Will, stop eating their sugar. Girls, do as much as you can on your igloos. I can help when I get back.” I eyed both girls in their flannel pants and pajama tops. “And you both better be dressed by then, too.”

Grace sighed. “We’re homeschooled, Mom. Isn’t staying in pajamas something we’re supposed to do?”

“No,” I said firmly. “Dressed and teeth and hair brushed by the time I get back.” I turned to go, then stopped and spun back around. “And igloos mostly built, too.”

Cream and Sugar was a relatively new coffee shop, nestled in a tiny house just north of downtown Moose River. The owners had spent a small fortune on renovating the turn of the century house and its ornate decor and plush furniture oozed Victorian charm. There were gilt-framed pictures on the walls, shelves showcasing delicate china and silk flowers draped across every horizontal surface.

The shop was empty, save for the two employees behind the counter and a woman at a back table, hunched over a pile of colorful brochures. She looked up and I gave a half wave.

She smiled. “Daisy?” she asked. “I’m Joanne.”

We shook hands and I set my purse down in my chair. “Do you mind if I grab coffee?”

“Of course,” she said. “Take your time.”

I ordered a large coffee at the counter and while I poured creamer into the mug, I stole a glance at Joanne. I didn’t know her or her kids. She had long, curly brown hair, a round face and lots of wrinkles around her green eyes. She wore a crew necked Moose River High School sweatshirt and a baggy pair of mom jeans. An uncapped bottle of water sat next to the pile of brochures.

I took my coffee over to the table, set my purse on the polished wood floor and sat down in the empty wing back chair. “Okay. Now I’ll be properly caffeinated.”

She smiled and pointed at the water. “I’ve given it up. For the moment, anyway.”

“I am pretty sure I would shrivel up and perish if I gave up coffee,” I said, clutching the warm mug in my hands. “It’s a food group for me.”

Joanne laughed. “I hear you. But I managed to give up soda six months ago, so now I’m giving going caffeine free a run. We’ll see what happens.”

“Good for you,” I said, sipping from the mug and not feeling even a little guilty about it. If she wanted to make her own life miserable by giving up the wonderful, delightful treat that coffee was, that was her business. I’d stop drinking coffee when I was dead and not a day before.

“Thank you for volunteering for this,” Joanne said. “I didn’t know if anyone would be interested and it’s not really my forte, so I’m grateful for the help.”

“Of course,” I said. “You’re actually the media director for the theater, right?”

“Just for this play,” she corrected. “My son is playing a forest rabbit. At the time, I thought this sounded like an easy job.” She gave me a rueful smile. “I was wrong.”

“I’m sure,” I said. “I mean, I’m sure it’s a ton of work.”

“Yes, it has been,” she said, nodding. She tugged on a curl, then twined it around her finger. “Eleanor has...lots of ideas about how to get the word out. And she wants every seat filled for each performance.” Her smile dimmed. “Not exactly an easy task.”

“So what all do you have to do? As the media director?”

“Anything related to media,” she answered. She held out her hand, tapping a finger as she rattled off her responsibilities. “I’m responsible for all publicity: hanging posters and writing press releases and contacting news outlets. Eleanor has asked me to seek out non-traditional outlets, too, to get the word out. I’m helping out with ticket sales, as well.” She gestured at the pile of brochures. “And I’m responsible for the performance programs.”

“That’s a lot of volunteer hours,” I said, raising my eyebrows.

She nodded. “It is. Apparently, it’s been a paid position in the past. But the old media director was fired and Eleanor decided it would be a volunteer position for each new production.” She managed a smile. “Which makes me the proverbial guinea pig.”

“Yikes,” I said. I picked up one of the programs. “Can I take a look?”

“Please,” she said, waving her hand at them. “These are all just programs from other area theaters, as well as older ones that Eleanor has done. I have no idea what I’m doing, so I thought I’d see what other people have out together. We pretty much have the latitude to do whatever we’d like.”

I paged through the one I’d picked up, one for a Winnie The Pooh production. I picked up a couple of the others. They were fairly standard programs – in addition to scene information, there were ads, the cast list and bios, thank yous and a few photos.

“I know this isn’t rocket science,” Joanne said. “But Eleanor has been...very assertive...in that she wants the performances packed.”

“Always nice to have a full theater,” I said, setting down the brochures.

“Well, yes,” Joanne said, her eyes flitting between me and the programs. “But I think she’d really like to see some increased...revenue.”

“From ticket sales?”

“From anywhere,” she answered. “I’m not sure the reason, but she’s been very insistent about driving up revenue.”

That was interesting. I wondered if the theater company was hurting, or if this production was more expensive, or if there were other reasons. But Eleanor also just struck me as the kind of woman who was a little greedy and who would love to brag to others about how all of her shows had sold out.

“Well, alright, then I guess we better figure out what we want to do,” I said. “What can I do?”

“Do you have any design experience?” she asked hopefully.

“I’ve done, like, Christmas cards,” I said. Her face fell and I quickly added, “And I’ve helped my kids with a few things, and put some stuff together for classes I’ve taught. And we have Photoshop on our computer. I’m not sure if that counts as experience.”

“You’re ahead of me,” she said. “Would you be willing to take a crack at designing the program?”

“Uh, sure, I guess. No promises as to what it will look like.” I made a mental note to ask Will what kind of experience he had in designing graphics on the computer. He still needed more punishment for hacking into Emily’s stuff.

“I assure you it will be better than anything I can come up with,” she said. She pulled out a thin folder from beneath the brochures and slid it across the table to me. “This is everything that has to be included in the program. Names, our advertisers, everything that Eleanor would like included. Let me go over everything with you so you know what’s what.”