Maybe I should tell Marshall? For all his recent coolness, I still trusted him. If he took my witch sightings seriously, it would be permission for me to as well.

“Did you see that woman?” I asked. She was already out of sight.

“The meemaw?”

“Did she look like a . . . ?” I couldn’t bring myself to say the word “witch.” Marshall didn’t have time for this nonsense any more than the actual police would. “No, it’s stupid. Never mind.” He was concerned, though, leaning toward me like the old friend that he was. It felt like an opening to fix whatever this breach was, and surely that mattered more than a bad dream. I touched his arm. “Do you have to go straight back to work, or can you stay and watch rehearsal with me?”

He blinked and stepped back. I could almost feel a wall of cool air whoosh back between us. “They let you do that?” There was a slight emphasis on the “you,” as if he thought I’d finagled some rare privilege.

“Any parent with a kid in the show can,” I assured him. I wasn’t sure if this was technically true, but a lot of moms did it. “If we sit up in the balcony, Ms. Taft won’t even notice.”

Marshall’s eyebrows came together. “There’s a balcony?”

“Yes. You haven’t gone in to see the performance space?” The new PAC had been open for only eight weeks. Grease, Junior would be the first middle-school show on the big stage. “It seats five hundred.”

“Practically Broadway. That’ll be fun for the kids,” Marshall said. “And I bet Anna-Claire will be front and center every show.”

It sounded like a compliment, but Marshall knew that Trey’s family had paid for a good bit of the construction. Trey and his sister were both alumni, and our nieces attended high school here. Was Marshall implying that the Cabbats were buying roles for Anna-Claire?

I felt my cheeks go pink, indignant. Marshall had been at work during auditions, but I’d watched. After Anna-Claire sang “There Are Worse Things I Could Do,” I’d heard a mom behind me whisper to her friend, “Wow. Guess we know who’ll be Rizzo.”

I’d agreed. I was biased, sure, but I’d also majored in Theatre. I’d had lead parts in a ton of shows, starting in middle school myself. I still loved theatre, and Trey got the whole family season tickets to the Fox and the Alliance for my birthday every year. I’d taken the girls up to New York for Broadway weekends ever since they were old enough to sit through a show. I’d done and seen enough to know that my talented daughter had beaten out every other kid, including his, that day. By a mile.

I stopped myself before I said any of this to Marshall, though. Anna-Claire had polished her audition for weeks with her vocal coach, Mr. Reggie, who’d been on Broadway himself. He cost a hundred and fifty bucks an hour.

Cara was as naturally gifted as my kid, but her talent was raw. Early in college I’d lost parts to girls who’d grown up with money for drama camp, acting classes, vocal training. I remembered being eighteen years old and already feeling so behind.

So I only said, “Well, I’m going to watch,” and picked up Robert’s carrier seat. He made a pah noise. “Almost suppertime,” I promised him.

To my surprise, Marshall asked, “So where are the stairs?”

I was still smarting, but I gave him the warmest smile I could. “This way.”

In the balcony Peyton was already sitting in the back row, reading. I set Robert’s carrier down beside her. If he started squalling, I wanted a straight shot out into the stairwell, so we wouldn’t disturb rehearsal.

I’d brought his bottle in a warming sleeve, and as I got it out, Peyton asked, “Can I feed Bumper?”

“Robert. Sure.” I peeled him out of his chair and settled him in her arms.

Marshall had made his way to the middle of the balcony’s front row. I went down to join him, but I sat on the end, still smarting from his insinuation.

The performance was a week away, so they were running full scenes. They were in the park now, and Anna-Claire was singing “Look at Me, I’m Sandra Dee.” It was cute, though in this junior version there was no mention of drinking, smoking, or swearing, much less sex. Instead Rizzo mocked Sandy for her good grades and being a “square.”

As Anna-Claire vamped across the stage, I realized the bit about not “coming across” had survived the edits. I don’t think Ms. Taft, who was in her twenties, knew it was sexual. And neither did our new young headmaster apparently, because he had approved the script. St. Alban’s was Episcopalian, quite liberal for a church-run school—but not that liberal.

I shot an amused smile at Marshall, but he was watching Cara dance with the other Pink Ladies.

Peyton came up and joined me. I glanced back at Robert’s carrier seat, still by the back row.

“Asleep?” I asked quietly.

“Dead to the world.”

“Did he burp?”

“Twice, Mom.” Peyton gave me her mild version of her elder sister’s eye roll. “I know how to do Bumper.”

“Robert.”

“She really is talented,” Marshall said in a gruff whisper. He was looking at Anna-Claire now, his face impassive.

If this was an apology, I’d take it. “Cara is, too. Her big number is in the sleepover scene. She kills it.”

The director called the kids in for a huddle. I glanced back over my shoulder. The car seat sat sideways to me, so all I saw was Robert’s feet in their puppy socks, but this was his biggest nap of the day. I could probably click the carrier into the car and drive home before he woke up.

I told Marshall, “I’m going to clean up the greenroom.” I knew from experience the kids would have stuffed fruit-snack wrappers all down in the couch cushions.

He was already rising. “I got it.”

“You did the setup,” I reminded him.

“Stay. That table’s heavy.” He turned toward the other aisle so he wouldn’t have to climb over my knees.

“Want to help?” I asked Peyton. No response until I put my hand in between her face and the page. “Hey. You coming down?”

“I’m going to read here until it’s really time to go. A-C takes forever to peel herself off Greer.”

“Anna-Claire,” I corrected. Honestly, “A-C” was as bad as “Bumper.” “Your sister is not a cooling system.”