"No, the caterers do that. We merely supervise. And we get to sit in on the rehearsals."

"Why would we want to do that?"

"Because I've run through most of the most expensive caterers around here for Paul's annual dinner for his managers. I want to try out some new ones."

"I meant, why would we want to watch the rehearsals? Eating is fine."

"I thought it might be interesting," Shelley said. "I've never seen anything being rehearsed. Do they change things as they go along? Are there some scenes that look good on paper and just don't work—"

"I don't like amateur theater," Jane interrupted. "We don't have to sit through the whole rehearsal every evening, do we?"

"What's wrong with amateur theater?"

"The actors are — well — amateurs. They always

overact. They shout and gesture madly so they

can be heard and seen from the back row." "How do you know this?"

"I took a theater class in college," Jane admitted. "I thought it would be a slam-dunk class I could ace. Instead, I had to attend, and review, every single play and opera the school and local community produced. It was among the most annoying, stupid things I've ever done to myself."

"Don't worry. We don't have to show up early. The snacks are served around eight P.M. We can arrive at seven-thirty. I'd like to watch, though. You could take your laptop and work on your next book in the greenroom, if you'd like."

"My next book?"

"Aren't you already thinking about another book?" Shelley asked. "You will sell this one, and the publisher will probably want another."

Jane set her fork down and said with chagrin, "You sometimes spook me out, Shelley. I am thinking of a next book. I've started making notes about other characters."

There. She'd said it. Out loud. She was going to do this. Now that she'd admitted it to Shelley, she was committed to do so.