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Page 11
night, slept all day. Gradually, she'd been bothered less by the haunting words.
"How nice that you can nap on a plane," her seatmate said. "I never can. Do you live in Pittsburgh?"
"No," Mariah said, giving no further information. Although the elderly lady seemed pleasant, Mariah did not want to get involved in a conversation. She'd had no business sleeping on the plane. She had work to do.
"I'm going there to visit my grandchildren," the woman continued.
"How nice." Mariah opened the tray for the middle seat and moved everything from hers onto it. She unhooked her seat belt and squeezed forward, reaching beneath the seat before her to pull out her Lemoncake Films tote bag.
Lemoncake. She'd done projects for the small, independent production company for a couple of years, and no one yet had told her the genesis of the name. She suspected it was because svelte Angela Corbin, the company's president, chief producer and a former actress, was a closet cake eater.
On the other hand, it could have been more complicated: when life hands you a lemon of a script, add talented ingredients, throw in some sweetener and, voilà, sell the world a darned good lemoncake of a movie.
"They're six and four," said the woman beside her as Mariah removed a FedEx envelope and stuffed the tote back under the seat.
"Pardon?" Mariah didn't know what she was talking about.
"My grandchildren. Bobby and Missy. I have their pictures right here."
Forcing herself not to be rude, Mariah looked at the proffered photos, making appropriate admiring noises. Then she opened the envelope.
Inside was the letter from Angela that had so startled her that morning. She'd been working with a representative of the Louisiana Film Commission, scouting locations in New Orleans for an earthy romantic comedy that had captured Angela's attention.
The package had arrived at her hotel just as she'd been

 
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