He scowled at her briefly before returning his attention to Simone. “What can I tempt you with?”

“Live a little, Simone,” her father said, his words encouraging despite his tone implying she didn’t know how to—not any longer anyway.

A hurt expression flitted across Simone’s face for a second, and Suzanne shot her father a stop-being-a-dick look as she rubbed her hand on her mother’s back. “Have the piña colada, Mom,” she said, her tone gentler and a little more teasing. “You said you were willing to try anything, remember?”

Her mother looked at her father, then nodded firmly. “All right, then, Tucker. Looks like I’m being outvoted.”

“Hey, if you’re really willing to try anything,” he said, “I can recommend the line-dancing classes.”

Her mother’s gaze skimmed to where the boot scootin’ was going on. She looked like she’d rather eat a live bug. There was trying new things and then there was line dancing. Even her father, who’d been advocating for her to step outside the box, looked horrified at the prospect.

“I think I’ll start with baby steps,” Simone said with a laugh as she returned her attention to Tucker. “Get me one of those piña coladas.” She dipped her head briefly to the side in the direction of the Rat Pack and said, “You can give them my fruit.”

“Much obliged, ma’am,” the one called Bob said with a chuckle.

“Hey,” the one called Ray said, narrowing his eyes. “Aren’t you Simone St. Michelle?”

To say everyone was surprised by the observation was a gross understatement. So much so that there were a few drawn-out beats of silence among them all.

Suzanne was used to her mother being recognized wherever they went, but she’d never expected anyone from Credence to know Simone St. Michelle. It wasn’t that Suzanne thought people in rural areas were ignorant or didn’t appreciate art. But sculpture was such a niche genre, and people rarely knew the names behind modern pieces in galleries.

Even though her mother was a veritable rock star of modern sculpture.

Her mother recovered first from the growing silence. “Why, yes I am,” she said, obviously thrilled.

“I thought you looked familiar.” Ray beamed at Simone as he slid off his stool. “May I shake your hand?”

Her mother nodded. “Of course.” She turned in her seat, holding out her hand for Ray, who took it the second he got close enough.

“It’s an honor to meet you.” Ray encased Simone’s hand and placed his other over the top like he never wanted to let her go. “Bob,” he said, “we have a bona fide artiste in our presence.”