“I can’t!” she wailed, pressing close to him. “I have rehearsal until nine o’clock. I’m the lead so I can’t skip out.”
“You’re in the play?”
“You know I am! I told you last month I was going to be booked up with rehearsals in December. But I’m free after that. Isn’t there any way you can get rid of her?”
Michael Shannon, obviously fed up with waiting, laid on the horn. Hudson gritted his teeth. “Not until tomorrow but I’ll call you, I promise. Do you want a lift to the theater?”
Jocelyn opened her eyes in mock horror. “Are you kidding? That woman looks like she wants to suck the flesh from my bones. I’ll catch up with you later. Call me!”
She jogged across the street, her blonde ponytail bouncing, her cute little bottom wiggling in her yoga pants. Hudson sighed. Maybe she was too young for him. Was he becoming one of those men who chased college girls? Hudson shuddered. No, he was not. For one thing, Jocelyn wasn’t a college girl. For another thing he had been perfectly satisfied with Jocelyn until Michael came along. He never noticed those ear muffs before....
Hudson could feel Michael’s censorious eyes boring holes into his back. He swiveled on his heel and marched to the truck. Oh, he was going to enjoy this. “I forgot to tell you,” he said as he turned the ignition. “Mandrake Falls’ amateur theater company is rehearsing this afternoon. I signed you up to sit in and give them a critique. All part of the community service. It’ll knock two hours off your sentence in addition to what you did today. I’ll drive you over.”
“I’m not sure I understand,” Michael said. Her voice was low and civil. “When was this arranged?”
“This morning at church. Letitia Murdoch asked if you’d mind assessing their Christmas production and I said you would be delighted. She isn’t aware that you have no choice. The only people who know the terms of your community service sentence are me and Sheriff McIntyre. As far as Mandrake Falls is concerned you’re here to research a role. The theatrical society think you’re a really big person for doing this—so don’t blow it.”
Her lovely smooth jaw clenched. “Simon needs to get home.”
“I’ll take care of Simon.” Hudson swung the pick-up into the Sunday afternoon traffic. “You go and have fun. I think you’re really going to enjoy this gig.”
“Well, sure, I’d love to help out, one day. Just not today when I’ve been up since seven and we have a tree to decorate and I’d kill for a glass of wine and a hot bath.”
“This is community service, Michael. Your comfort isn’t a factor in determining your assignments. Keep in mind, I’ll be reporting on your attitude as well.”
Michael’s eyes silently blasted Hudson. “You’re trying to get rid of me so you can oh I don’t know—save the environment by removing one article of Jocelyn’s clothing at a time.”
He grinned. “Of course I’m trying to get rid of you. Have you met yourself? But Jocelyn’s in the play too so I guess I’ll be buying Christmas tree decorations instead of getting—ah—saving the environment.”
Hudson shut his mouth after that and kept his eyes on the road.
The theater was in an odd location outside of town. Mandrake Falls usually loved a good show but the lights were off more than they were on these past few years in the old building. He turned to Michael. “Remember they’re amateurs. Go easy on them. Try not to be so you.”
“What part does Miss Tate play?”
“I don’t know. The lead, I think. Why?”
Michael Shannon did not stoop to revenge. Michael Shannon would never stoop to revenge. Michael Shannon was a professional. However, this was her chance to show that ear-muff wearing wannabe that soap opera or no soap opera, Michael Shannon was one of the best in the business.
A young man came trotting down the steps, waving a clipboard. “Miss Shannon! Miss Shannon, I thought that was you! Your timing is perfect. We were just about to start.”
Michael and Hudson climbed out of the truck and joined him on the sidewalk “Michael, this is Jeremy Marks. He works for the state park on occasion and he’s active in the theater.”
The young man pushed his glasses up on his nose and shifted the clipboard to his other hand. “I just want to say how much we appreciate this, Miss Shannon.” Jeremy flushed and gave Michael a broad smile. “Professional direction. Wow. I’m the director this season—strictly amateur.” The young man blushed furiously, coloring to the roots of his hair. “Stage management is my first love. That was my old job, actually, until Rosamund quit and they asked me to step in and well, the show must go on.”
“You’ve only got her for a couple of hours, Jeremy. I’ll be back to pick Miss Shannon up at six. We’re decorating the tree tonight and Simon needs dinner.” Hudson thought he heard Michael’s teeth grinding in her head.
Jeremy flushed an alarming shade of red. He looked like he was going to pass out from agony. “Yes, of course,” he stammered. “It’s all under control, ah time-wise. We look forward to hearing what Miss Shannon has to say. We know we’re asking a lot.” Jeremy could hardly meet their eyes behind the lenses of his glasses.
Michael gently disengaged the clipboard from Jeremy’s grip. “I can do better than a couple of hours, Jeremy. I will oversee the entire rehearsal tonight.”
Hudson sucked in a breath. “I wish you could, Miss Shannon, but I have to pick you up at six for the tree trimming and then there’s that thing you have to do.”
“Oh, I’m sure you can take care of that thing just fine without me. Don’t worry about picking me up. One of the cast members will give me a lift to the cabin after rehearsal. I believe the actress playing the lead knows the way.”
“I can give you a ride, Miss Shannon.” Jeremy pushed his eyeglasses up on his nose and bobbed his head excitedly. “This is great! Just great! I’ll let the cast know.” He darted up the stairs back into the theater.
“Good-bye, Hudson. Have fun tonight. You know, I think I’m going to enjoy this gig.” Tossing her head regally, Michael climbed the steps and followed Jeremy inside.
Chapter V: Five Golden Rings
THE THEATER was in darkness. The stage lights flared over the cast as they assembled, prepared to run through the play. For all her big talk, a thrill of terror went through Michael. She was an actress, but it had been a long, long time since she worked in live theater. And she had never directed anything in her life. She was a soap opera actress—she didn’t know how to coax a nuanced performance from a stage play! What if they’re doing Shakespeare? Or Dickens! She was a fraud and soon Jocelyn Tate and the whole town would know it.
Dear God, get me through this alive and I swear I will never let my temper get the better of me again.
The building was a glorious old lady of a theater, built at the turn of the last century by the look of the decor. Gold-painted cherubs clustered the cornices and painted panels of women in Greek dress ringed the audience. It was furnished with squeaky red leather seats and a fabulous blue carpet that was now threadbare. Original carvings curved over the proscenium arch. At some point in Mandrake Falls history there must’ve been a lively theater-going population to support this wealth. Michael took a seat close to the stage and hunched over Jeremy’s notes in the spill of light.
The Gift of the Magi. The script was clipped to the board. Not Dickens or Shakespeare but an adaptation of O. Henry’s short story. Hallelujah. The original setting was 1905 which fit the theater perfectly; it wouldn’t be difficult to draw the audience into the time period.
The curtain opened.
No. Oh dear.
She bit her lip, eyeing the stage setting critically. Contemporary furniture in a period play? No, it would have to go. Too jarring. Michael bent over the clipboard to write the note down. At this point in production, the actors probably wouldn’t need much direction. Jocelyn was cast as Della, the young wife who sells her hair. An attractive but vague young man was playing Young Jim, her husband. Jeremy was right—he wasn’t much of a director.
There were some problems in the casting that would require some diplomacy to handle. Jocelyn, surprisingly, was not bad. She had some acting mannerisms that were distracting but cure-able. Michael could get a performance out of her. She made a few more notes on a new page.
By the time the first act was over Michael had a cramp in her hand and her brain darted over remedies for what was a very troubled production. Some of the cast members were still on book, referring to their scripts during the rehearsal. She understood that many of them were amateur actors with full-time jobs but they would have to learn their lines—pronto.
Jeremy squinted against the light to find Michael’s face. She adjusted her expression so as not to alarm him. The cast stood in silent expectation on the stage while Jeremy introduced her. Jocelyn played with her hair but seemed otherwise unimpressed.
“When do you open?” she asked.
“Our first performance is Tuesday.”
“This Tuesday?” She met Jeremy’s eyes aghast. “As in December twenty-third?”
“Yes, this is our Christmas production. We have eight performances in all. We’re sold out.” Jeremy paled, bobbing his head. “Why, what’s wrong with it?”
Oh my God—everything. Then she remembered what Hudson said about this being an amateur group. They needed positive reinforcement—not shock and awe.
“Nothing,” she said quickly. “Nothing that a little true grit can’t fix. Don’t worry. We’ll get the bugs worked out in plenty of time. Okay, everyone, if you’ll please get your notebooks out—oh, you didn’t bring notebooks—all right then, a piece of paper and something to write with—I don’t care if it’s a crayon—and take a seat while I go through these notes with you.” She sat on the edge of the stage and flipped to page one. “Those of you still using your scripts are now off-book. I don’t want to see any scripts in hand from this point forward.”
An older man stepped forward. With his dyed black hair and elaborate moustache, Michael suspected Mr. Raquette enjoyed some notoriety with the older women of Mandrake Falls. He said genially, “I carry my script until the last possible moment, my dear. I work best that way.”
Michael wasn’t fooled by the ease of Mr. Raquette’s manner. Behind his peaceable tone was a stubbornness she heard loud and clear. She squinted at the actor. The situation called for tact and diplomacy—neither of which were her strong suits. How did her director on Tomorrow Never Comes deal with temper tantrums? “Mr. Raquette, that script isn’t helping you at all. You already know your lines; I could see that during the run-through. You’re using the script to shield you from interacting on stage. As soon as you’ve finished speaking, your head goes down into the book and we lose your character.”
“I assure you that on opening night, I will give my all to the production.”
“But we need your all now, Mr. Raquette. Your role may be small but it is pivotal. We need to know what you are thinking in character, even when you aren’t speaking. Could you help us with that, sir?”
“I see, I see,” said the older man, pulling on his moustache. “You are saying that even if I don’t have any lines in a scene, I am still acting?”
Michael breathed, gratefully. “Yes, that is it, exactly.”
“Well, certainly, none of us should be on book if that is the case.” He glanced severely at the rest of the cast.
“Thank you, Mr. Raquette.” Michael nodded at the actors encouragingly. “Most of you are ready to set aside your scripts. For those of you still unsure, Jeremy will prompt you if you run into trouble.”
Michael turned to the stage manager. “Jeremy, the set is working against you. This is a period play and you’ve got contemporary furniture here. Unless you are planning to rewrite the dialogue, you’re better off with traditional furnishings to set the stage. Get rid of this stuff and find something older.”
“Miss Shannon!”
Michael almost jumped out of her skin. She turned and squinted into the dark balcony. “Is that you, Mrs. Murdoch? You scared the hell out of me. Have you been there all this time?”
“I have,” boomed the voice from the void. “And as much as I appreciate your input, Miss Shannon, there is a limit to how many of your suggestions we can implement. The furniture in this production belongs to the Society. It was purchased especially for its durability and adaptability in 1971 and has been used in a wide variety of productions with enormous success.”
Michael didn’t intend to step on any toes, but if she was going to genuinely help Mandrake Falls Theatrical Society with this production, some toes were going to get crushed. “Well, it’s not going to be used in this production. I want heavy, dark, Victorian furniture and the more worn, the better. This story is about a young couple with no money.” Michael turned to Jeremy. “Get a couple of stage hands to put this stuff in storage. We’ll work with crates for now.” With her instruction hanging in the air, the cast shifted and tried to look anywhere but at Michael and Murdoch. Jeremy stood rooted to the spot, shiny with perspiration and obviously uncertain of what to do next.
“Where do you propose the new set of furniture should come from, Miss Shannon?” Murdoch’s voice intoned. “We’ve never had a show go over budget and we are not about to start now.”
Michael tried to look appalled. “Of course not, Mrs. Murdoch. I noticed that Mandrake Falls has an antiques store. I believe that if Jeremy asks nicely they’ll be willing to loan the necessary furnishings for the run of the show in exchange for advertising in the program. The Society won’t have to spend a dime.”
Jeremy’s head bobbed. “Scout Rutherford is the owner of Antique Scout. She’s Mrs. Dean now; she and Ryder got married this summer. Ryder knows me from my work with the forestry service, and Scout’s mom, Lydia, is a patron of the theatrical society. So, um, yeah.”
“Wonderful, everyone knows everyone. Gotta love a small town. There shouldn’t be any problem.” Michael looked over her notes. “You know what we need, Jeremy, but see if you can get the set dressing as well. Curtains, pillows, dishes and other props—tell Scout what’s-her-name that the theater’s insurance will cover any breakage or damage.” Michael sought Mrs. Murdoch’s shadowy form at the back of the theater. “Is that correct, Mrs. Murdoch?”
Letitia Murdoch nodded and waved to Jeremy. “Yes, yes. Let’s get on with it.”
Jeremy jumped to attention, signaling the crew to clear the stage. As the stage crew removed the furniture, Michael conferred with Jeremy about building platforms and risers to set off the different areas of the stage visually and physically. He was so excited about her suggestions that Michael suspected he’d been desperate for an excuse to escape his directing duties. He bustled away, pulling together a crew to inventory the set building shop. A lot of what she asked for might be on hand in storage.
It was amazing what a little diplomacy could accomplish! The toe stomping went much better than Michael expected. Speaking of which.... She examined the feet of the cast members critically. “I want everyone to change into the shoes you’ll be wearing in the show.” Michael eyed Jocelyn’s footwear. “Especially you, Jocelyn.”
“You want me to change my shoes?” The girl smirked. “It doesn’t make any difference what I have on my feet. No one is looking at my feet.”
“That’s a sign of your inexperience. What you have on your feet affect how you move on stage and therefore your character development. Those mukluks you have on are dragging you down. Della is a vibrant young woman and you’re moving like a world-weary crop picker.”
Michael heard snorts of laughter from the other cast members but before Jocelyn could feel singled out, she added, “The rest of you aren’t doing much better. I’ll give you five minutes to change and then we’ll go from the top. And I want it loud! Mrs. Murdoch is at the back of the theater and she expects to hear every word.”
Michael slumped to her seat as the cast filed off stage. This community service gig was not bad, she thought. She’d chained herself to a tree to get back in the spotligh
t, but Michael was beginning to suspect there was more to life than fame. In fact, fame was becoming a real pain in the ass. Running after it, running away from it, obsessing about it—it felt good to give up the spotlight to someone else for a change.
Not that this cast would shine like diamonds over Broadway. With less than two days before opening night, the show was a mess. Michael tried to shrug off the responsibility. It was not her problem how Mandrake Falls Theatrical Society fared. She would get them on their feet, smooth out the rough edges and give Jeremy some tips on how to direct them through the run.
Would it be enough? Not bloody likely.
Did she care?
Yes, she realized to her surprise. She did.
SIMON WAS already in bed when Jeremy dropped her off at the cabin and Hudson had decorated the tree after a fashion. She wasn’t sure what fashion it was, but the lights were very pretty and the tinfoil balls didn’t look too much like balls of tinfoil. The strings of popcorn were festive. Hudson had cleaned the kitchen and opened a bottle of wine and set two glasses on the coffee table. A fire crackled on the hearth. He was stretched out on the sofa, the Gazette tented over his chest, fast asleep.
She took off her parka, shook it free of snow and hung it up on a peg near the door. She had a feeling that other than the opening night, she wouldn’t be wearing her fur coat anytime soon.
Michael flopped down in the armchair and looked over the scene. “Very romantic, Mr. Grace,” she observed wryly. Did he expect Jocelyn to throw over rehearsal for a night with him?
She poured a glass of wine. It was only nine-thirty but it felt like midnight. It must be true what they say about country air—it puts one to sleep. Except that she wasn’t sleepy. When was the last time she’d felt so creative and challenged? She promised to oversee the rehearsal tomorrow night. In fact, she more or less insisted they accept her help. It was quite exciting because Michael could make it to opening night on December twenty-third before Leroy arrived to pick her up at midnight. She’d actually get to see her ideas put into action.
The Way Home: Winter (Mandrake Falls Series Romance Book 3) Page 6