by Megan Chance
“It was wonderful tonight,” I said fervently.
“You say that every night.”
“It’s always true. It’s a lovely play. And you’re perfect in it.”
“Because it was written for me,” she said, and then, among the chaos of stagehands and dressers and supernumeraries, she said quietly, “It reminds me.”
She surprised me; we did not usually speak of it. “I know. But we’ve made him famous. There isn’t anyone in Seattle who doesn’t know his name.”
She said nothing. Then a sigh, and she squeezed my hand and pushed from the wall. “You know, as much as I love this dress, I’m dying to be out of it. I won’t be long. Don’t let Jack talk you into going ahead. I don’t care if he insists he’ll leave some absinthe for me.”
“I won’t,” I promised.
I watched her as she went down the hall to her dressing room, feeling the race of her heart as if it were my own. Once she was there, she paused, her hand on the door handle, and turned to look into the darkness beyond. I knew better than anyone the ghosts that lurked in this hallway, the ones who called to her, the truths they spoke. I’d heard them myself.
And I was relieved when she turned her head away.
Acknowledgments
As always, I owe a great debt to Suzanne O’Neill at Crown, who managed once again to find the heart of this story, and to Kristin Hannah, who never fails to remind me “it’s about focus.” Also many thanks to Kim Witherspoon and Julie Schilder, and the staff at Inkwell Management, for all their efforts on my behalf, and to Elizabeth DeMatteo, Jena MacPherson, Melinda McRae, Liz Osborne, and Sharon Thomas for their unwavering encouragement and support.
This book could not have been written without the online resources of the Seattle Public Library and the University of Washington Library—both a researcher’s dream.
And of course, I owe the greatest debt of all to my husband, Kany, and to Maggie and Cleo, who put up with a great deal and still manage to love me anyway.
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