by Karis Walsh
Set the Stage
Emilie Danvers wins a place in the Oregon Shakespeare Festival’s company and gets a second chance to launch her acting career. She’s vowed never to repeat the mistakes she made the first time: no following her heart, no putting herself second to someone else, no relationship drama. She won’t let any woman keep her from reconnecting with her dreams.
Arden Philips has stood on the outskirts of the festival for years, tending the gardens of nearby Lithia Park. She’s seen actresses come and go and only allows herself the occasional dalliance. But when she comes across Emilie rehearsing on a mossy riverbank, Arden realizes her heart might not listen to her head.
The stage is set, the house lights dimmed. Is true love merely make-believe or can these two women write it into the script of their lives?
Table of Contents
Synopsis
Praise for Karis Walsh
By the Author
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Epilogue
About the Author
Books Available From Bold Strokes Books
Praise for Karis Walsh
Blindsided
“A jaded television reporter and a guide dog trainer form an unlikely bond in Walsh’s delightful contemporary romance. Their slow-burn romance is a nuanced exploration of trust, desire, and negotiating boundaries, without a hint of schmaltz or pity. The sex scenes are sizzling hot, but it’s the slow burn that really allows Walsh to shine.”—Publishers Weekly
“Karis Walsh always comes up with charming Traditional Romances with interesting characters who have slightly unusual quirks.”—Curve Magazine
Sea Glass Inn
“Karis Walsh’s third book, excellently written and paced as always, takes us on a gentle but determined journey through two womens’ awakening…The story is well paced, with just enough tension to keep you turning the pages but without an overdramatic melodrama.”—Lesbian Reading Room
Improvisation
“Walsh tells this story in achingly beautiful words, phrases and paragraphs, building a tension that is bittersweet. The main characters are skillfully drawn, as is Jan’s dad, the distinctly loveable and wise Glen Carroll. As the two women interact, there is always an undercurrent of sensuality buzzing around the edges of the pages, even while they exchange sometimes snappy, sometimes comic dialogue. Improvisation is a true romantic tale, Walsh’s fourth book, and she’s evolving into a master romantic storyteller.”—Lambda Literary
Wingspan
“As with All Karis Walsh’s wonderful books the characters are the story. Multifaceted, layered and beautifully drawn, Ken and Bailey hold our attention from the start…The pace is gentle, the writing is beautifully crafted and the story a wonderful exploration of how childhood events can shape our lives. The challenge is to outgrow the childhood fears and find the freedom to start living.”—Lesbian Reading Room
Set the Stage
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Set the Stage
© 2017 By Karis Walsh. All Rights Reserved.
ISBN 13: 978-1-63555-086-3
This Electronic Original is published by
Bold Strokes Books, Inc.
P.O. Box 249
Valley Falls, NY 12185
First Edition: November 2017
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.
Credits
Editor: Ruth Sternglantz
Production Design: Stacia Seaman
Cover Design by Sheri ([email protected])
By the Author
Harmony
Worth the Risk
Sea Glass Inn
Improvisation
Mounting Danger
Wingspan
Blindsided
Mounting Evidence
Tales from Sea Glass Inn
Love on Tap
Amounting to Nothing
You Make Me Tremble
Chapter One
Emilie Danvers stripped the damp orange kerchief off her head and tried to restore some order to her tangled, greasy curls, but eight hours of close proximity to industrial-sized deep fat fryers had done more damage than her weary fingers could undo. She gave up the attempt to make herself presentable—only a lengthy scalding shower and half a bottle of shampoo would do the trick—and pulled the polyester-blend tunic over her head. She kneaded the tight knots on her right shoulder and let her head fall back in a gentle stretch. The image of a massage table, complete with the soothing scents of eucalyptus oil and patchouli candles, flickered through her thoughts. A heated blanket, expert fingers to unravel the tension in her back and neck…
She sighed and returned to the reality of the cramped and cluttered break room. She tugged on a yellow T-shirt that had an image of galloping giraffes on it and reached for her jeans. She struggled for several moments, sucking in her stomach and holding her breath, before she was able to button them. Her curves had filled out after four months on a strict diet of fast-food hamburgers and fried bits of chicken, but she hadn’t been able to turn down the free meals at work. She patted her hip pocket. Her wallet was the only lean thing on her person.
Would you like fries with that? Only two more weeks of asking that classic question, and then Emilie hoped she never had to cook, serve, or eat another french fry. She wouldn’t complain, though. Because of this job, she had managed to pay her rent and utilities this fall, and she had certainly paid her dues for being a fool. Now she had another chance at the career she was born for, and she’d be damned if she’d ever allow herself to get back to the state of destitution she’d been in for the past months. She’d been in purgatory here, atoning for past transgressions as she slapped microwaved patties on buns and squirted them with ketchup, and the time had been good for her. After two years of doing next to nothing for herself and everything for someone else, she had been thrilled to have a job and paycheck of her own. This had been a time to regroup, and soon she’d be out of limbo and back to life, but she had to give her notice first.
She peered around the manager’s half-open door and saw Ted Carver sitting at his cluttered gray Formica desk, his black-rimmed glasses resting on the tip of his nose. She’d jokingly thought of him as her prison guard while she did her time at the restaurant, but he’d been a benevolent one. Kindly and gentle, with a bad comb-over and pasty complexion, he’d seemed more like an indulgent uncle than a boss. His soft-seeming exterior hid a sharp sense of humor that Emilie would miss. As much as she disliked some of the parts of her job, she didn’t like to disappoin
t him by quitting. It was time to move on, though. In the past, she’d stayed too long in the wrong place out of a sense of obligation—or a fear of moving forward?—and she’d learned her lesson. No more. She knocked on the door with resolution.
“Come in…Oh, hello, Millie. I have your paycheck right here.”
“Thanks, Mr. Carver.” She waited while he rooted through the stacks of papers and invoices on his desk and smiled when he handed her a slim envelope. During her orientation, he had tried to pronounce her name with a French accent—emphasizing a different syllable each time—until she had given up asking him to simply say it like he would the Americanized Emily and had suggested he call her Millie instead. She’d never used the nickname before, but she decided it fit the persona she’d adopted to keep her sanity while on the job. In the weeks that followed, she’d amused herself by developing an entire character bio for Millie and playing the role whenever she put on her orange and brown uniform. Like Ted, Millie lived for her role in the food service industry. Unlike Emilie, Millie didn’t want to burst into tears at the end of one of those frustrating days filled with demanding customers, constant heat from ovens and fryers, and the relentless smell of near-rancid oil.
“I need to talk to you, sir,” Emilie said when Ted seemed about to return to his endless paperwork.
“Of course, Millie. Is everything all right? How can we help you?” The corporate we. Even though he probably made little more than the minimum wage Emilie earned, he took his managerial role seriously. She had seen the way he took care of his employees, always willing to give them time off to study for high school finals or to take sick children to the doctor, even if it meant he had to step in and cover shifts. Millie never asked for time off and she never said no to overtime.
Ted pushed his paperwork aside and gestured for her to sit in the chair opposite him. He laced his fingers together on top of his desk and gave her the feeling of having his full attention. Emilie sat on the edge of the chair. The waistband of her jeans pressed into her belly, and she used the discomfort to keep her focused on finishing the unpleasant task of quitting.
“Everything’s been fine.” Not really a lie. The job sucked at times, but Ted and some of her coworkers had kept it from being too bad. There had been more laughter and camaraderie behind the scenes than she would ever have expected. “But I need to give my two weeks’ notice. I’m going to be acting in the Oregon Shakespeare Festival, and rehearsals start in the beginning of January.”
“You’re going to be…” He paused and stared at her. Emilie could read the obvious doubt on his face. She must have played the part of Millie—part fast-food aficionado and part Dickensian waif—better than she’d thought. She must not have been allowing Emilie the professional actress to shine through at all.
Ted put his index fingers together and tapped them against his lips. “We respect the work you’ve done for our restaurant, Millie, and we want to do what it takes to keep you here. Although you haven’t reached your six-month mark yet, we can make an exception—just this once—and give you your raise ahead of schedule.”
“I appreciate the offer, but it’s not the money.” Emilie hated to think how much the extra dollar an hour he was offering would help her in her present circumstances. She should have threatened to quit a month ago. “I’ve signed a contract with the company and I start rehearsals soon.”
“Of course you do,” he said with an indulgent smile. He dropped the royal plural and leaned closer. “Look, I can’t make any promises, but let me talk to my supervisor about moving you into an assistant manager position. The benefits are excellent.”
Emilie felt a brief pang of guilt, but she shook it off. Since she’d worked at the restaurant, employees had come and gone with startling frequency. She’d signed on as temporary, seasonal help—never promising her life and soul to the fast-food chain. When she’d first taken the job, she hadn’t known whether she’d be cast with the company or not, but she’d stayed close to Ashland, Oregon, because she needed to cling to the hope of reviving her near-dead career. She didn’t blame Ted for doubting her claim to be headed for Ashland, because she sometimes suspected that she had only dreamed the phone call with the assistant director of the company, telling her she had the job. She had signed contracts and had her parts, but maybe those experiences had been grease-fume-caused fantasies. She wouldn’t truly believe she was back in the business until she got her scripts. Or maybe, until she stepped onstage for her first rehearsal. Or for the first performance…Then she’d believe it was true. Until she was 100 percent sure, she’d go on faith. She stood up.
“I’m sorry, but no. You’ve been a great boss, and I’ve appreciated getting to work with you, but acting is my career. My passion.”
Ted stood, also, and shook her hand. “Very well. But if this acting thing doesn’t work out, you have a place here with us.”
“Thank you,” Emilie said, but inside she cringed with superstitious anxiety. He had spoken her great fear out loud. She had left the business after making a successful debut off-off-Broadway, before she’d either proved or disproved her ability to live up to the potential some critics saw in her. She had spent the past two years answering the question What if I had stayed? in a variety of ways, sometimes with regret because she might have been a success and sometimes with relief because it was better to have quit than to have tried and failed. The latter response had been more comfortable to face than the first one, but she could never make herself fully believe it. Deep inside she knew she regretted not trying, whether she would have failed or not. But lately, as her time to go to Ashland loomed closer, her old doubts had resurfaced with a vengeance.
“I’ll miss you, Millie. Be sure to let me know when your play is on, and maybe my wife and I will come watch you perform.”
He didn’t look like he believed she’d be acting, any more than he’d believe it if she’d come to tell him she had been elected to the Senate and was heading to Washington, DC. “I’ll do that,” Emilie said. She walked out of the room and felt the emotions connected with quitting slough off. She was moving forward. One step closer to becoming herself again.
Emilie shivered when she stepped out of the restaurant and onto the rain-soaked sidewalk. The night was artificially lit along this row of chain restaurants and strip malls, and the raindrops glistened green, red, and yellow in the glow of neon signs. Many of the businesses were open twenty-four hours a day, the constant flow of people and traffic making the neighborhood merely loud and undesirable rather than downright unsafe, and Emilie felt comfortable on the streets no matter what the hour. She was never alone out here—luckily, since she often volunteered for shifts at the odd hours when most other people didn’t want to work, even with the late-shift premium. She dodged puddles and cracked cement as she walked the three blocks from work to her apartment, wrapping her arms and thin gray hoodie tightly around herself and trying to pull as much warmth from the cotton fabric as she could.
She let herself in a gate leading to a small courtyard and then climbed the steps to her second-floor studio apartment. She had only had three requirements when she started looking for a place to live: short-term, short commute, and low price. She got what she paid for, but it was home. Her home.
She turned on both overhead lights as she traveled the few steps from her door to her air mattress bed. She was living like a college student with only a few pieces of makeshift furniture and without any decorations on the walls or on shelves. Since she was a child, she had loved making her room her sanctuary, with personal touches and favorite colors spread everywhere, but she hadn’t had a place of her own for too long. Once she was settled in Ashland, she’d get something sturdier than milk crates and particleboard. A real bed, maybe a desk, a few bookcases. Photos and prints on the walls. Even the basics seemed luxurious after a few months of feeling temporary.
Emilie shed her wet clothes and took a long shower, sudsing away the residual odor of the restaurant from her skin and hair. She com
bed the worst tangles out of her blond curls and braided her hair to keep it out of her face, not wanting to fuss with her hairstyle any more than necessary. She put on a pair of warm sweats and a thick wool sweater before going into the kitchen—or the corner of her apartment where the tiny appliances lived—and she sliced a Granny Smith apple and layered it on bread with crunchy peanut butter and a sprinkle of cinnamon. She craved texture in her food since at least two of her meals each day were soft and greasy fast-food burgers. She took her dinner over to a folding chair she had placed near the window and perched there with a book and her sandwich, unable to see much beyond the rain splatting against the windowpane. She preferred it this way, because the view was less attractive than the weather, and it consisted mainly of the back side of a Taco Bell.
She looked around her room as she chewed a huge bite of her sandwich, letting the juicy tang of the apple wash away the stale, oily flavor of the day. For all the shortcomings of her life here in Medford, with her less than ideal apartment and job, she had been happier here than she had been during the past few years as she had traveled across Europe with her ex-girlfriend. The accommodations and food had been pleasant there, but she hadn’t been able to work much because they moved frequently with touring plays. Emilie had felt lost and directionless, but she hadn’t realized how truly miserable she had been until she got here, with a place of her own and work to do. She had spent far too long trying to salvage her relationship, desperate to prove that she hadn’t made such a huge mistake in agreeing to follow Leah on tour. Once she accepted that she had made a monumentally bad decision, the choice to move back to the States—after spending most of her savings and allowing her contacts with the American acting world to wither and fade—had been a surprisingly simple one.