When Good Wishes Go Bad

by Mindy Klasky

If possible, my heart beat even harder. Where was he? Worry for his safety twined between my jangling nerves. I turned on my heel and rushed to the Bullpen.

  Jenn stood by her desk, her own obvious anxiety twisting her smile into something painful. Her expression was a direct contrast to the perky cockatiel screensaver that stared out from her computer. Jenn loved the birds; she owned a half-dozen of them. Now, she turned her head to a distinctly parrotlike angle as she asked, “Are you okay?”

  I shook my head, but I didn’t actually answer her question. “Have you seen Dean?”

  “Not since…Wow, Monday, I guess.” Day before yesterday. Not good. “Um, Becca—”

  I ignored her, glancing toward the large conference room where Hal was holed up. The door was closed and the shades were down, covering the floor-to-ceiling windows. That was strange—meetings around here were always open. “Any chance he’s in there?” I nodded toward the room.

  Jennifer shrugged apologetically. “I don’t know. It’s a board meeting.”

  “A board meeting? Hal didn’t mention one yesterday.”

  “I don’t think he knew about it yesterday. Everyone was grumbling as they came in—I think it’s some sort of emergency.”

  Emergency. The word shot another arrow of adrenaline into my heart. Something must have happened to Dean. Hal must have been working late last night, too, must have been here when Dean got sick. Seriously sick, if the board was already in an emergency session to figure out what they were going to do without a functioning director of finance.

  But where was Dean? Was he in the hospital? And why hadn’t Hal called me? Why had he called in the board, but not reached out to me? It wasn’t like Dean and I had kept our relationship a secret. I folded my arms around my waist, trying to hold in a rising tide of nausea.

  “Um, Becca,” Jenn said again. When I surfaced momentarily from my self-recriminations, she nodded toward the corner, toward one of the intern desks.

  I followed her movement, only to find that a stranger was sitting in the intern’s chair. His winter coat, a ratty beige ski parka that had seen better days, was collapsed across the desk in front of him. The laces on one of his Chuck Taylors were working loose, and the tails of his shirt peeked out from beneath his moss-colored sweater. His dark curls still bore the marks from a comb, although they were struggling to break free.

  Before I could say anything, Jenn said pointedly, “Becca, can I talk to you for a second?” She stalked across the Bullpen, trusting me to follow her into Hal’s office. I longed to refuse—I needed to get to the clandestine board meeting—but a tiny part of my mind gibbered that I didn’t want to know what was going on behind that closed door. I didn’t want to know about the emergency. I followed Jenn because she represented the path of least resistance.

  “Don’t be angry with me,” she said as soon as the door was closed.

  “Why would I be angry with you?” I heard the tension in my voice, but I didn’t bother to repeat my question, to sound less annoyed.

  Jenn started toying with her wedding band, flicking her fingers across the Celtic knotwork. We’d been working together for six months. I knew that fidget meant she was trying to sneak something past me. With her voice pitched half an octave higher than normal, she said, “Oh, forget it. You’ve obviously got more important things to worry about. I just had a stupid idea. I’ll take care of it.”

  “Take care of what?” My nerves made the last word come out a lot louder than I’d intended.

  “Shh!” She glanced toward the closed door.

  “Jenn, what is going on? Who is that guy?”

  “One of the stalking list guys who came by to drop off a script after I told him that he needed to give it to you personally.”

  “What?” She’d spoken so quickly that I barely caught the gist of what she’d said. “I could have sworn you just said that guy is on the stalking list.”

  The stalking list. The short list of up-and-coming new playwrights that Jenn and I admired, the authors whose work we thought we might someday produce here at the Mercer. Jenn and I kept an eye on their websites, on their blogs, on ShowTalk, the social networking website for New York theater professionals. Basically, we tracked anyplace they might post online to share their creative process or their personal angst or what they’d eaten for dinner the night before. The important stuff, in other words. The stuff that would let us know when they’d written a new play, when they were ready to unveil a masterpiece-in-waiting to a sympathetic audience.

  The whole idea, though, was supposed to be that we stalked them; we kept an eye on what they were writing. They weren’t supposed to come to us. They weren’t supposed to show up before the office even officially opened on a random Wednesday morning in the beginning of March. But Jennifer was obviously pretty invested in this whole thing. “Which one is he?” I asked, intrigued despite myself.

  Jenn twisted her hands in front of her. “I’m sorry, Becca. I know I should have just sent him away. But he looked so cute, standing there, like a little boy turning in his English homework.”

  “Jenn, I just read four of the worst plays I’ve ever seen. You know that we don’t accept submissions over the transom.”

  “But we do, unofficially. And he’s on the list!”

  She had a point. Possibly. “Who is he?” I asked again.

  “Ryan Thompson.”

  I blinked. Ryan wasn’t on my stalking list. Jenn had found him, just a few weeks before. She’d read some comments he’d posted on a public blog, something about the role of the modern playwright in creating a communal dialogue about social responsibility. She’d been intrigued by what he had to say. (Yeah, we folks in the Mercer’s literary department were total theater geeks.) Mostly, though, she’d been impressed with how he’d said it. In fact, she’d been interested enough to track down a copy of his first play, something that had been produced once, at a university in the wilds of Roanoke, Virginia.

  And now the guy was sitting in our office, waiting to talk to me. “Jenn, I don’t know anything about him!”

  She bit her lip and then said, “Trust me. Remember? He’s the Peace Corps guy.” Peace Corps…Ryan had just returned from a two-year stint abroad—in Africa, somewhere. I nodded slowly, vaguely recalling what Jenn had told me. She apparently interpreted my nod as acquiescence about reading his play. She clasped her hands in front of her, the very picture of riotous joy. “You won’t regret this, I’m sure.”

  “I haven’t agreed to do anything yet,” I grumbled.

  “Please, Becca? Just take his envelope. Tell him you’ll read it in the order received, and send him on his way.”

  “You could have done that!”

  “Yeah,” she said sulkily. “I should have.”

  Before I could argue with her anymore, a phone started to ring out in the Bullpen. Jenn sighed and opened Hal’s office door, rushing to her desk to answer the line. Apparently, the caller wanted to reorganize the United Nations into something only slightly more bureaucratic—at least that’s what Jenn implied with her body language. She was clearly too busy to return to the matter at hand. Too busy to talk to Ryan Thompson and send him on his way. Too busy to save me.

  I sighed and threw back my shoulders, trying to look professional as I crossed the room. I’d take the stupid manuscript, remind this Ryan guy of our submission policy, and get back to the morning’s serious work of tracking down Dean. And then I’d tell Hal about the Crystal Dreams disaster. Joy, oh joy—the theater life just didn’t get any better than this. My belly churned again as I glanced over my shoulder at the conference room.

  Our visitor stood as I approached him. “Ms. Morris, I’m Ryan Thompson,” he said. His shoulders hunched, as if he didn’t want to frighten me with his full height. He turned his head a little as he introduced himself, smiling shyly and looking at a point somewhere beyond my left ear. “Thank you for taking the time to see me,” he said.

  Well, technically, I hadn’t agreed to take the time. In fact,
technically I didn’t have the time. I had to say something, though, so I introduced myself, even though he obviously knew who I was. “Rebecca Morris.” And then I remembered my manners. It wouldn’t kill me to be polite, for just a minute. “Jenn said that you’ve just returned from Africa?”

  “I’ve been back in the States for a couple of months.” I glanced at his heavy sweater, at his rumpled coat. Despite their appearance, they must be new—he certainly wouldn’t have needed them in Africa. He cleared his throat, drawing my gaze back to his face. When he spoke, his words were slow, as if he were used to thinking in a foreign language. “Jenn was kind enough to read some comments I made on the Internet. She said you wouldn’t mind reading my new play. It’s called However Long.”

  He looked so nervous, so pitiful, that I had to respond. “However Long?” I asked.

  “It comes from an African proverb. ‘However long the night, the dawn will break.’”

  Despite myself, I shivered. What did this guy know about long nights? I looked down the hallway, toward my office, toward Dean’s empty one. It was well past dawn, well past time I should have heard from my absentee boyfriend. Well past time for me to wrap up this conversation and find out what was going on in the conference room.

  I reached out for Ryan’s envelope. The manila corners were crisp and neat, as if he’d carried his treasure carefully all the way to our office. He’d used a computer to print out his address label, putting both his name and my own in clear, legible type. The plain white square was centered precisely on the envelope.

  Given the muck of unsolicited manuscripts I’d already waded through that morning, the condition of Ryan’s submission seemed to be a sign from some benevolent heaven.

  “I can’t promise anything,” I warned him. “Ordinarily, we only take submissions through agents, and even then, it can take several weeks for us to get around to reading them.”

  Again, he gave me that shy grin, and he buried his hands in his pockets, as if he wanted his clothes to swallow him whole. “I completely understand. I wouldn’t have bothered you at all, if Jennifer hadn’t said…” He trailed off, obviously worried that he was going to get my assistant in trouble.

  “Don’t worry about it,” I said.

  His relief was almost palpable. “I won’t take any more of your time, Ms. Morris. I enclosed a card with all of my contact information. I really appreciate the chance that you’re giving me.”

  “My pleasure,” I said automatically, tucking his envelope under my arm to symbolize that we were done with our conversation. He nodded, taking the hint, and then Jenn magically concluded her phone call. Suddenly suspicious, I wondered if she’d been chattering on a dead line for the past few minutes. “I’m afraid, though, that I’ll have to let Jennifer show you out. I’m on my way into a meeting.”

  Jenn stepped out from behind her desk, a smile broad across her face. She started to walk Ryan toward the door, taking only a moment to look over her shoulder, to mouth a heartfelt, “Thank you!” to me. I nodded and barely waited until they were out of sight before I turned toward the conference room. My hand shook as I opened the door.

  Immediately, I was the target of a dozen pairs of eyes as every board member looked up from the table. A heartbeat of a scan, and I could see that Dean wasn’t there. Dean wasn’t, but a stranger was—a man who sat at the head of the table, shuffling papers as my interruption froze the entire meeting.

  My knees trembled, but I wasn’t sure if I was relieved or even more afraid. I still had no idea where my boyfriend was, but at least I could pass on the Crystal Dreams disaster to Hal. One crisis would be off my plate. “Excuse me,” I said, focusing on my boss. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but this is an emergency. Hal, may I speak with you for a minute?”

  My boss blinked his sapphire eyes, emphasizing his surprise by running a hand through his short gray hair. His lips were narrow in his immaculate close-trimmed beard. “Whatever it is will have to wait, Becca.”

  I shook my head. “This can’t wait.”

  He laid his hands flat on the table, as if he were trying to ice his palms. I knew the gesture, even though we’d only worked together for six months. It was an indication that he was out of patience, that he was completely exasperated with the people around him. That he was determined to have his way, then, immediately, without delay.

  “It can wait,” he said, and his voice was as chilly as his gaze. “In fact, I was just about to call you in here about something else entirely. Come in, Rebecca. And close the door behind you.”

  It took every last ounce of my willpower to step inside that room.

  CHAPTER 2

  FOR THE RECORD, AN EMERGENCY BOARD MEETING is never fun and games.

  It’s worse, though, when you weren’t even planning on attending. When your boss orders you to have a seat. When everyone looks at you as if you have some supersecret information, or at least some perfectly reasonable explanation, something that they absolutely, positively need in order to resolve whatever crisis is at hand.

  And it’s one hundred percent the worst when you don’t have the faintest idea of what their crisis might be. Especially when you arrived for the sole purpose of handing them a different disaster, one they apparently know absolutely nothing about. One they’re apparently not willing to address.

  I took a seat at the foot of the table, automatically settling Ryan Thompson’s script in front of me, as if the manila envelope could act as some sort of shield. My pulse was skittering around, making me painfully aware of the giant coffee I’d already drunk. Nevertheless, I found myself craving more caffeine. Or, at least, lusting after a comforting mug to fold my hands around.

  I settled for curling my fingers in my lap.

  “Thank you,” Hal said, as if he’d given me a choice about joining the meeting. His voice, though, did not begin to convey thanks. In fact, his words were colder than the sidewalks outside; Hal sounded as if he were furious with me—beyond fury.

  Sure, Hal was usually demanding. He wanted things done well, and promptly. He expected me—and everyone else associated with the company—to be on my toes, to anticipate what he needed, what the Mercer needed.

  Hal was a theatrical force of nature. He’d carved out our company’s mission thirty-one years before. He’d brought together a group of underemployed actors who all believed more in the power of acting than in the lure of computerized bells and whistles, than in the shimmer and shine of a Broadway that had been seduced by new technologies that turned plays into bizarre living movies, into special-effects extravaganzas. Hal and his colleagues believed in the inherent power of words, of passion, of the sheer physical energy that an actor could project onstage, live, within feet of an audience.

  The Mercer had started out in the basement of a church, with rented lighting instruments and the simplest of sets. Hal had grown the company, had established the theater I now called home. He had brought together the board of directors, sought out people who knew theater, who understood what we were doing, what made us special. He had insisted that a professional theater mandated a professional dramaturg, and for that I could never thank him enough.

  Therefore, I tried not to panic when he pinned me with his steely eyes. “Rebecca,” he said, and just the way he said my name made it sound like an accusation. “Where can we find Dean Marcus?”

  Panic took up a steady drumbeat against my lungs, making it difficult for me to draw a full breath. “I—” I started to answer and I had to swallow hard, to crush a sudden, unexpected sob. “I don’t know…. I mean, he was working late last night. I thought he was here?”

  Everyone shifted uncomfortably. Trying desperately to ratchet down my own concern, I watched them look at each other, look at me, look at the unknown man who sat at the head of the table. I wanted to appear professional. I didn’t want them to think that I was the dramaturg who cried, who broke down under pressure. Glancing around for a pad of paper, for a pen, I concentrated on projecting my most mature demeanor and
said, “I’ll take notes for Dean, if you’d like. I can pass them on to him after the meeting.”

  Once I found him. Once I figured out where he was, where he’d been for the past forty-eight hours. Calling on my last shred of self-discipline, I kept from leaping out of my chair, from running down the hall, from fleeing back to Jenn’s desk to demand that she call every hospital in town.

  “That won’t be necessary, Ms. Morris.”

  I whirled to face Clifford Ames, the chairman of the board. He held the position because he was the theater’s largest individual donor. During my first week on the job, I’d read his bio in the back of one of our programs. He worked for some huge bank. Or an insurance company. Or something like that. I never was much good with numbers.

  I was a little surprised that Mr. Ames knew who I was. We’d been introduced at an opening-night gala, shortly after I’d joined the Mercer staff. Hal had done the honors himself, summoning me across the room with the intensity of his steely gaze. But Mr. Ames had met dozens of people that night; he’d shaken scores of hands. The other guests at the gala must have impressed him more than I had; they’d certainly known more about the Mercer than I’d been able to glean in my few short weeks on the job.

  Nevertheless, Mr. Ames clearly knew me now. “Ms. Morris, Hal asked you to join us because…well, we understand that you…Let me say that it has come to our attention that you and Mr. Marcus, that you…”

  Against my will, I blushed. Yeah, like that was something strange. When your skin is paler than the proverbial Irish milkmaid’s, you blush. A lot. Even when you’re perfectly willing to admit that you live with your boyfriend. The boyfriend who works with you. In your cool, rare theater job.

  I swallowed hard and willed my cheeks to cool. Fumbling my fingers around Ryan Thompson’s manila envelope, I wished that I could melt into the table, but another board member spoke up before I could figure out a way to respond to Mr. Ames. “Cliff, may I?”

  “Please,” Mr. Ames said, and I’d never seen a man so anxious to pass the metaphoric buck.