Learning Her Lines

by Amelia C. Adams

  But as for a leading lady . . .

  He stood up and put his cup in the sink as he thought that over. He had a few dancers, some singers, and some girls who were learning how to act, but none who had developed the craft enough to carry off the role of Juliet. She should be young and vulnerable, and yet have a will of steel when it came right down to it. She should be willing to die for the man she loved—and not flop onto the stage floor like a fish or topple as stiff as a poker. She should be believable.

  And no one currently at the theater seemed right.

  Should he place an ad for that, too? How could he summarize everything he was looking for into one short paragraph, and how could he convey all the intangibles, all the things that the soul knew even if the mind didn’t? How could he place an ad for a woman with that indescribable something that would make her magical up on the stage?

  He should cancel the performance. That was the only thing to do. He could start afresh with a different play, one that required different actors—ones he already had—and they’d only be delayed by a few weeks.

  Having made that decision, he went to his bedroom and got ready for bed. He should sleep quite well now that the matter was no longer pressing on him, and yet it seemed he couldn’t sleep at all. That cup of coffee had been a mistake—it had stimulated his mind far too much.

  Thinking about mysterious older ladies who might or might not be criminals had nothing to do with it, he was sure.

  ***

  They’d been going through so much coffee at the restaurant, Catherine knew she’d better pick some up at the general store before she went to work. Otherwise, they’d have unhappy miners at their breakfast tables, and few things were worse in the morning than unhappy miners.

  “Good morning,” Toria Jackson said as Catherine entered the building. “I was hoping someone from the Iron Skillet would stop by—I’ve just received the most horrible news.”

  “You did? What’s the matter?”

  Toria was holding a telegram, and she waved it aloft as she spoke. “The train carrying this week’s supply order derailed a hundred miles from town, killing four people. They’re doing everything they can to clear up the situation, but that means we’ll be late getting our supplies, and so will all the restaurants and merchants who are depending on us.”

  “Four people?” Catherine steadied herself on the counter. “Oh, that is horrible. We’ll be able to make do with what we have for now—people’s lives are the most important thing.”

  “Yes, they are. And the railway company is hoping to have everything sorted out by tomorrow, but they have to fix the faulty section of track and determine whether the train cars can be righted or just pulled to the side to make room for another train to come through.”

  “This means every train on the tracks is stuck, doesn’t it?” Catherine asked.

  Toria nodded. “Thankfully, they can back up to the closest railway switch and get themselves rerouted or turned around, but I can’t even imagine the headache. And passing along all the messages . . .” She sighed. “We’ll do our part, of course, if there’s anything we can actually do to be helpful. In the meantime, what can I get for you?”

  “I was hoping for some coffee,” Catherine said. “We have plenty on order, but we’re almost out in the restaurant.”

  “You’re in luck—I have quite a bit in stock right now. That’s one of the first things my husband taught me about being a storekeeper.” Toria smiled. “I have several different sizes. How much do you need?”

  “Well, considering that we don’t know when the supplies will arrive, I’d best take a twenty-five-pound bag.”

  “Absolutely. That’s one thing you shouldn’t run out of either.” Toria accepted the money Catherine handed her, then turned to lift the top sack from the stack near the counter.

  The door opened just then, and Catherine heard a man’s voice say, “Whoa. Hold up a moment there, Mrs. Jackson. Let me get that for you.”

  Catherine looked over her shoulder to see Mr. Westcott coming toward them. “Good morning, Mr. Westcott. It’s my fault—I’m the one making her work so hard.”

  “Well, shame on you, Miss Ross,” he said good-naturedly. “This goes to the Iron Skillet, I presume?”

  “Yes, it does.”

  “It so happens that I was planning to come over for breakfast in a few minutes, so I might as well come now and tote this along.” He hefted it onto his shoulder as though it weighed nothing.

  “That’s very kind of you, Mr. Westcott,” Catherine told him. She hadn’t known, of course, that the supply train was going to be late, so she hadn’t realized she’d need to stock up—otherwise, she would have asked Titus or Uncle Samson along to do the heavy lifting. Thank goodness Mr. Westcott had come along when he did. “Was there something you needed to buy first?”

  “I hoped to place this on your bulletin board, Mrs. Jackson,” he said, using his free hand to pull a sheet of paper from his pocket. “I’m also putting an ad in the newspaper.”

  “Of course I’ll post it for you,” Toria said. She accepted the notice and smoothed it out. “I hope you get the sort of response you’re looking for.”

  “As do I.” Mr. Westcott turned toward the door. “After you, Miss Ross.”

  Catherine walked ahead of him and held the door open, then closed it behind him. “I really can’t tell you how grateful I am for your help,” she said as they walked along. “I would have managed somehow, I’m sure, but I have to admit, this is much nicer.”

  “I agree.” He smiled down at her. “So, why twenty-five pounds of coffee and nothing else? I would have thought a restaurant would have larger orders delivered.”

  She told him about the derailed train, and he shook his head, looking somber.

  “That puts my current dilemma in perspective,” he replied. “Yes, I’m frustrated and I don’t know what to do, but I haven’t lost any friends or loved ones.”

  “You haven’t found a new director?”

  “No, and there’s more. Our leading lady eloped with the director we had.”

  “Oh, my. That’s even worse.” She opened the front door of the Iron Skillet and held it for him while he maneuvered the sack inside. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Westcott.”

  “I suppose we’ll make it work one way or another.” He carried the sack through to the kitchen and placed it on the counter. “I’ll go find my seat and give you a few minutes to get settled in.”

  “Thank you. I’ll have some coffee out for you as quickly as I can—you’ve more than earned it.”

  She put on her apron and filled the coffeepot, turning to greet Titus and Uncle Samson as they entered through the back door of the kitchen. “Good morning. I restocked the coffee, but the rest of our order will be late.”

  “I know,” Uncle Samson said, his face looking grim. “Edwin McRae was out on the street just now, and he told me. Hearth and Home was counting on a supply order too.”

  “I wonder just how many restaurants in town will be effected by this.” Catherine stepped to the side and let Titus have his spot in front of the stove. It was rather presumptuous of her to be there in the first place—that was his territory.

  “Probably most. I wish we could keep larger stores on hand at all times, but when it comes to dealing with fresh food . . .” Samson shrugged. “We’ll do the best we can. We have plenty of baking supplies, don’t we?”

  “Sure do,” Titus replied. “We’re stocked up on flour, sugar, baking soda . . .”

  “Good. I’m glad to hear it.” Samson walked over to the small room off the kitchen he used as his office. “I’m going to look over the accounts—let me know if you need anything.”

  Catherine and Titus both nodded, then went back to their tasks. If a one day’s delay in the train schedule could upset things so badly for a restaurant, she wondered what would happen in the event of a blizzard. She’d never thought of such things before, but then again, she’d never been so closely associated with the workings of
a business before.

  ***

  Melvin finished his breakfast, paid Miss Ross even though she insisted it was on the house because he’d carried the coffee, then headed over to the newspaper office.

  The Creede Candle was run by Mark Carroll, a man Melvin had quickly come to respect since his arrival in town. Mark knew everyone and everything, being in the news business, and Melvin respected his opinion.

  “You’d like to hire a director and a leading lady?” Mark asked, scrutinizing the ad copy Melvin had brought in. “I hate to tell you this, Melvin, but if you’re aiming to open your play in two weeks, I think you’re going to be disappointed. I can’t think of one person in Creede who would be suited to direct a play who also has the time right now to do it, and if you placed an ad and brought someone in from out of town, they’d need time to travel and to settle in. I think your best option is to cancel the play, get your staff in order, and then try again later on.”

  “I was afraid you’d say that, but I hoped you wouldn’t,” Melvin replied. He stuffed the ad back in his pocket. “It’s . . . it’s been suggested to me that I direct the play myself.”

  Mark looked at him and blinked as though seeing him with new eyes. “I bet you could at that. You’ve certainly got the passion and the understanding for it. But what about the leading lady?”

  “That’s where I keep getting stuck. Yes, I can direct, but I can’t put on a dress and pretend to be a thirteen-year-old girl.”

  Mark chuckled. “You might sell a good number of tickets that way, though—it would make a great comedy.”

  “But this is a tragedy. In the truest sense of the word.” Melvin stepped back from the counter. “Thanks, Mark. I knew I could trust you to level with me about the odds.”

  “You can, even when they’re rotten. Have a good day, Melvin, and keep your chin up.”

  Melvin purposely thrust his chin extra high as he left the newspaper office to show that he was taking the advice seriously. He wasn’t sunk yet. He just didn’t have an alternative—but the day was still new.

  Chapter Three

  “And so, while I’m somewhat reluctantly prepared to step in and direct the play myself, there remains the problem of finding a new leading lady,” Melvin said to his assembled cast and crew. Each of them looked as solemn as he felt. They understood the gravity of the situation, and it was easy to see that none of them were particularly hopeful. He had to admit that was his fault—he hadn’t exactly presented himself as a confident replacement director. “Do any of you want to audition for the role, or do you know someone who would?”

  A glance around the room didn’t reveal any raised hands. Susie and Linda, two of his newer actresses, looked at each other and shrugged. “We might be willing to consider it, but we’re both older than the role requires,” Linda said, and Susie nodded.

  “That’s the trouble,” Melvin agreed. “We need an actress who can portray a young girl, but who has the experience to carry an entire play—we can’t simply hire an adolescent to solve the problem.”

  “And it would be completely inappropriate for me to play opposite a young girl in a romantic role,” Gerard North said, leaning against the wall with his arms folded across his chest. “Of course I understand that we’re all just acting, but I insist that my costars be over the age of consent.”

  “I would never ask you to woo a child, on stage or off,” Melvin assured his ruffled Romeo, wondering why this had even been mentioned. He’d thought it was obvious that his comments were sarcastic, but he was wrong, apparently.

  “And I don’t mean to add to the problem, but the costume has been made, and altering to a different body type . . .” Alice lifted a shoulder. “I could do it, but it would take a while, and it would be so much easier if the new actress was at least somewhat the same size.”

  Melvin nodded, his lips pressed together. He’d been so busy thinking about the situation from his perspective that he hadn’t considered the other logistics, and he should have. This just made things worse and worse. People should not be allowed to fall in love and elope. It was too inconvenient for everyone involved.

  “Because I’m a very stubborn man, I want to exhaust all our options before we cancel this production,” Melvin went on. “Think about your cousins, aunts, sisters—one of us knows someone who could carry this role. I realize it wouldn’t be the end of the world to move on to a different play, but there’s a piece of my soul tied up in this one, especially since I’ve been revising the revision, and I’d hate to give up so easily.”

  “Revising the revision?” Louisa, his leading soprano, said with a smile.

  “Yes. It’s rather a long story—or rather, it was a long play that someone tried to shorten.” Melvin rubbed his hand over his eyes. “Go home, everyone, and make a list of everyone you know. There must be an answer here somewhere.”

  The cast and crew trickled out of the building, with only Louisa remaining behind. “I wish there was some way I could help,” she told him. “You’ve been so good to me, giving me the opportunity to fulfill my dreams on stage—how can I repay your kindness?”

  “I honestly don’t know,” Melvin replied. “A new leading lady isn’t going to appear out of thin air, is she?” Mrs. Van Dyke flickered through his mind, but he refused to entertain the thought. He’d successfully banished her that morning, and he would keep her as far away from him as he could.

  “No, I don’t think so.” Louisa smiled, then glanced at the window. “Oh, there’s Tobias waiting for me on the sidewalk. I’ll see you later.”

  “Wait—I’ll walk out with you.” Melvin grabbed his hat, escorted Louisa out of the office, then locked the door. Tobias, Louisa’s husband, greeted him with a warm handshake when they joined up with him.

  “How are you today, Melvin?” Tobias asked.

  “That’s a question that will take at least ten minutes to answer, and I’m rather hungry for my lunch. Would the two of you like to join me over at the Iron Skillet? It’s my favorite restaurant in town—the others are nice, but I like the rustic charm of the Skillet, and the steaks are second to none.”

  “Yes, please,” Louisa said, and Melvin glanced at her sharply. She had an unusual medical condition that required her to eat regularly, and he hoped that his impromptu meeting that day hadn’t made her situation more difficult.

  The three of them walked down the street and into the Iron Skillet, where they were seated by the newly married Mrs. Baker, Miss Ross’s cousin. Melvin looked around for Miss Ross and was disappointed not to see her.

  “Do you know what you’d like, or shall I come back in a few minutes?” Mrs. Baker asked.

  Louisa and Tobias both ordered immediately. Melvin had hoped to wait a moment to see if Miss Ross would appear, but if Louisa was starting to feel poorly, of course she should eat, so he said, “I’ll have a steak and a baked potato, please.”

  “Good choices all around. I’ll be back shortly.”

  Mrs. Baker disappeared into the kitchen, but still no Miss Ross. Melvin was distracted for a few minutes as he relayed his troubles to Tobias, but he still missed the pretty young waitress, and he had to question himself about it. She deserved to have an hour or two off, didn’t she? And he’d seen her just that morning—was he so dependent on his routines that he had to carry them out regardless of the inconvenience to others? He was certainly in a rut where his meals were concerned—must he also be in a rut when it came to who served them?

  He grinned when the kitchen door opened and it was Miss Ross who came through, balancing their meals on her tray. “Good afternoon,” she said as she handed around the food. “I thought I’d seen the last of you for today, Mr. Westcott.”

  “Are you hoping to get rid of me, Miss Ross?”

  “No, not at all. We just usually see you once a day rather than twice.”

  “I’m particularly hungry today, and my own cooking is dismal. Miss Ross, do you know Mr. and Mrs. Redfern?”

  “I do,” Catherine said,
nodding at each in turn. “Mrs. Redfern, I must say, your last concert was thrilling.”

  “Oh, thank you,” Louisa replied. “I enjoyed that musical selection very much. Mr. Westcott has impeccable taste.”

  Miss Ross turned to Melvin. “You choose the music?”

  “I do, most of the time.”

  “Well, I’ve never heard a piece that I didn’t enjoy, so our tastes must be similar. I’ll be back in a few minutes—please let me know if you need anything.”

  She whisked away and moved on to the next table, and Melvin felt the loss of her bright light shining down on him.

  Louisa leaned across the table, excitement on her face. “Mr. Westcott, our waitress might suit the role. She’s about the same size and she has a young look about her, but she’s quite capable.”

  “I beg your pardon? Miss Ross?” Melvin looked over his shoulder as though he needed to remind himself what she looked like, but in actuality, he had her every feature memorized. She was lovely, yes. She had a young look about her, yes. “Can she act? There’s the real question.”

  “I have no idea, of course, but you could speak with her and see,” Louisa replied. “You seem to know her quite well.”

  “We’re acquaintances and she brings me my food. That’s all,” he said, wanting to set the record straight. He didn’t want anyone thinking their relationship was more than that . . . but then again, it was actually a pleasant thought. He’d enjoyed walking her to work that morning even if he had been carrying a bulky bag, and he wouldn’t mind going on any number of other walks with her, maybe even carrying more bulky bags. If she needed him to. He didn’t know if she did, but he could find out . . .