they did the plays located in the adjacent building—the lesser-known plays, and those aimed for kids—were already taken by the second strings.
“Yes. Well, it seems those at Stage Two have already signed their contracts.”
“And so have we,” Eric retorted. “We signed them . . . well, we were going to sign them . . .” His words stalled out. He practically choked out the whispered words. “Next week.”
Mr. Richardson nodded, grim-faced. “Those in Barter Two have signed their yearlong contract. But for everyone else, everyone here . . .”
The silence in the room finished his sentence.
“So, as such, Don”—Mr. Richardson hesitated, then turned to give Stephen a slap on the back—“or if by some circumstance Don is unavailable, Stephen will be doing auditions as soon as possible. Those who fill those slots, fill them. As for the rest . . . I’m sorry. We’ll just have to welcome you back for our fall lineup.”
“But that’s months without work!” someone whispered furiously.
Murmuring began around the room, hushed tones turning frenetic. Birdie glanced to Bree, her eyes wide.
“What’ll we do?” she whispered. “There’s no way we can compete.” Her eyes were on the leads, now huddled together like they were District 1 in the Hunger Games.
Birdie began muttering to herself, phrases like “forty percent” and “Daddy is going to kill me” and “should’ve married Billy.”
As the hum of the group’s murmuring grew to the point of sniffles and tears—Bree knew for a fact at least two cast members were trying to expand their résumé skill set with cry-on-cue talent—Bree’s attention turned to Theodore, who was walking her way.
Behind him, Bree saw Mr. Richardson turn to Stephen. His words were muffled, but she read his lips all the same. “I want this sorted out by the end of April. And see what you can do about reaching out to the other playhouses about temp work that may line up. This town’s too small for a bunch of actors cooling their heels for three months.”
And with that he rested the fedora back on his head.
Theodore stopped beside her. He leaned in, whispered low in her ear, “Wipe that look off your face, fair fairy. If anyone’s a shoo-in for the next show, it’ll be you.”
Bree leaned back, looking into his eyes with the question in hers. The question, however, got no answer.
“Off to lunch then, Theo?” Mr. Richardson called. “The salmon’s not going to eat itself.”
Bree felt a quick, subtle squeeze of her hand before he left her to fall into step beside Mr. Richardson.
There were so many things Bree wanted to say as she watched them walk out into the gravel parking lot. But the tingle on the tips of her fingers as his hand left hers, the settling realization of the new situation at hand, the sudden Hunger Games stares as the remaining cast members warily watched each other—it was all a bit much for a witty retort.
Because there was a most unfortunate thing that Theodore did not know about her.
After a lifetime of jumping from hobby to hobby, job to job, Bree had learned a great many skills. Ask her to scuba dive with sharks, whip up a four-tiered cake, or hand dip a colonial-times wax candle, and she was your gal. But there was one activity that had never crossed her path.
One thing she most certainly couldn’t learn to do within five weeks.
Tap dancing.
Chapter 6
Chip
Chip couldn’t go over and help.
He didn’t have time.
If anyone needed help, it was him. Right now he had no working toilet and a damaged subfloor in the bathroom. Right now, any time nature called, Chip found himself driving down the street to a gas station—even at midnight.
He had problems of his own. The priority here was clear.
Chip stood under the light of his own porch in the crisp, mid-March air, determined not to look at the elderly woman across the street hobbling from her parked car toward her door. Everything about her small brick ranch was lightless. Every one of her four visible windows, the shadowy line of her slanted sidewalk, the petite stoop. Two grocery bags swung from her arm as she shakily grabbed the railing and began to ascend.
He looked down at the circular saw in his hand and the plywood between the sawhorses at his feet, then back toward the woman across the street. Why wouldn’t her porch light come on? Why, in a week and a half, had it never come on?