and freshly sawed wood; the familiar mustiness of upholstered seats; the hollow, unamplified voices echoing in the empty auditorium; the pounding of a hammer backstage; and the occasional shout of a crew member. Her heart thumped unevenly under an unexpected barrage of emotions.
Her happiest memories had always involved being onstage, part of a dance performance or theatrical production, sweating under the hot blaze of footlights. Ever since her first dance recital at the age of six, she had known there was no place she wanted to be except on a stage. Her whole existence had soon centered on reaching that glorious day when she would escape dreary old Iowa and ascend to the dizzying heights of Broadway performer. How she had worked, and trained, and practiced to make that dream a reality . . .
Only to have it all come crashing down because of a stupid girlhood crush. It made Vi sick to remember how her younger self had misread Robert’s interest in her. Robert, one of her older sister’s many suitors, who had been so kind and attentive whenever she and Fern had run across him at church—who had taken Violet aside after Fern had given him the brush and had told her she was the one he actually loved, never Fern. Her singing had entranced him, made him blind to any other girl’s charms. He’d thought her beautiful and as graceful as a swan.
Looking back, she could hardly believe she had been taken in by such uninspired prose. But she had been, and soon they were meeting on the sly every chance they could get because her parents hadn’t considered fifteen old enough to date. She had fancied herself Juliet to Robert’s Romeo, one-half of a star-crossed pair that would defy the odds and become a love match immortal. Never mind that he had always managed to slip in a question about what Fern was doing or who she was seeing. Nor had it bothered her that, when they still had run across him at church, he would all but stare at Fern.
Well, okay, that was a lie. It had bothered her. A lot. But when she had accused him of liking her sister better, he had said he was showing concern for Fern because she was part of Vi’s family, which would someday also be his.
Such naivete. It defied explanation now.
Yet, despite all her missteps and self-sabotage, here she was . . . in New York, in a Broadway theater, and about to join a new production. It was a miracle, and one she didn’t wholly deserve. But too much of her old dreams remained for her to throw the chance away. Her only regret was that it had required her to leave Chicago, and Jimmy.
With the lighting situation resolved, the two male actors—an older man with silver hair and a younger, dark-haired man—began reading from their scripts again. Near as she could tell by their gestures, they were arguing about the blonde lying on the couch with her arm over her eyes, as if asleep. Or drunk, given the snippets of dialogue she caught.
Whichever it was didn’t matter. What did was finding the man whose name was written on her paper right above Angelina Maggio’s. Tuning the actors out, she scanned the front row of seats. One of those shadowy figures had to be the director she sought. At least she hoped so. It would do her no good to find Miss Maggio if she only ended up being left behind, waving bon voyage from the dock, because she had failed to first secure her spot in the play.
Vi chewed on her lip nervously. Despite Sal’s assurance that the director would welcome her with open arms, she had enough stage experience to see this was no small-time production. The director had to be nervous about adding her sight unseen.
So how to reassure him, thus putting herself on firmer footing with the show?
Not by interrupting the rehearsal—that was for sure.
Nor by stinking, figuratively as well as literally, she thought as she gave her blouse a sniff. Bad first impressions were the very devil to overcome, and she owed it to Sal to at least smell one rung above a hobo.
Quietly she eased to her feet. Her tired muscles protested, but there was no time to lose if she wanted to avoid meeting the director looking—and smelling—like a pigsty. Still, she couldn’t resist watching the actors a few more seconds. The men arguing while the blonde stirred made