“Well, the grant looks good to me,” Eric said. “But I’ve heard that the Century Foundation may be slowing down on grants a bit. Emma mentioned it in passing over the weekend.”
I sighed. “Well, it’s still worth a shot.”
“Of course it is,” Eric said. “Besides, I haven’t heard anything official.”
“Where is Emma, by the way? I haven’t seen her for a while. Is she still in Boston?” I asked.
“She is. You know how we split our time between Trevorton and Boston? But I think she prefers Boston these days. Fewer memories.”
“Understandable,” I said. Emma had been hit by the events of last Christmas hardest of all.
“I’m glad that the apartments are getting used,” Eric said.
“Apartments?”
“It’s an old townhouse on Beacon Hill, been in the family for years. My father decided to do a rehab about twenty-five years ago, and give us each a pied-a-terre in the city. When he married Brooke he considered turning it back into a single family home, but she nixed that, thankfully for us.”
“I knew your dad and Brooke owned a condo. I thought you would use that?”
“No, the townhouse is more our speed. We’re using the condo for the business, but we’ll probably sell it this spring. Anyway, Dad signed the townhouse over to us five years ago. Emma’s on the top floor, my apartment’s in the middle, and Amelia’s on the first floor. Of course, it’s become a bit of a theater frat house with Harry staying in my apartment. I think Emma’s having fun hanging out with him.”
“How could she not? Harry is great company. You should know that,” I said, teasing. Eric just smiled. Harry Frederick was his partner, a wonderful actor, and one of my favorite people.
“I’ve done more work on my apartment than my sisters, but then again, I spend more time in Boston,” Eric continued. “I really do love it there.”
“I’m surprised you’re not there right now, with Harry.” Harry had been cast in Romeo and Juliet by the original director, so he’d been in Boston for a few weeks.
“I was planning on going down, but we don’t like to leave Amelia alone these days.”
“How she doing?” Amelia, the youngest of the Whitehall children, had always been seen by the family as a little frail. I didn’t think of her as frail as much as living in her own world. Her father’s death had pushed her to the brink. I thought she was doing better, but not well. None of them were really doing well. There was a lot to recover from. But I did think, or at least I hoped, that the entire family was on the mend.
“She’s spending most of her time in the greenhouse, making sure Mrs. Bridges’s plants live until she gets back from Ireland. It’s been a great distraction for her. I think we’re all a little too overprotective of her, Emma and me especially. But now Amelia’s thinking about creating a foundation to help with the green space in Trevorton. You know, pay to keep up that little park in the harbor, help pay for the community gardens by the high school.”
“What great projects,” I said. “Are you sure she’s up to running this new foundation?”
“We’re keeping it small to begin with, and that should help. But Amelia’s been thinking about it for a long time, and really wants to make it work. I think it may be the perfect solution—gives her something to do, keeps the demand low but the outcome high.”
“Let me know what I can do to help,” I said.
“Thanks, Sully. We may ask you to help us brainstorm an event to launch the project later this spring. I know you’ll be busy getting the Cliffside season going—”
“We’ve got a few projects we’re going to be launching just before the season starts. Maybe we can make them all happen at the same time somehow? Add a garden to the new production center? We’ll figure something out,” I said.
“Sounds great. Thanks again, Sully,” Eric said. “So, do the budgets make sense to you?”
I looked back down at the sheets of paper he’d given me. They needed to make sense to me, and when better than when Eric was sitting there? I pointed at a blank box he’d highlighted in yellow. “What’s that?”
“I didn’t know what to put in for marketing,” Eric said. “Didn’t I hear that Hal Maxwell was pitching the Cliffside Theater Company for rebranding?”
“Yes, can you believe it? When I heard that Maxwell and Samuel was going to bid on our rebranding project, I thought it was a pity bid Hal put in because he knew us, and knew you guys. But Hal really seems to want the business. He’s had meetings with Dimitri and the board, and a couple of meetings with me.”
“Maxwell and Samuel is a great marketing firm … was a great firm,” Eric said. “I think they’ve lost a step since Martin Samuel vanished.” Martin Samuel, Hal’s partner in the firm, had disappeared a year ago after a boating accident of some sort in the Caribbean. “Hal seems to be taking on more projects, but as much to keep himself busy as to keep the doors of the firm open,” Eric finished.
“Did they ever confirm what happened to Martin?” I asked. “I thought his body was never found. Didn’t he reach out to people at one point? I thought there was a rumor he’d run away with most of the company’s assets?”
“Tons of gossip. A lot of rumors were flying around last, what was it, February? March? When it all happened. But not much since, at least none that I’ve heard. Hal’s been working closely with the Cunninghams on the Century Projects, as their marketing firm, and that keeps him busy. Hey,” Eric said, “does Hal know you’re applying for the grant?”
“It was Hal’s idea to apply,” I said. I looked down at the pile of papers and then back up at my friend. “I don’t suppose you could email these to me—”
“I’ll do better than that. I’ll share it in a folder online, and add more stuff to it as I think about it. Would that work?”
“It would. I can’t wait until the new intern starts next month. She’s a whiz at computers, and she’ll help make sure our online files are up-to-date and accurate. Email me the link, and I’ll call you if I can’t figure it out.”
“I’ll send it to you within the hour,” Eric said. He leaned down and gave me kiss on the cheek, leaving me to finish the French fries on my own. It was a tough job, but someone had to do it.
“Thanks for letting me use your restaurant as my office, Gene,” I said.
“No problem, sweetheart. I like having you around. You know that,” Gene said.
My phone made a knocking sound, my latest text message alert. I was a terrible texter. Half the time I didn’t even pay attention when my phone buzzed, rang, or beeped. But these days so many people used text as their primary way of getting hold of me that I had to pay attention, and I was hoping knocking sounds would wake me up. Texting was Dimitri’s favorite way to have conversations these days. Whenever he texted me I could actually hear him speaking, with his loud dramatic tones and grand gestures. Other people used texts to tell me to call them, since I’d stopped answering my phone. I was becoming more and more of a hermit with every passing day.
I picked up the phone and adjusted my glasses so I could read clearly. It was from Connie, our stage manager extraordinaire.
Call me, Connie texted. She knew me too well.
I dialed her cell phone. “Have you heard from Dimitri?” Connie said by way of salutation.
“Hello to you too, my friend,” I said. “I’m well, thank you. No, I haven’t spoken to Dimitri since he went to Boston. Why, what’s up?”
“Sorry, my manners are crap lately. Glad you’re well, so am I. Now, to the situation at hand. I think Dimitri’s having a rough time down in Boston,” Connie said.
“A ‘Dimitri being his overdramatic self’ hard time, or a ‘something really isn’t going well’ hard time?”
“Romeo quit this morning,” she said.
“That is bad.” I opened up a browser on my computer and googled �
�Romeo and Juliet” and “Bay Repertory Theater.”
“That’s not all. Apparently the set is a nightmare and they’re stuck with it. Pierre what’s-his-face wasn’t just the director, he was the set designer and costume designer as well. His ideas are almost impossible to undo.”
“I thought he left because of a family emergency—”
“Public spin. He was fired. Company revolt. Dimitri didn’t go into details. Anyway, he’s walked into a disaster.”
When Dimitri first got the offer from Bay Repertory Theater, he’d called me and asked if he should take the job. I’d talked him into it, and now guilt nibbled at me. “Should we do something?” I asked. I figured Connie had some sort of game plan she would let me in on it. Or, as was often the case, she was prepping me for something she needed me to do.
“Where are you?” she asked.
“I’m at the Beef & Ale, working. And eating. Gene’s doing miraculous things with French fries these days.”
“I’ll stop by before I leave. I could use one of Gene’s burgers.”
“Leave for where?” I asked, but she’d already hung up.
I picked up my phone to call Dimitri, and put it down again. Bay Rep wasn’t my theater. What was happening in Boston was technically none of my business. But, Dimitri. Dimitri could drive me crazy, sure. But he was also my friend, and in a sense my business partner. I picked up my phone again and wrote him a text.
You okay, big guy? Text or call if you need to talk.
Gene was busy in the kitchen chopping up salads, frying bacon, slicing cheese, and doing everything else to prep for the dinner rush at the Beef & Ale. Of course, in February the dinner rush consisted of ten regulars who came in after work for a beer and maybe some wings. Gene made great wings—the traditional Buffalo chicken wings, which were good, but he also made wings that had some sort of ginger marinade, and he served them with a magic sauce he kept a secret. These were my Waterloo. I couldn’t get enough of them. Neither could most of the people who lived in Trevorton.
I checked my email. True to his word, Eric had sent me a link to a file. I went online to make sure I could see the documents that were inside. I made a copy of the file and put it in a separate folder on my hard drive, adding a date. Eric wouldn’t approve, but I needed a system I could trust.
I felt a dull pounding behind my eyes. Was it too early to have a beer? I was about to ask for Gene’s opinion when my phone vibrated on the table. Another text. This one from Harry Frederick.
I’m going to call you in a minute, Harry texted. Pick up the phone. We’ve got a situation.
• Two •
Harry, how are you?”
“I’m okay, Sully. Unless you count watching while your career goes down in flames. Then, not so good.”
“What are you talking about?” Though an actor, Harry was not a drama queen offstage. Usually.
“For the second time in as many months, I’m working on a production that is a disaster. Is it me? Did I do something wrong in a previous life?” Harry had played Bob Cratchit in our December production of A Christmas Carol. The road to opening night had been rocky. To put it mildly. The show itself was terrific when all was said and done. Harry had been excited about playing Lord Capulet in Romeo and Juliet, and I hated that he sounded so despondent.
“Whoa. What do you mean, ‘disaster’? Even with Dimitri in charge?” I asked. Connie had warned me, of course, but hearing it from the front lines was surprising.
“It may be too late,” Harry said glumly. “We’ve been trying to keep it in house, but the news will be out soon. They should have known Pierre would be a disaster from the first concept meeting, but I guess they hoped that his artistic vision would gel. But to wait until after the first rehearsal to fire him was nuts. I guess they finally started to understand that he really meant what he’d said about his concept for the show.”
“Concept? What was he going to do to Romeo and Juliet?”
Harry sighed. “You know I’m a fan of shaking things up. Pierre was working with this whole concept that took over every aspect of the production, but it made no sense. Then, at that first read-through, he told everyone exactly how he wanted their roles to be played, including line readings right off the bat. He made it clear he wasn’t open to questions. He started fighting with most of the actors, and a lot of the staff, the first week of rehearsal.”
“Fight or argue?” I asked. Fights left no room for compromise. Arguments were part of the creative process. Dimitri and I argued all the time.
“Fight. And you know how a rep company is. They band together. They got his ass fired.” Repertory companies used to be more common at theaters, but now they’re fairly rare because keeping a company of actors on contract is so expensive.
“Dimitri isn’t the first director I’d hire to try and negotiate peace with a rep company,” I said quietly.
“Most of the Bay Rep company saw his production of Romeo and Juliet at the Cliffside, so they knew he got the play,” Harry explained.
As I’d come to learn, Shakespeare’s plays still held up not only because their familiarity is comforting to audiences, but because the plays themselves leave room for grand interpretation. You can delete scenes, get rid of characters, move things around, switch genders, combine characters. Really, anything is possible. Under a strong director who understands the text, rethinking Shakespeare can be very exciting. But under the guidance of someone who doesn’t trust the play—who doesn’t get the play—it can be a disaster.
Dimitri’s Romeo and Juliet for the Cliffside was an example of the former. It was set in a war-torn country of no particular origin, in the near-distant future. We had a tank as one of the set pieces. It had taken us a couple of seasons, and a couple of Christmas Carols, to save up enough money for one Romeo and Juliet. I was dubious at the beginning, but I’d learned to trust Dimitri’s vision and talent. And the production had been magnificent, one of Dimitri’s finest. I’d been a bit worried about him trying to replicate the magic again, but I knew his familiarity with the text would enable him to jump right in, and would be his calling card with the Bay Rep.
“Dimitri does in fact get the play. I mean, there are layers and nuances. But honestly, what’s to get in this situation?” I asked.
“Well, Dimitri gets the fact that Capulet wouldn’t have the hots for his own daughter,” Harry offered.
“Ew. Yuck.”
“Pierre decided that Juliet’s father would be her stepfather, and that her mother would be much older than Capulet. He had this whole ‘love is insane and has no boundaries’ concept that he was driving through the piece. ‘No judgment,’ he’d say. ‘All emotions are pure.’ Then he decided that everything would be white to help underscore the purity of love.”
“White?” I asked.
“Sets, costumes, props. Glossy white. Looks like a stylized insane asylum. Feels like one too.”
“Well, Dimitri can …” I paused because I understood how limited Dimitri’s options were. This close to opening, chances were that the set and costumes were well underway. “Any design changes possible?”
“From what I understand, tweaks are possible, but not changes. Plus they’ve installed the stream already, and the stage deck has been covered with vinyl.”
“Stream? Vinyl?”
“There’s a lot of water in this production. Part of the purity theme. They created a stream in the middle of the set and levels all over the place, and traps. Could be kind of cool, but like I said, it’s all white. Like, shiny laminate white. The laminate was on purpose, so the blood could be washed off easily—”
“Blood?”
“Blood. There’s a lot of blood in that last scene, at least the way Pierre saw it. Dimitri’s already nixed the blood. I think the white is freaking him out as much as anything else.”
And freaking out the lighting designer, I thoug
ht. White on stage was tough enough to deal with in small measures. But the entire set?
“What do you mean by freaking out?” I asked. “Losing his temper?”
“He’s scaring me. He’s not yelling at all. You can tell he has respect for every artist in the room, and that’s giving him a lot of credibility with the company. But he can’t get his arms around the production. He’s freaking out in the ‘I’m going back to my room and not talking to anyone’ way. I told him to give Connie a call. She’s always been a great sounding board for him.”
“I heard. She’s coming by to fill me in—”
“They’re calling me back into rehearsal. I’ll call or text later with more updates. This would all be funny if it wasn’t so awful.” Harry ended the call.
I was opening my computer, looking at the files, making triple copies of each one just in case my great fear of doing something wrong came to pass and I lost all records of the Cliffside Theater Company. I tried to concentrate, but I couldn’t.
If you’d told me six years ago that I would care as much about saving a production of Romeo and Juliet as I did about arresting a bad guy, I would’ve thought you’d lost your mind. But it really wasn’t the show as much as it was the people involved with the show. Dimitri could make me lose my temper, question my leadership skills, and drive me to the brink. But he was also enormously talented, very kind, and incredibly passionate. He was also very charming, which didn’t hurt. I was feeling protective of him, and wondered what I could do to help.
I’d gotten up to go behind the bar and get a cup of coffee when Connie arrived. I went over to let her in, and then went back to the bar. I lifted the pot toward her.
“Yes, please. Is it fresh? Who am I kidding? I’ll drink anything with caffeine at this point,” Connie said. She put her knapsack down on a chair and started to take her layers off. This took a while. Connie didn’t have a car these days and walked everywhere. Trevorton wasn’t big, and in the summer walking was a terrific way to get exercise. But in the winter, it was another story. Not for the first time, I wished I could give Connie full-time work between the end of A Christmas Carol and the opening of our summer season. Part of my budgeting had been trying to figure out how I could bring her on a month earlier in the spring. If we got the Century Foundation grant we were going for, it would go a long way to help.
With a Kiss I Die Page 2
