“I mean, that was mostly me, but okay,” she said, still guarded, but almost matching his light tone.
“I will say, it actually worked better that you had to pull me up there.” He wanted to keep talking, overcome with the sense that she didn’t completely hate him right now. “If I had just gotten up there myself it wouldn’t have been as rich or raw, dramatically speaking.”
“Whatever makes you feel better.”
“You know what would make me feel better?” He took a chance because it had bothered him since their talk before the screening. “I was thinking about what you said earlier about Super Id—” He noticed her tense up, folding her arms as they walked now.
“‘She can leap tall buildings in a single bound but her psyche is scarred by what it all means.’” She quoted the tagline with an eye roll.
“I never got to tell you that—obviously—you were right, that movie did need more time. To become something.” He glanced at her, but she still didn’t say anything. “And maybe a director who was more sure of himself would’ve shut down the production before you had to walk away.” Now she looked at him. “Maybe it would never have been any good and I just needed the time and the guts to scrap it and start over. All I know is it didn’t occur to me then that I might’ve had that power. It didn’t really occur to me until now, when I feel like I have no power and everything to lose.”
“I tried to tell you,” she said softly. “It was the first time you didn’t listen.” She sounded hurt. “You just told me to show up on time on the shoot date.” They had been on opposite coasts, him preparing for the shoot, her in New York reading scripts, doing a Tennessee Williams play. “And I did. I showed up in the suit. Most of it, anyway, but I just couldn’t let you start filming that movie. So I walked up and told you it wasn’t any good, yet, but that it could be in time, and instead of agreeing you said—”
“‘Shouldn’t you be wearing a cape.’” He sighed, ashamed of this and also recalling her greeting him this way in the courtroom. “I was out of line. And in over my head. And worn down from producers trying to convince me my star wasn’t insurable and was a risk based on her reputation—”
“You never told me that.” She stopped him.
“Because I didn’t want that in your head.”
“Oh,” she said quietly, as though stunned that he had tried to protect her. “Maybe it didn’t help that I had a track record of fighting to do stunts to the point of halting production for days and getting in screaming matches when my advice wasn’t taken,” she said, referring to her teen film and then her last one, he knew. “And the arrest from the bridge, I guess, didn’t help.” She almost smiled.
“Well, maybe I got into some...bad stuff, with Jasmine, and when I tried to get back on track, I didn’t know how,” he offered, to match her candor. “And maybe when I showed up at your premiere, she followed me there. I was trying to get you back... It just didn’t go as expected.” Charlie had been so incensed at the sight of them, she had thrown that glass and had to be physically led away by a production assistant. “And maybe it was easier to blame each other for our failures all this time.”
“Imagine the drama we could have saved ourselves if we just, I don’t know, talked at some point in the past decade,” she tossed out. “At least we’re not boring.”
“It might even be said we’re entertaining to watch, for better or worse.” As he said it, his wheels began spinning. Had he hit on an idea that might actually make a difference to this place? Was it possible? He wasn’t sure whether he should broach it, the evening had been unusually encouraging. He watched the glimmering night sky as they crossed over to the strip of Victorian homes along his block, so many people gathered on their porches, sipping drinks in the warm air. “I know you don’t watch your work unless forced to at a premiere or something—” he started.
“True—”
“And I don’t really belong on any kind of screen,” he said, deeply hoping to be contradicted.
“True,” she said. And then added, “You’re not bad,” with just the right inflection.
“And despite the fact that we both despise that sort of thing on principle—” He couldn’t believe he was even considering it or that she was still listening.
“True—”
“There are plenty of other people who might actually want to...watch us and it might—”
“It might be good for this place,” she sighed, finishing his thought.
“Despite it feeling—”
“Like a form of prostitution—”
“Okay, sure,” he said. “Or I was going to say ‘despite it feeling empty,’ but you know, either way.” He smiled, shuffling his feet. “Desperate times, right? Maybe we should sell tickets to our own drama.”
“Let people watch us fight and make up and fight again and try to figure our lives out,” she said slowly.
“But only what we want them to see,” he said.
“Scripted reality...”
“As little as we can possibly give—”
“While still generating enough buzz—”
“To get some attention here.”
“Fascinating,” she said.
They turned onto his street, too soon despite how slowly they had been walking. Cicadas chirped, as though in approval. They were, appropriately, the ultimate comeback story of the insect world.
“For your consideration—us,” he wrapped his pitch.
She smiled at this. “On a related note, watching tonight, it reminded me that I always thought I’d have my shit together by this age, know what I mean?”
“Um, yes,” he said, as they reached his place, which was on the way to hers from the field. “So... I would invite you in...” He paused.
“You would?” she asked, intrigued. “What’s the qualifier?”
“I...actually don’t have one,” he admitted because at this point, he had no game left. “I hadn’t planned to finish that sentence at all. I figured I wouldn’t need to, that you would cut me off—which you did—and then supply the reason for me.” He walked up the steps, unlocked the door.
“This is the problem, you’re so used to me doing your work for you,” she said, walking in ahead of him as soon as he opened the door. “Solving all your problems.”
He was so surprised, hopeful, cautious, that he instantly vowed to himself to keep this professional, to sort out a plan for the theater with her, pushing aside thoughts of them.
58
WE ARE CROWNING A NEW KING
Marlena had been the lightning bolt they needed, as Charlie knew she would, generating so much excitement—fans of hers coming in from New York and even her castmates surprising her from LA—that any refunded seats for Midsummer had sold out immediately. (The only ticket holders demanding money back after “Jasmine’s Bei-breakdown,” as it had now officially been dubbed by the media, had been from die-hard Jasmine fans—self-proclaimed “Bei-watchers”—and/or friends of Taylor.)
Nick had been consumed with a new problem: the growing waiting list for Midsummer and even The Tempest. “When you come up with a way for me to sell more tickets while lowering overhead costs, let me know,” he told Charlie, daily.
Nick was singularly focused on the theater to the point Charlie wasn’t quite certain where they were, in terms of their relationship. They had precious little real time together—with the exception of the night he’d shown up at the house on Avon after the evening’s Midsummer performance just minutes to midnight and announced, “Just under the wire, today’s your sixtieth day—still staying?” And she had said yes, of course, and had given him a kiss on the cheek. Smiling, relieved, he had then left immediately, as though not wanting to rock the boat, not even trying to be invited in.
Charlie let him have his space, remembering how all encompassing work could become to him when he let himself care enough to b
e immersed. Through the years he had fallen out of touch when he was trying to make himself into something, no distractions, all or nothing. She understood this about him, the artist side of him. And loved it, though she secretly hoped she wasn’t far from his mind.
Charlie kept busy, as well. Sierra had asked Charlie to watch her audition monologue for The Tempest and Charlie was proud to tell Sierra she needed no instruction from her. The apprentice had earned a small part and would be Charlie’s understudy. And Mercutio, too, would be in the production. Charlie continued to reread that letter, and had told him days after their talk, as a thank-you, You’re right, I did need to stay for the last act.
* * *
The Tempest cast had gathered for the first table read and Nick should’ve been admiring how far they had come this season. How this group had learned to work together, how even Chase seemed to know what he was doing now. His apprentices, too, Sierra and Ethan among them. And Marlena had been an invigorating force. (If only there were more shows, more seats, more time.) He just wished all of that was enough. Instead of listening to them, admiring them, Nick was plagued by so many still-unanswered questions, worry drowning out the lines being read. He could only see the ticking clock, marching on to the end of August. Many of the investors who had been circling now seemed content to wait this season out and “strongly consider the Chamberlain” during their next fiscal year, as he had been told too often. He was running out of time and ideas.
The doors crashed open and shook him out of his thoughts. All heads turned in the direction of the commotion.
For a beat, the entire table remained still, too stunned to speak, trying to process this sight as Sarah Rose Kingsbury strode up the aisle. A messenger bag on her shoulder, looking ready to work.
“Sarah.” Nick rose to his feet, finally, greeting her in shock.
Charlie bolted from her seat. “Mom?”
“Greetings, all.” Sarah waved, as a queen might.
Charlie leaped off the stage and threw her arms around her mother. “What are you doing here?” she asked. She looked to Nick, but he had no explanation. He could only hop down from the stage and dart up the aisle in a delayed reaction.
“Hello, up there, so sorry I’m late, hope you’ll pull up an extra seat at the table.” Sarah projected to be heard by the cast onstage, many of them now standing too.
“I had no idea,” Nick said when he got close enough. Sarah surprised him, again, by embracing him with true warmth.
“Of course you didn’t,” she said to him. “And neither did you, darling,” she said to Charlie, her hand on her daughter’s cheek. “Because what good is it if I can’t make an entrance?” She smiled. “Now, where do you want me, Director?”
“Right this way.”
As he and Charlie escorted Sarah to the stairs, she informed the two of them, “You know, I received the kindest letter and I couldn’t stay away any longer.” She looked at Nick. “I just had to be here.”
“Wait,” Charlie said to Nick. “When? What did it say?”
“That’s between us,” Sarah said.
The rest of the cast stood to receive Sarah as they might a visiting dignitary. Since Nick hadn’t known she would show up, he had cast The Tempest without Sarah, but the idea struck him at once. He looked at Matteo, who nodded in understanding. He had dual roles, anyway.
“So, I think we’re going to be crowning a new king for our production,” Nick said to Sarah as he pulled out his own seat for her. She set her bag gently on the floor beside her. “From the top, now that we’re all here,” he directed.
Nick stood behind them all, a sublime peace: his cast was complete, and this show could now be everything he needed it to be. Maybe it still wouldn’t be enough, in the long run, who could say now, but this meant something to him.
Charlie caught his eye with a look of appreciation. He nodded back and then, not to get sentimental, brushed off his shoulder, as though it had been no big deal.
* * *
“I need to know what you said,” Charlie whispered to Nick as they carried her mom’s suitcases upstairs to her room at Hathaway House. She would be sharing the posh accommodations with Marlena, whom Sarah adored. Marlena, who could afford the place on her own but was thrilled to have company, had moved in within hours of Jasmine leaving town.
“I can be very persuasive, you may have forgotten,” he said.
“Maybe, maybe not.” Charlie had barely so much as texted her mom since their failed trip to London and yet Nick had somehow managed to get her back to the States for the first time in six years, to perform for free at the theater she had accused him of running into the ground.
“Just ask your mom,” he said, setting two suitcases down in the second grandest bedroom there. Charlie tossed her mom’s satchel and messenger bag on the bed, just as Sarah appeared in the doorway.
“This place really is just as I remember it,” she said.
“You’ve had a long day,” Nick said to her, hand on her arm. “So I’ll leave you ladies to it. Until tonight’s show.” He ducked out the door, but Sarah rose to her feet.
“Oh, Nicholas, you left something though,” she called out.
He reappeared patting his pockets, checking for his phone. But she walked toward him, holding out the weathered messenger bag, as though bestowing a prize.
“But this isn’t—” he started.
“It’s yours now,” she said. “It was his—Grayson’s. I gave it to him.” She looked at Charlie, whose mind worked to connect so many dots. “And I took it back when he passed. As you’ll notice, I even had it engraved for him inside. It should be yours.”
Nick took it in his hands with great care, smoothing its cognac leather. “Are you sure?” He looked to Charlie for help, but she just shook her head, equally taken aback.
Sarah clasped her empty hands in front of her. “I am too close to it. It’s why I was hesitant to come back at first too. I needed distance...from him.”
“I’ll take good care of it,” Nick said, holding it to his chest. “And I’m trying to do the same with this place. From now on. As well.”
Sarah closed her eyes a moment. “I know you are. And I owe it to you to tell you.” Concern swept her face, and she looked at the floor. “The Chamberlain was failing for him too, at the end.” She said it like the words were too painful to get out. “He just poured his own money into it until he passed.”
“None of that is visible in the books—” Nick said, clearly in shock.
“Of course not, he covered it up. He felt ashamed that he couldn’t figure out how to monetize what he loved anymore,” Sarah went on. “The truth is, the odds were stacked against you in a way you didn’t realize. I didn’t want to have to tell you that because it meant admitting that that man—a man I loved—” she looked at Charlie, to see if she understood “—was part myth too. But we all are in some way, aren’t we? We tell ourselves what we need to just to get through the days. You know why I’m really here now?” Nick waited a moment and shook his head. “Because through all of this, you never asked me for money. You asked me only for time and craft—”
“Honestly, money from you wouldn’t solve the real heart of the problem,” he said, choosing his words carefully. “We need to expand our reach, speak to new audiences and new donors in order to sustain this place. We need to reach beyond people who just loved Grayson if we’re going to really thrive and be viable here. We need to evolve.”
Sarah closed her eyes and nodded. “That is exactly what I hoped you would say. You’re worthy of this place, I hope you know.” She touched the bag once more. “Now, go on and take this before I change my mind.”
59
I SAID TOO MUCH
The cast began rehearsing The Tempest, and when Charlie and Nick weren’t at work on that show—which involved constant hushed meetings with Mason to devise effects so special fe
w would be permitted to even know about them—then they were preparing another show entirely.
Charlie couldn’t believe she and Nick were actually doing this: they would shoot a few behind-the-scenes videos to send to media and post online. They had tapped Fiona to help them, pairing her with Simon, who would be pitching in long-distance from London to edit the project. They could only trust a few people. What they had planned for opening night was so elaborate that even Charlie was nervous.
The final show wasn’t the only thing on her mind.
“Brace yourself,” Charlie said to Marlena as they walked back to Hathaway House, bags slung over their shoulders, stage makeup still on, fresh off yet another full-house standing ovation for the night’s Midsummer performance. They had just a week left of the run. “I’m about to get freakishly emotional.” She glanced at her friend from the corner of her eye.
“Are we talking tears here?” Marlena said lightly. Charlie gave her a look that said, Absolutely not. “Kidding. I’m the crier here. We all know that. But, okay, ready for it.”
“You know how Nick’s been doing so much and we only see him at rehearsals and he has a lot on his mind—” she said, tense. It was nearly midnight, fireflies lighting the way as they passed the museum.
“Yeah, but The Tempest opens in one week, so that’s kind of intense—”
“I know, I get that, I’m great at getting that, but last time he did this—”
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