by Maggie Riley
Pulling out my notebook, I scanned the page of comments I’d jotted down about the next producer I was going to meet. Unlike the others, Joanna Millet was producing an off-Broadway show. From the research I’d done on her, I’d learned that she was pretty young and that she came from a wealthy family, but instead of continuing the family legacy and becoming a lawyer, she had decided to focus her energy and her trust fund on founding a small avant-garde theatre. The stage manager job was for their very first production: an all-female revival of The Iceman Cometh. With puppets.
I sighed. In general, I was not a fan of avant-garde theatre, and found puppetry gimmicky. I had originally applied for the position as a backup plan. But it appeared that now I was in desperate need of a backup plan.
The theatre was a few blocks away from the coffee shop, and when I got to the spot my GPS directed me to go, I was pretty sure I had the wrong address. There was nothing there. Nothing but a big, shiny black wall. I looked around, walked to the end of the block and then back, searching for an address or a sign that indicated where the Hole in the Wall Theatre was, but found nothing. I was just about to call the contact number I had been given when a part of the wall swung open, revealing a double door that led into a lobby.
“You must be Allie,” said the pretty, bespectacled young woman who had opened the door. Her black hair was parted down the middle and fell past her shoulders, as smooth and shiny as the wall she was leaning out of. “I’m Reagan, the director.”
I shook her hand, a little surprised. None of the other interviews had included the director, and they certainly hadn’t been the one to greet me. Usually I was met by assistants, and none of them had smiled at me as warmly as Reagan did. I did my best to hide that surprise, though.
“Nice to meet you,” I said.
“Come on in.” She gestured for me to follow her. “Joanna and I were just talking about how excited we were to meet you.”
“Me?” My surprise shifted to confusion. This didn’t feel like any interview I’d ever been on before. Had they done research on me like I’d done on them? If so, I might have developed a little bit of a work crush on them immediately.
But if Reagan noticed, she didn’t say anything, and she led me through a brand new lobby and into the black box theatre, where a couple of chairs were set up in the center of the room, one of them occupied by a blonde woman in a flawless white suit. Joanna. The contrast between her and Reagan was almost comical. Even though both of them were tall, Reagan was willowy and looked a little like a hipster Audrey Hepburn, while Joanna was all Marilyn Monroe, with her tiny waist and gravity-defying bust. I felt a little like a Hobbit standing in front of them.
Introductions were made and we settled into our seats. Immediately, Joanna leaned forward, all business.
“I’m going to be upfront with you,” she said, her voice as crisp as her suit. “You’re overqualified for this job.”
“Oh.” I felt myself wilt. That usually was a nice way of saying they weren’t interested.
But Reagan smiled and shook her head at her producer. “What Joanna means to say is that you have more experience than both of us put together.”
“Oh,” I said again, the confusion returning. My gaze shifted between the two of them. I hadn’t done any research on Reagan, but I made sure to keep up to date on new and upcoming creative voices. And I had never heard of her before. “So you’ve never . . . ?”
“Not professionally,” said Reagan. “I directed throughout college and grad school, but this would be my first production outside of academia.”
“And I’m sure you’ve read up on our theatre,” said Joanna. “You’ll know that this is our first production—and my first foray into producing.”
“I had read a little about that,” I said, choosing not to mention the hours of research I’d done on the production and theatre. No need to come off like an enormous nerd. Right away.
“Joanna is the brains behind this operation,” said Reagan. “And I’m the soul. But what we really need is someone to be the muscle. Someone who knows how to get things done. And we’re hoping that will be you.”
I stared at them. Who was interviewing whom? From where I was sitting, it sounded like they were trying to convince me to take the job, instead of me trying to convince them that I was qualified for the position.
“Of course you’ll want to know the details,” said Joanna, who took out a sheet of paper and handed it to me. “This is the contract we’re willing to offer you.”
I looked down at the paper and my eyes widened at the salary. It wasn’t exorbitant, but it was more than I had been making as a touring stage manager and more than I was expecting to get, especially after being told by four different people that I didn’t have the experience they were looking for.
“We’re trying to build a community through this theatre,” said Reagan. “We’re hoping to do female-focused productions, and we really want our team to be reflective of our goals. You’d be involved in creative decisions, and your feedback would be valued as much as mine or Joanna’s. You’d be part of the team, Allie. A valued part of the team.”
“Why me?” I asked, the question slipping out before I could stop it.
Reagan gave me a smile. “Because you’re the right person for the job.”
“Because you’re anal retentive,” Joanna said bluntly.
She wasn’t wrong. But for the first time, I was pretty sure it was meant as a compliment.
“And we called all your references and they raved about you,” Joanna continued, and this seemed like a much more likely reason. It was pretty clear that Joanna was focused on facts, like a good producer should be, and Reagan seemed more dependent on instinct, which was usually helpful as a director. They seemed like they could be a good team.
“We’d need you to start as soon as possible,” Joanna said. “It’s not going to be easy, but we’re hoping it will be rewarding.”
“And we’re all going to be in the trenches,” said Reagan. “Together.”
All of this sounded suspiciously encouraging. Stage managers weren’t involved in shaping the mission statement of productions, let alone a theatre. We fixed things. We made things work. We stayed in the background. We didn’t give artistic or creative feedback. We didn’t offer our opinion at all, unless it was to determine if a set change was impossible or an actor needed to exit stage left to get to their next entrance with enough time to spare—and even so, we were more called on to make it work than to change it.
This would be completely different from any show I’d ever worked on before, and I wasn’t sure I was comfortable with all of this new responsibility. I was a stage manager because I was a problem solver, not a creative thinker. But I needed the job.
“This is a project-by-project hire, right?” I asked, looking again at the contract. If it didn’t work out, I could walk away at the end of it, another production added to my resume. I could go back to interviewing for jobs on Broadway. With more traditional productions on their slate.
“Right,” said Joanna. “A trial run, if you will.”
“For all of us,” Reagan laughed. “But we’re hoping it’s the beginning of something special.” Her expression was so open and eager that it was impossible not to get caught up in her excitement.
“OK,” I heard myself say. “I’m in.”
Chapter 5
SHANE
Leaning over my workbench, I fought back another yawn and tried to focus on the task at hand. Measure twice, cut once was the rule they always taught you in carpentry, and I’m pretty sure they would have advised against measuring—no matter how many times—on a few hours of sleep and too many cups of coffee. Jittery and tired did not make for good results.
Chivalry clearly had its drawbacks. My back was killing me from a night on that lumpy monstrosity Liz called a couch, and the thought of sleeping on it again made me eye one of the half-completed rockers set up in the corner. They wouldn’t be any softer than the couch up
stairs, but they’d damn well provide some actual support.
Was there any possible way I could convince Allie to share the bed with me? Surely a queen would be big enough for both of us, and we could even build a wall of pillows in between us. And those pajamas of hers—they certainly weren’t going to be tempting anyone.
Except I had already seen what was under that full-coverage cotton. As well as gotten a good glimpse of it again when she was in front of the fridge. So actually, her sleep clothes wouldn’t provide any kind of barrier for inappropriate thoughts. If anything, I was now thinking about how I would unbutton each button, my mouth following, as I undressed Allie. And I realized that sleeping in the bed next to someone who looked that good naked would be an even worse idea than letting her stay in the apartment.
I put aside my work, knowing that I wasn’t going to get anything else done today. Wiping my forehead, I looked around my workshop, mentally assessing the work that needed to be done. I knew that someone just walking off the street would see a mess—wood and sawdust everywhere, pieces of paper tacked up willy-nilly on the wall, various parts strewn around the room. I knew Allie would probably look at it and have a heart attack. But it was an organized mess. I knew exactly where everything was and what stage it was in. So far, there were a lot of half-finished projects, but everything was on schedule.
Business was good. When I first started out, I had drawn the attention of wealthy and well-connected clients who were interested in furnishing their homes with one-of-a-kind pieces. I had been getting good word of mouth and orders were coming in at a satisfying pace.
Then a drunk driver changed everything. It was the last thing any of us expected. Getting that call on a Tuesday night, late, when all I had on my mind was work and maybe the pretty bartender at my local pub. But suddenly my parents were gone and I was now the sole guardian to my fourteen-year-old sister. I had to reshuffle everything—I had to reshuffle myself and my goals. I had to put someone else first.
It had been a couple of rough years, and after the accident I had to put everything on the back burner in order to prioritize Megan’s well-being—something I didn’t regret for an instant. I left my workshop and Brooklyn behind, moving into the family house in upstate New York to make sure she finished high school. And didn’t completely fall apart.
I might not have been my sister’s first choice for a guardian, but I was damn glad to be with her during that time. Losing both parents to a drunk driver had been hard. For both of us. But now Megan was starting her freshman year at NYU and I had rented out the house upstate and moved back to Brooklyn to be close to her. Not too close, of course, but close enough. And with her focused on school, I was able to focus again on my work. On reopening the workshop.
It was going to be a lot of work, but I had never balked at hard work. Especially this kind. The kind I could do with my hands. Putting a saw to a piece of wood, and carving something out of a solid block of oak or cedar or pine. There was nothing more satisfying than seeing a piece of furniture I had only imagined in my head or on paper coming to life in my hands.
Except on days like today when I couldn’t focus on that work. My phone buzzed in my pocket and I cleaned off my hands before answering it.
“I want to come home,” my sister said as a greeting.
I sighed. “Megan,” I said, trying to keep my voice calm. “You’re only halfway through your first semester.”
“But I already know that I hate it.”
I pinched my nose between my fingers. This was not the first time we’d had this discussion. And I had already caved once and let her defer her acceptance for a year. Her therapist had stressed that there would need to be a period of adjustment, that she was especially vulnerable to homesickness because of losing our parents at such a young age. It was the reason I had sent her to therapy in the first place, something that had really helped her—helped both of us—navigate our new relationship as not just brother and sister, but guardian and ward.
But I also knew that Megan wanted to be at NYU. She had wanted to go since she was a kid. Since she had decided that she wanted to be an actor. I had put up with enough after-dinner plays and performances during our childhood to know that she was a total ham. And I knew that these calls, these requests to come home, were born of anxiety and nerves. So far we had weathered them, and she had settled back into her new schedule and environment.
“I thought you said you were really enjoying your theatre classes,” I reminded her.
There was a moment of silence.
“What happened?” I asked.
“They’re starting auditions for the fall show,” she said quietly.
Now her call was starting to make sense. She didn’t really want to come home, she wanted help with something. She wanted my attention. That was something I could give her.
“OK,” I said, knowing that I couldn’t force anything out of her. She had to want to tell me on her own. I waited.
“I was thinking of auditioning,” she finally confessed.
“That’s great,” I told her. “What’s the play?”
“Taming of the Shrew.”
“That’s a musical, right? Furry costumes and stuff?” I played the dumb big brother and was rewarded with a sisterly sigh of annoyance.
“It’s Shakespeare, you idiot.”
“Of course.” I grinned, knowing that she was rolling her eyes. “What do you have to do for this audition?” I asked her.
“A monologue,” she said, her voice going quiet again.
“That’s where you just talk for ten minutes straight, right?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Easy,” I told her. “You’ve yelled at me nonstop for at least thirty minutes. Ten minutes should be a piece of cake.”
She groaned. “That’s not what a monologue is. I have to memorize a speech.”
“OK,” I said, not sure what the problem was. How hard could it be to memorize a paragraph or two?
“I keep forgetting the same part,” she said. “Every time. And I don’t even know if the stuff I’ve memorized is any good. If I’m any good.”
I knew she was talented. She was a Garrett, after all. Our mom had been a highly respected professor and our dad had designed award-winning houses. Megan was brimming with talent. “I’m sure you’re good.”
“You have to say that, you’re my brother.”
I was at a loss. I didn’t know anything about memorizing speeches or auditioning or performing or anything about theatre, really. But then I remembered someone who did. A certain curvy someone who definitely owed me a favor.
“When’s the audition?” I asked her.
“Next week.”
“Come over this weekend.” I told Megan. “I think I know someone who can help you out.”
Chapter 6
ALLIE
The high of accomplishment I had gotten from landing a job faded pretty quickly when I went to check out one of the apartments I had found during my lunch break. With my list of apartment requirements in hand (hardwood floors, bathtub/shower combo, elevator, big windows), I went to take a look. But even with the larger salary, it was still out of my price range and even smaller than Liz’s place. It didn’t have hardwood floors or an elevator, and the only window was about the size of a dinner plate. Not to mention it was in a neighborhood without any restaurants or coffee shops and was a twenty-minute walk from the subway station I needed to take. Still, I took an application. I needed to get my own place and I needed to get it soon.
On the ride back to Brooklyn, I emailed a few more potential landlords. All of the apartments were more than I was hoping to pay—certainly more than what Liz had asked me to contribute—and I was starting to think that instead of looking for a new place, I was going to have to look for a roommate as well.
I was so used to having my own space—even if it was just a hotel room—that the thought of having a roommate was deeply unappealing. But again, I didn’t have any choice, and I wasn’t someone
who was going to let something like that stand in the way of staying in New York. As a reminder of why I had made this decision, I went through my list of things that I loved about New York. Things I had missed desperately. Bagels. Post-midnight pizza. The subway. Almond croissants from Breads Bakery. Besides, like this job, a roommate could be a temporary situation. One year living with a complete stranger wasn’t so terrible, right?
Shane was in the kitchen when I got back to the apartment. The entire place smelled amazing and my stomach rumbled, reminding me I had forgotten to get groceries. Even though the last thing I wanted to do was go back out, the way my budget was looking, I wasn’t going to be getting take-out for a long time. Did they still sell ramen noodles in bulk?
“Hey.” Shane looked up from the pot he was stirring.
God, he was handsome. He was wearing a well-worn T-shirt and an equally loved pair of jeans, both which fit him perfectly.
“Hi,” I said, trying to keep my mouth from watering at both the food he was making and the way his jeans cupped his amazing butt.
“Hungry?” he asked, pouring the pasta he had been stirring into a colander in the sink.
“Oh, I was just going to run out to the bodega around the corner,” I told him.
“Well, don’t,” he told me, gesturing to the tiny kitchen table. “I’m used to cooking for two, so there’s plenty here for both of us.”
I opened my mouth to protest, but he held up a hand.
“There’s no point arguing with me,” he said.
I frowned at him. I didn’t like to be told what to do. He must have noticed my expression because he smiled.
“You can be annoyed with me after we eat,” he said, pulling out some plates and piling them high with pasta and meat sauce.
Because I was starving, I sat. He placed the plate in front of me, complete with a thick slice of garlic bread, and took a seat across from me.
