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ONE

Eight Weeks Till Opening Night

Lindy

 

I thought I’d learned not to succumb to peer pressure, but here I am, 32 years old and letting my friends drag me to this stupid audition.

“You never do anything fun, Lindy!” my best friend Megan pointed out when I protested her idea to join the cast of a local theatrical production. Our other friend Heather nodded in agreement.

Oh, great, they’re ganging up on me!

“I do too!” I folded my arms over my chest defensively as I prepared to enumerate the myriad fun activities I enjoy. “I like to read. And I knit.” Megan pursed her lips and cocked a brow at me. “I also bake!”

“Do any of those activities involve actual people?” she demanded. “Like actual human beings? Who aren’t related to you?” She cut me off right before I could mention that my mom likes to help me in the kitchen.

“Fine,” I relented. “Just fine.”

“Lindy, you have a gorgeous voice. Way better than mine! This is going to be a lot of fun,” she insisted. “You’ll see.”

I wanted to ask her how something as nerve-racking as performing in front of real, live human beings could possibly be fun, but I had already given up. At least being in the chorus means I can fade into the background, if I can only manage to avoid tripping or committing some other equally mortifying faux pas. So now I’m sitting next to her and Heather in the brightly colored plastic chairs at Delmarva Art Connection waiting for the directors to call my name.

There are four of them sitting behind an 8-foot table, looking no less intimidating to me than a jury appears to a defendant awaiting a verdict. Of the four, only one is a woman. She is sort of on the plump side, though still smaller than me, and has shoulder-length copper hair with golden highlights and bright turquoise eyes. On one side of her is Jack Reilly, who teaches with me at the Delmarva Academy. I don’t know him very well, but I am familiar with his ability to strike fear in the hearts of band students who don’t meet his stringent expectations. On the other side of the woman is a handsome man with longish sandy blond hair and a semi-goofy smile. At least he doesn’t look like he might rip my head off.  And finally, next to the blond guy is a thin, dark-haired man with glasses shoved down the end of his nose wearing an expression that vaguely indicates he thinks we all suck.

Heather excuses herself to go to the restroom. “Hope they don’t call me next,” she says as she flits off, her blonde locks bouncing behind her. I don’t know why they don’t just go in the order we signed up. I hate it when directors try to psych you out by playing these stupid head games. This is not my first rodeo—I mean production.

Megan has already auditioned, so she’s sitting next to me, totally relaxed, with her legs crossed at the ankle. She’s been my best friend since junior high, so I already know what’s going through her head. She’s scoping out the male auditioners to gauge her chances of a backstage romance. I can already tell she has her eye on one with a long, dark ponytail. Ever since she got divorced last year, she’s been boy crazy. It’s worse than when we were in junior high! It’s hard for me to relate because I’ve certainly never had any desire to relive those days. On the contrary, I could probably use some therapy to get those days out of my system.

Just as the woman at the directors’ table calls out “Melinda Larson,” I see Megan’s eyes drift to a new arrival. He’s tall, well-built and has closely-cropped dark hair with just the perfect amount of stubble shadowing his jawline. Yep, she’s in love now. I knew this summer plan to be in a play together wasn’t about bestie bonding. It was just another ploy to meet a guy. I roll my eyes as I start to make my way toward the stage.

I’m wondering how on earth we can be 32 years old and still not feel or act any older than we did at 13 when the scowling judge at the end of the table glances up from my audition sheet. “What are you going to sing for us, Ms. Larson?” he asks in a surprisingly non-gruff voice.

By this time, the nerves have gripped ahold of me again, and I feel their restless energy buzzing through me from head to toe. Get yourself together, Lindy, I think, clenching my jaw. Oh, and remember to smile! I can almost hear my mom admonishing me.

“Good afternoon!” I finally manage. “I’m Lindy Larson, and I’ll be singing ‘Don’t Rain on My Parade’ from Funny Girl.”

The judges—all four of them, mind you—just stare at me with their mouths slightly ajar, as though they aren’t quite sure how I could voluntarily put myself in the same league as Barbra Streisand. They are pretty convinced I’m full of it, I can tell.

But here’s what they don’t know:

Under this mousy exterior exists a voice—a bold, clear, bell of a voice—a voice I can control. I can make it soft and sweet, bright and sassy, jazzy and smooth. I can add a twang, a whine, a gravelly sound. My voice is my one true special gift, one of the only things I can do that I’m actually confident about. Even so…I still don’t enjoy singing in front of people. I have to really get myself in the zone to work up the nerve, but that’s more because I don’t like people looking at me than because I don’t want to sing in front of anyone. You know what I’d be great at? Cartoon voice-overs. I could voice the next Disney princess, and no one would have to know I’m an awkward, chubby plain-Jane teacher.

I felt nervous when I was sitting waiting for my turn. I was trembling as I waited for the signal to begin. But when I finally unleash my voice, I feel one hundred percent free.

 

***

Did you get an email yet?

A text is waiting for me from Megan as soon as I turn on my phone. I leave it off all day when I’m teaching so I don’t get distracted. I end up reprimanding dozens of students per day for having their phones out, so I figure I should at least set a good example. I’m not sure it does one bit of good, though. We are doing a unit on Shakespeare at the moment, and I asked my students to write a pretend text conversation between Romeo and Juliet. I told them that was as close as they were going to get to teacher-approved texting in class.

I just got off work, geez! I text back. I roll my eyes at her as I tap the icon for my email. I gave the directors my personal email address, of course, so I have to scroll through a zillion spam emails to find one with the subject: “Congratulations! There’s a part for you!”

My heart thunders inside my rib cage as I open it up. It looks like a generic newsletter-type email welcoming me to the production. It’s addressed to “Dear Chorus Member.” Yep, that’s right. I only auditioned for the chorus. I may have a great voice, but there is no way I want a lead part. Besides, I’m much too fat and awkward to have a starring role. I wonder if Megan got one, though? She is much more comfortable in the limelight than I am. Heather too, for that matter.

ME: Yep, in the chorus. Looks like there’s a meeting tomorrow night to go over the production schedule?

MEGAN: Cool. I’m in the chorus too. Haven’t heard from Heather yet. Let’s grab dinner before the meeting! Nicobolis?

Nicobolis are the specialty of one of the pizza places on the boardwalk in Rehoboth Beach, near where we live. Delmarva Art Connection is only a few blocks away. Back to Nicobolis: if anyone asks you if you want one, the answer is always YES. Always.

I head home to my parents’ cozy blue-shuttered cape cod in Milton, my mouth already watering for the Nicoboli and cheese fries I am already planning to consume the following evening. “Mom?” I call out as I enter the house. “Mom?”

She’s usually up from her nap by 4 PM. If she’s not, it means she has a hard time falling asleep at 9, which is when she and my dad typically crawl into bed. I swear, getting her to go to sleep on time and stay in bed is such a challenge, I feel like she is difficult on purpose to make up for all the nights my brother and I kept her awake when we were little.

My parents are old. Like super old. It’s funny, some of my friends have told me that when they were younger, they thought 40 or 50 was old until they saw their parents hit those ages, and then suddenly, they didn’t feel 40 or 50 was so old anymore. My parents, though, are in their 70s, and I am pretty sure that really is old by anybody’s definition.

“You’re only as old as you feel!” my dad is fond of saying, then adds: “In that case, I’m not a day under 103!” with a hearty laugh. His back is hunched over, his voice is all gravelly, and he’s incessantly complaining about needing to take his pills. My mom isn’t much better, though she likes to use her age as the ultimate guilt trip. “You aren’t seriously thinking about leaving us here, are you, Lindy? You would leave your mother, an old woman, and break her heart?”

I think my parents gave up on the idea of me getting married and having a family of my own years ago. Probably about the time I graduated from college. You see, they’d always told me in high school, where I rarely had a date to homecoming, prom, the Valentine’s Dance or whatever other coupley activities they invent to make us single girls feel lonely and awkward, “Just wait till college! You’ll be beating the boys off with a stick when you get to college.”

So, I went to college; never had to get out a stick. Yes, I went out on a few dates. I even did the college hook-up thing once or twice, but I suppose I wasn’t girlfriend material. I had a kinda long-term thing going on with my study partner for chemistry. And he was pretty cute. But I don’t think getting together to balance equations and go over your lab results constitutes a real relationship, right? Yeah, that’s what I thought.

It was like after college was over, my window of opportunity had slammed shut. Yes, there were some dates and a few more hook-ups in my early twenties. But then I became a high school English teacher, which evidently means signing a contract for eternal spinsterhood. Every once in a while we’d get a new teacher at our school, like when Jack Reilly, one of the aforementioned directors, joined the staff. My mom would get a hopeful look on her face and ask, “Is the new teacher at your school a man?” And if I said yes, her eyes would grow a little bit wider. “Is he single?”

The last teacher to join our staff was a woman named Sonnet Jayne, so all that got from my mom was a confused shrug and a, “Sonnet? What kind of name is that?”

“Mom?” I call again. “Are you still asleep?”

Then I hear the snoring. I have to remind myself it actually is snoring and not the sound of my parents’ neighbors chopping down a tree with an industrial-grade chainsaw. Nope, just my dad, the incomparable Frank Larson, napping on the couch. Now he’s really going to complain that he can’t walk because his back is going to be a mess.

“Dad?” I turn the corner into the living room, and there he is on the sofa with the cat curled up on his chest. She’s wearing a smug look on her face like she conquered the highest mountain in the land.

“Come here, Tink,” I whisper to her, and she lazily yawns and stretches. Then she kneads her paws into my dad’s stomach, which is usually guaranteed to wake him up. But he doesn’t stir. And my mom is still MIA too. These two love to keep me on my toes.

I move closer to him, leaning down to see if his chest is moving up and down, but it’s hard to tell with the damn cat pressing down on him. “Dad?” He was just snoring a few seconds ago. This is what he gets for not wearing his CPAP machine.

I hear a garbled string of expletives fly out of his mouth as he pushes himself up on the sofa, sending Tink springing off the cushion until she lands (on her feet, of course) on the floor. She shakes it off and walks away with her tail held high.

“Oh, good morning, Lindy!” my dad says as soon as he gathers his bearings.

“It’s four in the afternoon, Dad.” I shake my head. He can’t keep track of time when he’s awake, let alone when he’s asleep. He’ll often have a whole list of things he wants to accomplish during the day, but gets sidetracked on project 1.5A, sucking him into the black hole of tinkering till dinnertime.

“Where’s your mom?” he croaks, still trying to yawn away his grogginess.

“I was about to ask you the same,” I answer. I step past him and into the hallway that leads to the garage. My mom’s walker is missing. “Oh, she’s gone!”

My dad is still on the sofa, scratching his head at my mother’s disappearing act.

“Didn’t she tell you she was going out?” I study his eyes that were once shaped just like mine, but now they’re creased with wrinkles and topped with bushy gray eyebrows.

He scratches his head again. Or maybe he never stopped. “Hmmm. Now that you mention it, I do remember her mumbling a thing or two about needing some bay leaves? But I didn’t realize she had to leave the house to get them. Maybe Norma from across the street picked her up?”

I can’t help but chuckle. These two are freaking adorable sometimes. They’ve been married for almost forty years now. I was a “happy surprise,” as my mom always puts it. A sweet euphemism. My brother would then joke that I was sent to ruin his life because God didn’t want him to be a perfectly happy only child.

I usually don’t mind taking care of my parents. They are old and set in their ways, but they do appreciate me, and they love each other to death. As a matter of fact, that is probably my greatest fear. If one dies, the other is sure to go shortly thereafter. I can’t imagine a Frank Larson in this world without his Betty, or vice versa.

And maybe that is one of the reasons I haven’t ever tried too hard to find the proverbial Mr. Right. I mean, other than my crippling insecurity and shyness, of course. I know love is supposed to be forever, but we’re all humans. There is no such thing as forever.

 

 

TWO

Eight Weeks Till Opening Night

 Meric

 

I’ve been a regular on the stage at Delmarva Art Connection ever since they opened a couple years ago. Drew, the owner, is a good friend of mine. I used to bartend with him long ago, and when I heard he was opening this new venue, I was beyond thrilled for him. He had always been the classic underachiever, but I knew he had more inside, just waiting to come out. His girlfriend Sonnet had a lot to do with him getting his act together. Pardon the pun.

I’ve been a regular on stages throughout the mid-Atlantic, now that I think about it. All the way back to my first ensemble appearance as an orphan in Oliver! and my lead role debut in a middle school production of Godspell. Damn fine memories. And you better believe leading men have an advantage when it comes to wooing women. For a somewhat awkward and shy teen (hard to believe if you saw me on stage, but it is totally true) I had a serious leg-up when it came to flirting.

Those days are all behind me now, though. Divorce is a good way to rip out a man’s soul, stomp on it, and make him want to keep his junk in his pants for all of eternity. My buddies tell me I will be over that nonsense as soon as the ink on the divorce papers is dry, but seeing as that is happening next week, I can’t possibly envision a world where they’re correct.

Distraction is my friend, you see. And that is exactly why, when I learned Drew was helping his bandmate Jack and Jack’s wife Claire produce a new original musical on stage at Delmarva Art Connection, I leapt at the opportunity to get back in the limelight. I have just one stipulation: NO backstage romances. That is how I met my wife. Ahem, ex-wife. And there is no way in hell I’m going down that path again.

I decided to wait around after auditions to see if Drew and the other directors would give me an idea how they’re leaning when it comes to my role. I auditioned for the male lead. My voice may be a bit rusty, but I still thought I was far and away the best tenor who tried out for the part. I watch the last few stragglers file out of the auditorium as Drew and company pore over their notes, making little marks with their pens.

I’m an accountant by trade, and my obsessively mathematical mind is always trying to predict the future. So I’m running the numbers in my head: X number of auditioners with Y number of lead roles, so what is the probability that an auditioner would get a lead role? I calculate it’s approximately 8%.

“Hey, Drew,” I interrupt as I approach the stage. They’re spread out along an eight-foot table: Drew, Jack, his wife Claire, and some other guy I don’t recognize. I think they said he is the choreographer.

“Hey, great job, man!” Drew praises, glancing up from his clipboard to smile at me. The other directors nod and murmur their own accolades, and I have to admit my ego is soaring. Feels so good after a sabbatical from performing. Ironically, I met my ex in a production of Guys and Dolls, but she never wanted me to do any other shows once we got married. The ones I’ve done here at Delmarva Art Connection have only been since she and I separated.

I rub my hands together as I look at the directors, trying to gauge their casting decisions from their expressions. I’m performing mathematical calculations correlated to the curvature of their eyebrows. I had forgotten how nerve-racking auditions are.

“So, what are you guys thinking?” My eyes keep darting from face to face. I can’t quite read Jack Reilly. He’s Drew’s bandmate, and I’ve seen him around, but this is the first time I’ll be working with him. He and his wife Claire wrote this show, and it takes place in our quaint little seaside town of Rehoboth Beach, Delaware.

Jack glances at his wife and then back to me as a smile creeps onto his face. “So, we were just talking about you, actually.”

“Oh yeah?” My eyebrows fly up as I await my fate and prepare to accept any role. I’m not too proud to be in the chorus, I tell myself. Even though my last role was Joseph in Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat. That show was a freaking blast!

“Yeah, we think you’d make the perfect Crimson ‘Blade’ McLifetaker!” Jack exclaims, fully enunciating the character’s name.

My mind scrambles for its copy of the cast list I’d seen earlier. “Crim-who McWhataker?” I stumble out. That was not the name I was expecting to hear.

“Arrrr, the most vicious bloody pirate in all the land, that’s who ye be perfect fer!” Drew’s grin is so wide that his eyes are all crinkly.

Jack and Claire both erupt in laughter, but the guy on the end, the one I haven’t quite decided about yet, scowls as though he needs a cup of coffee. Or a martini.

“Wait, isn’t that the bad guy?” I look from face to face, more perplexed than ever.

“It’s a really fun character,” Claire offers. “You’ll have so much fun with it!”

Could she say the word “fun” a few more times? I’ve never played the bad guy. And I’ve certainly never been the comic relief.

I take a deep breath as this unexpected development rumbles through my mind. “You want me to play the bad guy?” I confirm. Maybe I misunderstood?

“He’s a lovable villain,” Drew argues. “Well, kind of lovable. Till he tries to burn down the town and kidnaps the mayor and his daughter, I mean.”

My mind is hard at work trying to make sense of this. I’ve always played the romantic lead. The one who gets the dame. You know, the Danny Zuko, the Captain von Trapp, the Curly McLain. I know nothing of playing the villain.

“Are you sure?” I take one of the audition flyers from their table and read off the first name on the cast list. “Isn’t the male lead Easton Von Thursten?” My eyebrows are wrinkled with confusion, trying to understand how they found a better Easton von Thursten than yours truly.

The dark-haired dude on the end who looks bored to tears finally pipes up. He locks eyes with me and announces, “You get to be a pirate, man. Everybody loves pirates!”

“But I don’t wanna be a pirate!” I fire back. At least my Seinfeld reference isn’t lost on Claire, who laughs her head off at my joke. Okay, so I automatically like her.

Drew scratches his beard for a moment. “But—”

I gulp in a breath. “Fine, if you guys really think that will be the best role for me, I guess I’ll be stupid old Crimson McPiratepants. But I don’t have to like it.”

“Good, you’re getting into character already!” Jack bellows, and the four directors share a laugh at my expense. I have a feeling it won’t be the last one.

***

Summer is a slow time for me as an accountant. I’m sure CPA has “boring nerd” written all over it, but beneath this button-down shirt and pocket protector there’s a pretty ripped bod, you know. One of my clients owns a gym, and I get a free membership as part of my payment. Bonus! I’m not above bartering. You should see what I’m willing to give away for free coffee.

I work out of my house in downtown Rehoboth, not far off the Avenue. It’s a good thing summer is a slow time for accountants because at the height of tourist season, it’s a real headache for clients to get down to my office. Working from home is not a bad gig at all. I have a big, burly Aussiedoodle, Lucius, who keeps me company. He’s very energetic, so we go on long walks through the neighborhood together. I’m assuming Lucius would protect me should I ever be attacked by an actual band of pirates. Or whatever other brand of ne’er-do-well we might encounter.

I moved into this place two years ago when my wife Suzanne and I separated after five years of marriage. I’m still getting used to the bachelor lifestyle. I didn’t even really like the bachelor lifestyle when I was in college, when I shared an off-campus apartment with three other dudes. Those four years are supposed to be the best of your life, but I just couldn’t wait to settle down with a pretty lady and have the 2.5 kids and the white picket fence. The whole nine yards, you know? I guess I’m a traditionalist at heart. When I met Suzanne, I was thrilled to be putting bachelorhood behind me for good—for what I thought would be forever.

Until I caught her shacked up with my business partner in our own bed.

I mean A) my business partner? That’s pretty damn low in and of itself. But B) in our own bed? That’s some real sadistic stuff right there, man. Bryan and I had started our company together after getting our feet wet at one of the biggest accounting firms in Wilmington. We had a nice little niche going providing payroll and tax services to small businesses and then, bam, a year later, he’s nailing my wife. And what did Suzanne have to say for herself? Not much. She claimed I didn’t pay enough attention to her. But I think she was tired of me asking when she was going to let me knock her up. Ouch.

Of course, now she and Bryan are together—and guess why she is finally pushing our divorce through? Because she’s pregnant with his baby, of course.

Double ouch.

I’m starting to feel sorry for myself all over again when my cell phone buzzes on my desk so loudly, my heart rate shoots through the roof. No freaking clue why I am so jumpy today, but I take a nice deep breath before answering. Maybe I need to take on a yoga studio client to get my chakras realigned or something.

“Hello?”

“Oh, hey, Meric? It’s Drew from Delmarva Art Connection. How are ya?”

I shrug, even though he can’t see me. “Hey, Drew. Not bad, what’s up?”

“Well, you’re probably going to think this is really weird, but we’ve decided to re-cast you for the show.” He launches the bomb and then lets it hang in the air.

“What do you mean?”

He chuckles a deep, belly-rattling laugh. “I know, man, it’s the weirdest thing, but we had literally the PERFECT Crimson ‘Blade’ McLifetaker come through our doors last night. He wasn’t even auditioning, but he just screams the part.”

“Uh, wow, really?” I squint, trying to make sense of this news. “So, I’m not gonna be a pirate?”

Andrew ignores my question and goes on talking about this guy. “He’s like tall and brooding, and he has this slicked-back dark hair. And he rides a Harley, can you believe it?”

“That’s great. But what about me?”

“And he has a pretty decent voice. I mean, it’s not yours, but—“

“Drew, what part am I playing, then?”

“Oh, right,” he laughs again. I can tell he’s rather enjoying screwing around with me. “So, Jack was going to play Easton Von Thursten himself, but now he wants to just stick with the director thing and let you play him.”

A smile magically spreads across my face. “Oh, so that’s the lead male, right?” I verify.

“Yup, and it’s yours if you want it,” Drew answers. “Though I still wish I was gonna see you as a pirate, man. That would have been worth the price of admission right there!”

He’s still laughing, but I’m feeling beyond relieved. “I’d be happy to switch over. Are we still meeting tonight?”

“Yes, sir. Starting at 7 PM for a cast introduction and to go over the blocking and music schedules. Does that work?”

This is the best news I’ve heard in a long while. “It sure does. See you tonight!”

***

I’m never late. I hate being late. Suzanne was nearly late for our wedding, and I thought I might have a heart attack right there at the altar. I walk into our first play practice just a smidge past seven thanks to Lucius taking his own sweet time to find the ideal poop spot before I could leave him the run of the house. Did I mention Lucius was Suzanne’s dog that I ended up getting in the divorce? That woman has some serious commitment issues. At least with me.

I hear chatter in the auditorium as I swing the door open. The directors are all up on the stage huddled in a circle like they’re about to do a big “Go Team” cheer, and the cast is bubbling up a storm of off-script dialogue in the audience. There must be thirty or forty people, and with that big of a group, it’s hard for me to pick out individual faces or voices, like a lion trying to single out a single gazelle in a herd.

I’m not much of a people person. Accountants generally aren’t. Just give us some numbers and a big mug of coffee, and we will emerge from our nerdy math caves with spreadsheets and other numerical bits of awesomeness, rendering you speechless with our mad quantitative reasoning skills. And “speechless” is our favorite type of person.

I don’t like people, but I like performing in front of people. I know, it’s totally insane. The hypocrisy of it is not lost on me, I assure you. I did my first show when I was in first grade. My mother signed me up for a community theater production of Oliver! and I played a sweet little orphan boy. I was immediately infected with the theater bug, and I’ve never recovered. Nor do I want to recover. There is something so liberating about getting to be an entirely different character on stage. I’m just thankful that when my voice changed in junior high, it ended up even better than it was before. There was a lot of suspense which way it would go for a couple years there.

I take a seat in the front row, because I’m a nerd like that, and wait for the hubbub to die down. The directors break their huddle after a few moments, and Claire takes center stage. “Good evening to the cast of Yo Ho Rehoboth! I’m Claire Reilly, and my husband Jack and I wrote this musical. It was a labor of love, and now we are going to produce the hell out of it!”

Who knew thirty or forty people—actually, while I was waiting, I counted ‘cause that’s what I do: there’s 38 of us including me—could make so much noise? As soon as Claire said “produce the hell out of it,” the group erupted into whoops, hollers, and boisterous applause. So I don’t think the directors have anything to worry about as far as getting enough energy out of the cast is concerned.

“I love it!” Claire shouts over the ruckus. The other directors are applauding too. Once the noise dies down, she continues, “As far as I know, no one has ever produced an original musical about pirates attacking Rehoboth Bay, but we figured it was high time we made that happen! This has been a dream of mine for a long time, and now you’re helping make it come true. Many of you probably know that I’ve written a couple of books and a column for a little paper known as the New York Times, but I think of all the things I’ve written, I am most proud of this show. I wrote the book and lyrics, and my super talented husband Jack wrote the music. And I have to tell you, it freakin’ ROCKS! You are going to LOVE it!”

More cheers. Gosh, you’d think we were at a rock concert already.

“I want to introduce the rest of our staff now. We have Andrew Clark, the owner of Delmarva Art Connection. He is going to help Jack with the music and lead the band, a.k.a. the pit. His band The Gallant Misfits is going to provide our accompaniment, and we’ll be rehearsing with them in a few weeks. For now, Jack and Drew are going to take turns accompanying us with the piano.” Drew takes a little bow and then steps back into place.

“And finally, we have my BFF, the incomparable Jean-Marc Tasse, who will be our choreographer. He has some seriously fly dance moves that you guys are going to love. ‘Seriously fly’? Do people even use that word anymore?” She laughs, and the cast joins in. I can already tell this is going to be a fun group to work with.

“Now that you’ve met us, I want to introduce you to our leads and then the rest of the ensemble. Over the next eight weeks, we are going to be working very closely together. I don’t like to think of a cast as just an assembly of singers, dancers and actors. No. A cast—a good cast—is a family! We’re all gonna become a big happy family over the next few weeks, and we are going to give locals and tourists alike one hell of a show!”

More applause and cheers. Of course.

She is grinning ear to ear, with her bright copper-colored hair shining under the stage lights and her face aglow. Jack is a lucky man. Claire seems articulate and vivacious, and thinking about how lucky Jack is makes me miss Suzanne for a moment. I was always proud to have her on my arm any time we ventured out in public. Jack looks similarly proud of Claire, with his dark eyes pinned to her as she takes charge of the moment. Ever since that moment I caught Suzanne and Bryan together, I have vowed to never, ever put my heart at risk again. After all, I’m an accountant. My whole job is helping people avoid taking risks with the IRS. I’m pretty damn risk-averse. But just for a flash—a momentary flash, mind you—I wonder what it might be like to stand on stage with the woman I love, much like Jack is right now.

“—and she’ll be playing opposite our leading man, Easton von Thursten, played by Meric Chandler!” I pop my head out of my backside just in time to see a perky blonde bounce up to the stage, waving to the audience with an excited grin spread across her pretty face. I then realize Claire is looking straight at me, and that I am indeed the Meric Chandler she just announced. Oops.

I bolt from my seat and join the blonde on stage, extending my hand and repeating my name, praying to the All-Mighty above to coax her into repeating her name as well since my head was in the clouds when Claire introduced her.

Her hand feels small and cold in mine, but she pumps my arm enthusiastically up and down as she continues to beam at me. “Oh, I’m Marissa Scott,” she says. “I’m playing Shelly Van Der Zee, the Mayor’s daughter.”

Claire goes on to introduce, “Mayor Van Der Zee, played by Steve Przybyszewski, but I think we’ll just stick to calling you Mayor Van Der Zee since your last name seems to be one I might embarrassingly butcher!”

“No prob. Or Steve P. works too,” he answers accommodatingly. He shakes Marissa’s hand first, then mine.

“And now we have our pirates,” Claire continues. “Rummy O’Doule will be played by Kent Funk. Deepsea Davy will be played by Gary Barker—so guess what, guys? The entire Barker family is in our show! Dad Gary, Mom Faye and sons Dan and Hudson. Talk about a great opportunity for family bonding! My son Elliott wanted to be a pirate too, but right now he’s a townsperson. Sorry, babe.”  She blows a kiss to her teenage son, whose lanky limbs are sprawled in one of the seats to the side of the crowd.

I miss the rest of the pirates but pick back up when she begins to introduce the local serving wenches, played by Megan Adams and Heather Neal. The two ladies leap up and join us on stage, the red-headed one giving me a wicked smirk as she takes her place next to the pirates. If I didn’t know better, I’d say my flirtation radar is going off, but it is pretty rusty. I can’t be sure.

Claire finishes announcing the rest of the townspeople, and they slowly file onto the stage to join our growing family. The very last one she calls is a thirty-something-year-old brunette with a shy smile and huge, luminous gray-green eyes. She very nearly trips over the legs of the chair at the end of the aisle, but she catches herself just in time. She looks a little flustered over her mishap but manages to smile and shake it off.

There’s something about her. I can’t quite figure out what it is. It’s almost like I know her, but don’t, if that makes sense. Like I’ve seen her somewhere. I’ve already forgotten what Claire said her name was. Names are so not my thing—I’m clearly a numbers guy—but with the way she’s smiling so sweetly at her friends, whose names I’ve also forgotten, as she joins them on stage, I have a feeling I am going to remember her name the next time I hear it.

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