Proposing to Preston: The Winslow Brothers #2 (The Blueberry Lane Series Book 8) (2 page)

Always considered an “odd duck” by her family, she’d been captivated by the theater in second grade when she took a field trip to the local high school to see
Finian’s Rainbow
. It wasn’t just the beautiful songs, like “How Are Things In Glocca Mora” or “Look To The Rainbow.” No. It was the way the high school students, some of whom were friends of her older sisters, had transformed themselves into someone else. To be someone else, she marveled, looking down at her no-frills, homespun clothes, sounded wonderful.

And if the bug hadn’t totally bitten her by the end of the show, the final line, “Maybe there’s no pot of gold at the end of it, but there’s a beautiful new world under it” certainly did. As far as little Elise was concerned, the stage was the rainbow and the beautiful new world was a life beyond Lowville.

Turning her back on the simple life offered by her parent’s tight-knit Mennonite community, Elise had applied to college in that beautiful new world. She’d put herself through the Tisch School of Arts at NYU with loans she’d be paying off for the rest of her natural-born life while she waited tables and played crappy parts in off-off-Broadway plays hoping for her big break.

“Great life you’ve made for yourself here,” she muttered, taking a deep breath and letting it go slowly. “Beautiful new world my…my…
foot.
”

She hung up her dress for tomorrow night’s performance (ugh), put her makeup away and swiped a paper towel over the top of her dressing table. Grabbing her backpack, she turned off the light in the tiny, grubby room and made her way down the backstage hallway toward the exit.

Incredibly tired and a feeling a little defeated, she didn’t exactly look forward to the twenty-three block walk home to save bus fare, but pulling out her sofa bed and falling asleep sounded like pure heaven. Her roommate, Neve, whom she’d found via an ad in Backstage magazine, owned the apartment where Elise sublet the living room. On Friday nights, Neve bartended until after three, and Elise was fairly certain she’d sleep right through her roommate’s late-night return.

“Great job, Elise!” cried Paige, bustling out of her own dressing room with a southern cheerleader, can-do grin. “Great show!”

Sighing inside, Elise forced a smile and nodded at her co-star. “You too, Paige. Great work.”

It was all such baloney, but Elise said the lines with practiced warmth and sincerity that Paige beamed at her.

“Think the audience noticed my flub in act two?” Paige asked, her elbow rubbing Elise’s as they headed toward the stage door together.

“Nah,” said Elise. “You covered it like a pro.”

In fact, Paige hadn’t covered it. Elise had. But who cared anyway? There weren’t more than fifty people in the theater that held over two hundred, and she didn’t believe the play would last beyond the month.

Great,
she thought.
I’ll be unemployed by May.

Well, unemployed in the theater
, she corrected herself. Her job at Virile Vic’s BBQ wasn’t going anywhere.

Literally.

“Yeah,” said Paige, giggling. “Well, it sure was exciting! We’re on the stage in New York City, Elise! That’s what I tell myself every morning. I made it! See you tomorrow!”

Paige burst through the door to the sidewalk, waving goodbye as it slammed shut. Elise stopped short at the green-painted metal door, sighing heavily and leaning her shoulder against the cement wall to her right.

Outside the stage doors of most Broadway shows, hordes of fans stood impatiently, waiting for the stars of the show to exit, and begging for the actors to sign their programs or take selfies. Although Elise, as a rule, hadn’t pursued acting for fame or recognition, she still dreamed of a day when audiences would turn out in throngs to see her because she was good, and because she loved the craft of acting more than anything else in the world.

I made it!

What a joke.

Pushing open the heavy door, she was greeted with the cool, smelly air of 12
th
Street Manhattan, a wet sidewalk, a slight drizzle, the never-quite-dark skies of New York overhead and…nothing else. Two men holding hands bustled by her, chatting animatedly, and a woman walked slowly toward her, talking on her cellphone, explaining why she couldn’t make it out to Connecticut this weekend.

There were no fans. No well-wishers. No one.

Hiking her backpack higher, Elise turned right and started walking at a brisk pace, refusing to feel sorry for herself.

She’d been in New York for seven years, the last three of which she’d been auditioning, doing the occasional off-off Broadway show and wondering if she was throwing her life away. She had no important reviews of her work, her updated headshots this year had decimated her bank account, and when she called home, she knew full and well that none of her family members respected or supported her life choice, disappointment heavy in her mother’s voice, especially. Friends were a luxury that rehearsals, performances, auditions and waitressing didn’t readily afford, and apart from some girls she occasionally hung out with from Vic’s, she was mostly a loner. Which was fine with Elise because although she came alive on stage, most people would accurately describe her as fiercely driven, but a natural introvert, she preferred to study the world in the shadows, taking silent notes to be used when she finally got the chance to channel a character.

But being an introvert didn’t translate to embracing loneliness. She was lonely. In fact, she was
terribly
lonely for love. Although she’d never had a serious relationship, and didn’t necessarily have the time, energy or courage to pursue one now, she yearned for someone to love and love her back, with a constant, aching longing that was surpassed only by her single-minded determination to succeed on Broadway.

Her favorite plays—and the ones for which she was highly praised at Tisch—were all romances: traditional, heartbreaking romances like most of Shakespeare’s oeuvre, of course, but also
The Importance of Being Earnest, Cyrano de Bergerac, Blithe Spirit
, and
Prelude to a Kiss.
Elise loved the language used to express love in these plays, almost as much as she loved—and feared—the idea of true love, itself.

Loved it because when it was true it sounded so perfect, so romantic. Feared it because from everything she’d ever read or watched, someone always ended up getting hurt. She yearned for the very thing that scared her, and it made no sense, but maybe that’s just because her experience was so limited.

My opinions of love are all based on fiction,
she thought, huffing softly as she stood at a crosswalk, a cold avenue-breeze cutting through her T-shirt and making her shiver. She was hoping to make it through Spring without needing another raincoat. Hers had been stolen from Vic’s one night, and she simply didn’t have the means to purchase another. She rubbed her arms, reminding herself that April had just as many warm days as chilly, and hoping tomorrow would be one of the former.

But wouldn’t it be heaven, mused her romantic side, as she started walking briskly again, to have her hand clasped in someone else’s, someone’s warm and strong fingers laced through hers as he walked her home? Wouldn’t it be lovely for him to fall into bed beside her and hold her until morning when she’d have to get up for the brunch shift at Vic’s? Wouldn’t it be bliss to know that he was in the audience every night, even if the play was a stinkbomb from hell? Wouldn’t it be thrilling to know that when she opened the stage door, he’d be standing there with roses, and tease her by asking for yet another autograph?

She bit her lip, forcing such silly and useless romantic fantasies to the side. Even if she somehow managed to find someone who saw beyond her shyness and religious background, there was no room in her life for love, and that was the truth. Love was a luxury she couldn’t afford. Heck, she couldn’t even afford a spring jacket. And she probably wouldn’t have a part in two weeks because she couldn’t imagine such a bad play would demand additional performances.

Wincing at the state of her life, she quickened her pace, straightened her spine and reminded herself as she always did of how much she’d give up for her dreams: her home and family, friends and boyfriends…she’d dedicated her whole life to the stage and she was too invested to turn back now. Nobody “made it” right away. If you wanted something badly enough, you worked for it. You left your parents and sisters and home and church and took a bus to New York City without looking back. You paid off your loans as best you could and you went without jackets and bus rides to save money. You acted in stinkbombs because it was still a chance to act and if you didn’t take the part, there were one hundred other girls lined up who would. You worked long hours at Vic’s only to show up for rehearsal on fumes. You accepted it when your director said there would be no curtain call because he wanted his farcical play to end on a “low” note, and you certainly didn’t feel sorry for yourself when thousands of other hopeful thespians were leading the exact same life.

Besides
, she reminded herself, with a bit of wistful bravado.
You aren’t a quitter, Elise Klassan. One day, you’re going to see your name in lights. One day, the stage door will be mobbed.

Preston Winslow dreamed of Elise Klassan’s breasts and woke up harder than marble in the bedroom of his posh Fifth Avenue apartment. He immediately regretted his decision not to let Beth stay overnight, which had prompted the response: “Screw you and don’t call me anymore, Pres. I mean it.” Really, he couldn’t blame her; she’d tried everything to get an invitation into his bed, and after asking him outright if she could stay over and being refused, she was hurt and embarrassed. But he just wasn’t interested in sleeping with Beth; he was completely distracted by some unknown, off-off-Broadway actress who he’d never even met in person.

He’d been right on the money about Elise Klassan getting under his skin. As the day wore on, he found himself distracted and unable to study for either the New York or Pennsylvania bar exams he’d be taking back-to-back in July. His mind couldn’t shake the image of her dead body on the stage floor, and he had this insane feeling that he’d grieve her, or
miss
her, for the rest of his life if he didn’t just bite the bullet, buy another ticket, and see Elise Klassan alive and well, playing the dreadful Matilda once again.

Calling himself all sorts of a fool because the New York bar exam was one of the toughest to pass and truly required his dedicated attention, he bowed out of his study group, hailed a cab outside the New York Public Library at seven-thirty and arrived at the crappy theater on 12
th
Street twenty minutes later. With only ten minutes to spare before they raised the curtain, Preston found a seat in the third row center, noting that the theater was only slightly more packed than it had been yesterday which still meant that fewer than half of the seats were full.

Glancing to his left, he noted with some surprise that his unlikely friend from last night had also returned.

“Back again?” asked the man, lifting an eyebrow. “And here I thought the play was ‘not good.””

“Maybe it deserves a second chance,” mumbled Preston, feeling exposed and way beyond ridiculous for finding himself back in the audience so soon.

The man chuckled. “No it doesn’t. But
she
does, doesn’t she?”

Preston gave the man an annoyed look meant to discourage more conversation, then glanced back up at the closed curtain. He was incredibly irritated with himself for not getting off with Beth last night
and
blowing off his studies tonight. He wasn’t acting like himself one bit. Yes, it was Elise Klassan’s fault. No, he was not in the mood to discuss it.

“Let me give you some advice,” said the man, leaning over the empty seat between them and lowering his voice to a whisper. “Remember her name after tonight. Remember Elise Klassan. Because whether you meant to or not—”

He sat back without finishing his statement as the house lights dimmed and the curtains opened to show a Victorian parlor with Cyril and Constance sitting side by side on a loveseat. Preston looked away from the man beside him and braced himself for a guaranteed onslaught of dreadful over-acting.

Relaxing as much as he could in the uncomfortable seat, Preston recalled that Elise wouldn’t appear until the next scene, so there was no reason to pay attention now. He hadn’t paid attention much to the program last night, but tonight he’d made a point to take one, and now he opened it to the Cast Bios page. Tilting the thin Playbill at an odd angle to catch the dim light in the theater as Constance tried unsuccessfully to dull her strong southern accent and Cyril continued to prove that he wouldn’t be able to act his way out of a cardboard box, Preston narrowed his eyes in an attempt to read the small type.

Elise Klassan (Matilda)

Preston’s eyes slid to the left where a tiny black and white picture of Elise smiled back at him, making his heartbeat quicken. In the photo she was wearing a white tank top with some sort of floral pattern at intervals. Her hair was back in a ponytail and her shoulders, neck and long arms were tan. But her face stole his breath away and made him softly gasp. She wore the sweetest, loveliest smile he’d ever seen, anywhere, at any time.

Forcing his eyes from her face, he scanned her biography:

Elise Klassan (Matilda) is delighted to be back at the 12
th
Street Rep Theater again after starring as Jenny in “By Proxy” and Francesca in “Tuscan Summer” last season. Elise holds a B.A. degree in Fine Arts from the Tisch School of Arts at NYU and was honored to train with Richard Bromberg for one semester at Julliard. Raised on a farm in upstate New York, Elise dedicates this performance to all of the little girls who dream of the big city lights. More at www.EliseKlassan.com

It was a treasure trove of information about her, and his eyes skated swiftly back to her face as he processed the pertinent facts of her life…raised on a farm, dreamed of more, attended college in the city. He noted that her credits didn’t include a mention of Broadway and he wondered how she was living—if she had independent means or if she worked odd-jobs to make ends meet.

And suddenly he
wanted
to know, almost like it was
important
… no
essential
… to know how she survived, and if her life was good, and what had happened to her that made her voice break when she whispered “Cyril” before collapsing.

The meager audience clapped softly as the first scene came to a close, the lights dimmed and Preston looked up immediately to give
He Loves Me Not
his full attention. As the lights came back up for scene two, there she was: Elise Klassan, alive and well, sitting in straight back chair, embroidering. He leaned forward, the Playbill falling from his lap to the floor in a whisper as he stared at her lovely face and the rest of the world slipped away.

Two hours later, Preston stared at the stage with terrible sorrow crowding his heart as the curtains closed on the lifeless body of Elise Klassan. He’d paid far closer attention to her performance tonight, and though he was still distracted by her breasts, he found himself even more interested in
her
: her expressions, her gestures, the tone of her voice, the sound of her laugh. As the hours ticked by, he realized with certainty what he’d only glimpsed at the end of last night’s performance: Elise Klassan was a phenomenal actress. The reason Preston hadn’t been able to shake her today was because she seemed so real. Because as much as the lines were inelegant and cheesy, she still made him believe. What had the man said before the show?
Remember her name after tonight.
No doubt he would. With a bit of longing he knew he’d remember her name for the rest of his life.

He felt a little dazed and a lot bewildered. What now?

Did he just hail a cab and ride home now? Did he walk home, processing his feelings? Did he dare try to meet her? How exactly would he manage that?

Again, the final two patrons remaining in the theater, the man turned to Preston as the last straggler filed out into the lobby. “So?”

“Fantastic,” murmured Preston.

“Yes, she was. I needed to be sure, but there’s no doubt in my mind now. She’s got
it
.”

“It?” asked Preston, leaning down to pick up his Playbill.

“The ‘it’ factor. She’s got it in spades.” The man cleared his throat, picking up his umbrella and standing up. “You can’t look away when she’s on stage. Not even in this louse of a show. Imagine what she could do with a great play if this is what she manages with garbage.”

“Yeah,” said Preston, standing up. “You’re right.”

He slid his gaze back over to the stage longingly, then gave himself a mental kick in the ass. He didn’t know this woman. She’d be beyond-creeped-out if he suddenly appeared backstage to…to… what? What would he do? Tell her he enjoyed the show? She wouldn’t believe it. She had to know the show was terrible. Tell her he enjoyed
her
? Creepy. Tell her he dreamed about her last night? Serial killer creepy.

Never having experienced the sort of fan feelings reserved for young girls screaming about Justin Bieber, he felt embarrassed for himself, confused by the depth of his feelings for a woman he’d never met, never spoken to. It was unnerving and with the bar exams bearing down on him, closer every day, he didn’t have any more time to waste on this infatuation with a promising young actress.

He scoffed softly, turning back to the man. “Well, that’s it, then. I guess I better…”

“How’d you like to meet her?”

Preston’s heart tripped. “W-What?”

The man nodded, grinning back at him. “Sure. I’m headed backstage. Why don’t you join me? I’ll introduce you.” He chuckled lightly. “You can be her first fan.”

“Oh, I don’t think—”

“You don’t
want
to meet her?”

“Yes! Yes, I do, but—”

“So come on.”

Without another word, the man turned to exit his row and Preston followed. Who was this guy anyway?

“I hope you don’t mind my asking, but what’s your connection to—”

“The show? I have none. Thank God.”

Preston kept following the man as he walked confidently to the stage, stepped up a small set of stairs to the left of the curtain and pushed a red button on the wall, turning back to Preston.

“You have no idea who I am, do you?”

Preston looked closer at the man, then shook his head.

The man chuckled. “You’re not a Broadway regular.”

“No. My girlfriend—that is, my friend, Beth, dragged me here last night—”

He looked affronted. “
Dragged
you?”

“She’s a patron of this theater and a few others.”

“Oh,” said the man, nodding in surprise. “I should have guessed from your Brooks Brothers shirt and pricey jeans. But you didn’t seem like an asshole.”

Preston was taken aback. “I hope I’m not.”

Before the man could answer, a young woman peeked out from the curtain, her hair in a haphazard black bun, wearing dark-rimmed glasses and holding a clipboard.

“Yes?” She straightened her glasses and her eyes widened like saucers. “Oh! Holy sh—I mean, oh, my gosh! Mr. Durran. Welcome. I-I’m Kat Singleton, the Assistant Stage Manager, and I’m a huge—”

“Ms. Singleton,” said the man patiently. “I’d like a word with Elise Klassan.”

“Of course! Oh, my God—of course!” She flicked her eyes to Preston, who was watching the exchange with fascination. “Um, come with me, sir, um, Mr. Durran.”

They followed Kat onto the dark stage, through a labyrinth of ropes, curtains, sets and technical boards, through a door and into a poorly lit back hallway where various people bustled back and forth, most with headsets on, and all looking exhausted. The hallway was made of cement blocks, tight, narrow and dirty with a strong smell of hot lights and mildew, but Preston barely noticed, wound tight with anticipation, scarcely able to believe that he’d be face to face with Elise Klassan in a matter of seconds.

Kat stopped at a nondescript door and knocked. “Elise?”

“Give me a sec, Kat!”

Kat turned to Mr. Durran, giving him a sheepish smile.

She knocked again. “Elise, it’s important. Please let me in right now, huh?”

Preston heard the lock click, and Kat slipped into the room, leaving him and Mr. Durran alone in the hallway.

***

Elise looked up from her dressing table, where she sat in a bra and panties, her face still half-covered with makeup.

“Everything okay?”

Elise had worked with Kat a couple of times now, but they’d never been especially close and post-performance was a busy time for the Assistant Stage Manager, so it was unusual that Kat would come by to see Elise directly after a performance.

Stopping what she was doing and turning her body to Kat, Elise realized that Kat was panting with excitement, her bottom lip between her teeth, and her eyes dancing.

“Kat? What is it?”

“Brace yourself.”

Elise’s heart sped up and she placed the make-up wipe in her hand on the dressing table counter. “Okay.”

Kat licked her lips, speaking in a dramatic whisper. “Donny Durran is
here
…” Elise felt her eyes widen as her breath caught.“…and he wants a word with you!”

Elise reached out for Kat’s hands, clasping them as she burst into a smile, her whole body tensing with nerves and excitement. “Me?”

Kat nodded, giving Elise’s hands a squeeze before releasing them. “Fix your face and get dressed quick.”

“Oh, my God!” Elise giggled softly and nodded, turning to grab another makeup wipe and scrub her face furiously.

“Where are your clothes? These?” asked Kat, taking the jeans and flowered long-sleeved T-shirt off the chair beside Elise. Kat unfolded the jeans and held them open for Elise, who managed to step into them while taking off the last of her eye makeup. Kat took the dirty wipe and passed Elise the shirt. “Here!”

Elise the shirt over her head and it caught on several pins. “My hair!”

Kat pulled the shirt down and plunged her hands into Elise’s hair, tugging out pins right and left as Elise caught them in her fist.