Wishing in the Wings (11 page)

Ryan.

Flushing with sudden embarrassment, I tossed off my duvet. I squeezed my eyes shut in the darkness, but the image of Ryan’s face remained before me—his earnest eyes, his goofy grin. His quiet, firm, decision to send me off to bed, alone.

No. I couldn’t think about that. I didn’t even know the guy. Why had I considered inviting him into my home? Um, into my bed.

Sure, Dean had abandoned me, left me high and dry, but there were better ways to declare my emotional independence than throwing myself at the first thing in pants that crossed my drunken path. Moaning about my alcohol-inspired stupidity, I rolled over onto my stomach, covering my head with my pillow.

Not that smothering myself helped much. I could still see Ryan, picture him as he’d stood in the Mercer’s Bullpen, gawky and uncomfortable. I could envision the script that he’d handed to me, the sleek envelope that Teel had obviously used to manipulate her magic.

That envelope glinted in my mind, sparkling as if it were lit from within. Yesterday had been so crazy that I hadn’t even opened the thing. Hadn’t even glanced at the manuscript inside. Hadn’t even considered it.

Despite the fact that we were desperate to replace Crystal Dreams.

What had I been thinking? I needed to read Ryan’s play. Now.

Consumed with a sudden compulsion, I leaped out of my warm bed. I washed my face and brushed my teeth, not worrying when I flung water around my marble-finished bathroom. I tugged on the same clothes that I’d worn the day before, grabbing for my coat with an overwhelming sense of urgency.

So what if it was dark outside? So what if it had started to rain, one of those freezing early March downpours that would have been snow a few weeks before? So what if I was the only person in the entire Mercer Project complex, as I unlocked the glass door to the lobby, as I walked down the dark hallway to my office?

There! The envelope rested on top of my to-be-read stack, as perfect and pristine as I’d remembered. I didn’t bother looking for a letter opener; I just tore the thing open, like a starving dog ripping through a bag of kibble. The pages gleamed, pure white with strong black ink printed in an easy-to-read font.

However Long. By Ryan Thompson.

Gathering my coat close around me, I huddled against myself for warmth in the cool night-time office and started to read.

An hour later, I came up for air, gasping as if I’d completed a marathon.

Ryan’s play was incredible. Every line was perfect. Each character was whole, complete. The story—the struggle of second wife Fanta to feed her family and herself in the face of near-starvation—was heart-wrenching, overwhelming. True.

The Mercer needed to produce However Long. I needed to work on the play. I needed to teach audiences the truths behind its words. I needed to share Ryan’s intricate vision, to bring it to full life. I needed to redeem myself from the Crystal Dreams fiasco, from the Dean debacle—and However Long was strong enough, magical enough to offer me that new lease on my theatrical life.

It wasn’t the replacement play I’d envisioned the day before, something simple and stripped down. Ryan’s play was challenging. Intricate. There was a dream sequence that filled half of the second act, a swirling sea of words and motions that were detailed in Ryan’s meticulous, magical stage directions.

However Long wouldn’t be easy. But it would be right. For me. For the Mercer. For all the women in Africa who needed a voice to tell their stories.

I scrambled for my cell phone, squinting at the time. 5:15 a.m. Hal would be up in another hour. I’d awakened him once before, my second week on the job, and I’d learned my lesson. He wouldn’t be able to hear me, wouldn’t be able to understand a word that I was saying, if I buzzed him out of sleep a full forty-five minutes before his alarm normally went off. Sighing in frustration, I ran my fingers through my hair, knotting it haphazardly to keep it out of my way. I forced myself to lean back in my chair, to pick up the pages, to tap them into a clean, neat, straight-edged pile.

And then I read through the entire play once again, from start to finish, savoring every single word as if it were a feast laid before a ravenous woman.

That second reading carried me deeper than I’d expected, took me further away. When I finished, I blinked at the cold light that sifted down the hallway, a wintry reminder of the windows in the reception area. I scrambled for my phone—7:30 a.m. I dialed Hal from memory. “Hey,” I said, as soon as he answered.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” I hurried to reassure him. Oh, he had every reason to expect a disaster, after all the cards he’d been dealt the day before.

“Are you with Dean? Is he threatening you? If you’re with Dean, give me a number between one and ten.”

I had to hand it to him—Hal thought quickly on his feet. “I have no idea where Dean is,” I said. “I didn’t even try to find him last night. I figure the police are going to be better at that than I could ever be.”

After all, I barely knew the guy. Apparently. I expected that thought to burn, but I barely noticed it as I drummed my fingers against Ryan’s script.

Hal sounded a little annoyed. “What’s up, then?” I could hear a whirring sound in the background. He must be training on his elliptical.

“I have a play for us. Something to replace Crystal Dreams.”

The whirring stopped. “What is it?”

“It’s new. You haven’t heard anything about it. It’s called However Long—it’s by Ryan Thompson.”

“Who the hell is Ryan Thompson?”

“He’s on our stalking list. Jenn introduced him to me the other day.” I flipped to the one-page biography that Ryan had thoughtfully included at the back of his play. “Ryan Thompson graduated from Princeton University with a degree from the Woodrow Wilson School of Public Policy and International Affairs. After completing four years with a prominent New York consulting firm, he joined the Peace Corps. Assigned to Burkina Faso, he was instrumental in the development of an education and empowerment program for girls. Having returned to the United States, Ryan hopes to use his plays to educate the developed world about the plight of women in Africa.”

“Sounds like a real upbeat guy. That play should be a laugh a minute.”

My heart clenched at the dismissal in Hal’s voice. He didn’t understand. He couldn’t. He hadn’t read the script. Yet. I forced my voice to stay steady. “Crystal Dreams wasn’t exactly a ‘laugh a minute’—starvation, death, emotional blackmail?”

“What does this guy Thompson’s play have that other scripts don’t?”

“Everything,” I said, not even a little ashamed by the passion in my voice, by the way my heart beat a little faster as I thought of how perfect Ryan’s words had been. “Please, Hal. It’ll only take you an hour to read it.”

“Leave it on my desk. I’ll take a look as soon as I get in.”

“Thanks. You won’t be sorry.”

Filled with nervous energy, I marched the script down to Hal’s office. I set the pages in the center of his desk, lining them up precisely with the wooden edge. I rummaged in the old coffee mug that held his pens, digging out one of the Rollerballs that he preferred, setting it at a jaunty angle across Ryan’s masterpiece. The display was perfect, like a stock photograph of “Director at Work.”

No. Wait. It needed something else…. I turned my head to one side, squinting for a better perspective.

Scones.

The bakery around the corner had blueberry-orange scones. Hal loved them—just the other day, he’d said that they were his favorite breakfast treat. I’d set one out for him—he’d appreciate the thought, and he wouldn’t even recognize the compelling irony until he got to the end of Ryan’s incredible play, until he finished the story of Fanta and her struggle for peace, for food, for survival.

Yeah, it was bribery. Plain and simple. I seemed to have become an expert in less than twenty-four hours.

All the way to the bakery, I grappled with that thought. There were definite ethical considerations that went along with being a dramaturg. My value to the production was directly tied to my ability to distance myself, to serve in a disinterested capacity. That function was infinitely more important when I was working on a play that had never been performed before, one that was still evolving for the stage.

It was a disastrous idea for me to recommend a play when I had a personal relationship with the playwright.

But Ryan and I didn’t really know each other. Not well. Sure, I’d almost made a fool out of myself the night before, but that had been the Godmothers talking. The Godmothers, and Teel, that meddlesome genie. And my bastard of a former boyfriend, abandoning me without a single thought to my welfare.

But Ryan’s play was more important than any of that. More important than a belly-swooping moment of alcoholic longing. However Long had to be shared with the world at large. If staging the play meant that I had to put my feelings for Ryan Thompson—whatever they actually were—under lock and key, then that’s what I would do.

Easy. No contest. Hell, the guy was nervous enough that any personal attention from me was likely to send him skittering all the way back to Africa.

Half an hour later, I was pacing my own office, waiting for Hal to arrive, to read, to confirm my absolute certainty that However Long would be our replacement play. I was checking the clock for the one hundredth time in fifteen minutes when there was a light knock on my door. “Kira!” I gasped when I looked up.

The stage manager’s eyes gleamed, and a smile brightened her face. She edged into my office and closed the door, hunching forward a little. Immediately, I felt like we were conspirators in some grand scheme. “So?” she asked.

“I can’t believe it! Did you get the wishes too? All four of them?”

She smiled wryly. “Yep. How many have you made so far?”

“Just one.” I was suddenly shy. “I asked for a new place to live. You know, since I wasn’t able to fix global warming….”

“I know,” she said, and she sounded almost indignant. The expression on her face made me laugh. “Or bring about world peace, or end hunger, or cure all diseases…”

She’d obviously stuck with the Grand Wish attempts for longer than I had. I said, “Teel guided me away from all of that pretty quickly.” Huh. It was easy to say the genie’s name now. None of that strange throat-locking silence that had taken over at the Pharm the night before. “Um, Kira? How come I can talk to you about this? Why wasn’t I able to tell Jenn what happened?”

She rolled her eyes. “ There’s something about the magic that keeps us from telling other people, people who’ve never met a genie. I’m not sure how that works—I’m not sure how any of it works. Teel just manages to make outsiders forget about whatever wishes he’s granted. He makes them accept things, like nothing ever changed.”

He? Teel? Was Kira talking about the female genie-lawyer who had manifested in my office the day before? Before I could ask, though, everything around me disappeared.

Yeah. It was pretty strange for me, too.

One minute, I was surrounded by the clutter of my office, standing across from Kira. The next instant, I was nowhere. No place. No time.

It wasn’t like I’d gone blind. I raised my hand in front of my face—I could make out my wiggling fingers just fine. I could hear my heart beating, suddenly fast in my ears. I could feel my fingernails digging into my palms.

But there was nothing around me—the air was the exact same temperature as my skin, no breezes, no currents. My feet were there—I looked down and saw them. I curled my toes inside my shoes. But I couldn’t see any ground, any floor. No ceiling above, either.

“Teel, you know I hate this!”

I whirled around. Kira was standing behind me, her hands firmly planted on her hips. A clown stood between us.

Yep—a clown. Just like the ones from all the circus nightmares of my childhood. My throat grew dry as I ordered myself not to panic.

He wore a rainbow fright wig, and his face was painted white, with gigantic red lips outlined in black. His nose was a red ball, and his eyes were highlighted by yellow stars. Blue and gold suspenders held up patchwork pants that were at least ten sizes too large, and his shoes looked like massive neon-pink frying pans.

“Ta-da!” the clown said when he saw that I was gaping. He thrust one arm forward, as if he were showing off the entrance to the Taj Mahal. The motion made his sleeve ride up, and I could see flames tattooed around his wrist, brilliant gold, outlined in black. “Welcome to the Garden!”

“Teel?” I said, rocking on my heels as I turned around to face…my genie head-on. All of a sudden, Kira’s choice of pronouns made much more sense. I shouldn’t be so surprised that my genie could change her, um, his appearance. She, um, he worked magical miracles every single day. What was a little gender bending on the side?

“At your service,” Teel said, sweeping a dramatic bow. Despite the outrageous clown makeup, despite the crimson lips that filled the lower half of his face, I could see the genuine wistfulness in his eyes as he straightened up and looked beyond me, into the grey nothingness. He sighed, as if he were staring at something stunningly beautiful.

Kira was distinctly less enchanted. “Teel, I thought we had an agreement. You promised never to take me here again.”

“I didn’t take you,” the clown pouted. “I took Rebecca. You just happened to be standing close enough to be dragged along.”

Kira snorted. “That doesn’t make sense! You never dragged along my housemates, or anyone at rehearsal, the entire time we were working together.”

Teel clucked his tongue and shook his head in an exaggerated motion made even broader by his bouncing hair. “Those people were different, Kira. They were ordinary. You’ve rubbed my lamp—you’re attuned to magic now. I couldn’t help but carry you along.” Kira harrumphed and crossed her arms over her chest. Teel ignored her obvious exasperation and said, “Just because you didn’t like coming to the Garden doesn’t mean Rebecca won’t like it.” He blinked at me with those enormous star-studded eyes.

“Becca,” I said, eager to buy a few seconds, to figure out just what the “Garden” was that they were talking about. I certainly didn’t see anything in the shapeless, space-less nothingness around me that would qualify. “All my friends call me Becca.”