Wishing in the Wings (3 page)

Immediately, I was the target of a dozen pairs of eyes as every board member looked up from the table. A heartbeat of a scan, and I could see that Dean wasn’t there. Dean wasn’t, but a stranger was—a man who sat at the head of the table, shuffling papers as my interruption froze the entire meeting.

My knees trembled, but I wasn’t sure if I was relieved or even more afraid. I still had no idea where my boyfriend was, but at least I could pass on the Crystal Dreams disaster to Hal. One crisis would be off my plate. “Excuse me,” I said, focusing on my boss. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but this is an emergency. Hal, may I speak with you for a minute?”

My boss blinked his sapphire eyes, emphasizing his surprise by running a hand through his short gray hair. His lips were narrow in his immaculate close-trimmed beard. “Whatever it is will have to wait, Becca.”

I shook my head. “This can’t wait.”

He laid his hands flat on the table, as if he were trying to ice his palms. I knew the gesture, even though we’d only worked together for six months. It was an indication that he was out of patience, that he was completely exasperated with the people around him. That he was determined to have his way, then, immediately, without delay.

“It can wait,” he said, and his voice was as chilly as his gaze. “In fact, I was just about to call you in here about something else entirely. Come in, Rebecca. And close the door behind you.”

It took every last ounce of my willpower to step inside that room.

FOR THE RECORD, an emergency board meeting is never fun and games.

It’s worse, though, when you weren’t even planning on attending. When your boss orders you to have a seat. When everyone looks at you as if you have some super secret information, or at least some perfectly reasonable explanation, something that they absolutely, positively need in order to resolve whatever crisis is at hand.

And it’s one hundred percent the worst when you don’t have the faintest idea of what their crisis might be. Especially when you arrived for the sole purpose of handing them a different disaster, one they apparently know absolutely nothing about. One they’re apparently not willing to address.

I took a seat at the foot of the table, automatically settling Ryan Thompson’s script in front of me, as if the manila envelope could act as some sort of shield. My pulse was skittering around, making me painfully aware of the giant coffee I’d already drunk. Nevertheless, I found myself craving more caffeine. Or, at least, lusting after a comforting mug to fold my hands around.

I settled for curling my fingers in my lap.

“Thank you,” Hal said, as if he’d given me a choice about joining the meeting. His voice, though, did not begin to convey thanks. In fact, his words were colder than the sidewalks outside; Hal sounded as if he were furious with me—beyond fury.

Sure, Hal was usually demanding. He wanted things done well, and promptly. He expected me—and everyone else associated with the company—to be on my toes, to anticipate what he needed, what the Mercer needed.

Hal was a theatrical force of nature. He’d carved out our company’s mission thirty-one years before. He’d brought together a group of underemployed actors who all believed more in the power of acting than in the lure of computerized bells and whistles, than in the shimmer and shine of a Broadway that had been seduced by new technologies that turned plays into bizarre living movies, into special effects extravaganzas. Hal and his colleagues believed in the inherent power of words, of passion, of the sheer physical energy that an actor could project onstage, live, within feet of an audience.

The Mercer had started out in the basement of a church, with rented lighting instruments and the simplest of sets. Hal had grown the company, had established the theater I now called home. He had brought together the board of directors, sought out people who knew theater, who understood what we were doing, what made us special. He had insisted that a professional theater mandated a professional dramaturg, and for that I could never thank him enough.

Therefore, I tried not to panic when he pinned me with his steely eyes. “Rebecca,” he said, and just the way he said my name made it sound like an accusation. “Where can we find Dean Marcus?”

Panic took up a steady drumbeat against my lungs, making it difficult for me to draw a full breath. “I—” I started to answer and I had to swallow hard, to crush a sudden, unexpected sob. “I don’t know…. I mean, he was working late last night. I thought he was here?”

Everyone shifted uncomfortably. Trying desperately to ratchet down my own concern, I watched them look at each other, look at me, look at the unknown man who sat at the head of the table. I wanted to appear professional. I didn’t want them to think that I was the dramaturg who cried, who broke down under pressure. Glancing around for a pad of paper, for a pen, I concentrated on projecting my most mature demeanor and said, “I’ll take notes for Dean, if you’d like. I can pass them on to him after the meeting.”

Once I found him. Once I figured out where he was, where he’d been for the past forty-eight hours. Calling on my last shred of self-discipline, I kept from leaping out of my chair, from running down the hall, from fleeing back to Jenn’s desk to demand that she call every hospital in town.

“That won’t be necessary, Ms. Morris.”

I whirled to face Clifford Ames, the chairman of the board. He held the position because he was the theater’s largest individual donor. During my first week on the job, I’d read his bio in the back of one of our programs. He worked for some huge bank. Or an insurance company. Or something like that. I never was much good with numbers.

I was a little surprised that Mr. Ames knew who I was. We’d been introduced at an opening night gala, shortly after I joined the Mercer staff. Hal had done the honors himself, summoning me across the room with the intensity of his steely gaze. But Mr. Ames had met dozens of people that night; he’d shaken scores of hands. The other guests at the gala must have impressed him more than I had; they’d certainly known more about the Mercer than I’d been able to glean in my few short weeks on the job.

Nevertheless, Mr. Ames clearly knew me now. “Ms. Morris, Hal asked you to join us because…well, we understand that you… Let me say that it has come to our attention that you and Mr. Marcus, that you…”

Against my will, I blushed. Yeah, like that was something strange. When your skin is paler than the proverbial Irish milkmaid’s, you blush. A lot. Even when you’re perfectly willing to admit that you live with your boyfriend. The boyfriend who works with you. In your cool, rare theater job.

I swallowed hard and willed my cheeks to cool. Fumbling my fingers around Ryan Thompson’s manila envelope, I wished that I could melt into the table, but another board member spoke up before I could figure out a way to respond to Mr. Ames. “Cliff, may I?”

“Please,” Mr. Ames said, and I’d never seen a man so anxious to pass the metaphoric buck.

Kira Franklin favored him with a smile and then glanced at Hal, silently seeking—and receiving—his permission to continue. Kira was stage managing the Sam Shepard one-acts that had been my primary focus since I’d joined the Mercer. She was a professional-in-residence; she worked full time at the Mercer, which gave her a somewhat rare and always welcome stability in the theatrical world.

From what I’d seen so far, she was an excellent stage manager. She was always prepared; she even anticipated some of the director’s quirkiest requests. She was unflappable during rehearsal, keeping her temper no matter what chaos erupted around her. I could see why she sat on the Mercer board—she could advocate effectively for the people who worked in the theater, even as she spoke the language of business-men and -women, of donors. Rumor had it that her father was some big important lawyer in the Midwest, and it was clear that Kira had mastered the arts of argumentation and persuasion somewhere in her career.

Now, she took a sip from her paper cup of coffee, and I remembered the other major thing I knew about her. Kira liked her coffee strong, so strong that everyone else refused to drink the stuff she brewed backstage. During the first rehearsal for the Shepard pieces, Mercer old-timers had taken up a collection and bought her a huge gift card for the Starbucks on the corner, just so that the rest of us could make something drinkable with the in-house machine.

Kira flashed me a professional smile, and I made myself take a deep breath. This couldn’t be so terrible. What were they going to ask me about, anyway? Everyone at the Mercer knew that Dean and I lived together. I’d insisted on being up front about our relationship before I accepted the theater’s offer of employment.

So what was I afraid of now? Fielding questions about the deepest, darkest secrets of my love life?

After a firm nod to the rest of the board, Kira turned to me and said, “Becca, were you and Dean together last night?”

Wow. She really was going to ask me about my love life.

I didn’t think it was possible for my facial capillaries to fill again so quickly. “Excuse me?” I managed to choke out.

Kira sighed, and I could make out a wash of sympathy behind her eyes. “I know that question must seem really intrusive. I’d take more time to explain, but the situation is really urgent. We need to speak with Dean immediately, and we haven’t been able to reach him for the past twenty-four hours. He isn’t answering his cell or his BlackBerry.”

I considered lying. I could say that Dean had come home from the gym yesterday evening. That we’d made a stir-fry for dinner. That we’d slipped into bed after watching the news. That I’d made him a bag lunch that morning and kissed him goodbye before he left, playing my role as the perfect 1950s housewife.

Except the board already knew that Dean wasn’t at work. And any lies I told would just delay the moment when I could get help finding my boyfriend. “He didn’t come home,” I said. “He left the apartment before I did yesterday, but there was a note telling me not to wait up.”

Before Kira could ask another question, another board member slammed her perfectly manicured hand down on the table. “I told you!”

Alicia Morton’s hair swept back from her face, twin silver wings gleaming against jet black in her corporate bob. A single strand of pearls slashed across her throat. Her severe black jacket managed to emphasize her feminine curves, even as it was cut to make her look like a no-holds-barred advertising executive.

Which she was.

Alicia Morton had recently joined the board as part of Hal’s efforts to forge ongoing partnerships with strong, traditional New York businesses. I couldn’t imagine what had led Alicia to accept Hal’s invitation; she seemed to resent everything about the Mercer.

Everyone in the theater world had heard about her behavior at the Fall Fete, Hal’s most important fundraiser of the year. Hal had introduced Alicia from the dais, intending to recognize our newest board member and move on. Alicia had a different plan, though. She’d commandeered the microphone and transformed the dinner into a question and answer session, a probing investigation of all Hal’s plans for the coming season. In fact, Hal had only succeeded in silencing Alicia when he reminded everyone that the Mercer was going to skyrocket in prominence with its production of Crystal Dreams.

Whoops.

“I told you,” Alicia repeated, biting off her words with military precision. She flexed her talons toward the stranger at the head of the table. “We shouldn’t have a lawyer sitting here. We should have the police!”

Well, at least that told me who the unknown guy was. A lawyer. That couldn’t be good.

“Bill Rodriguez,” he said, inclining his head toward me by way of greeting. I nodded warily. “I’m from Fenter, Grimley, and Swanson. We represent the Mercer Project. We handle tax work, finances in general.”

“Pleased to meet you,” I said, falling back on the social lubrication of etiquette. Alicia snorted, but at least she held her tongue.

Bill had the courtesy to act as if he hadn’t heard her. “What exactly is your job here at the Mercer, Ms. Morris?”

“I’m the dramaturg,” I said. I was prepared for the politely blank look he gave me; I encountered it from nearly everyone who wasn’t positioned deep inside the theater world. I clarified: “I work behind the scenes. I’m sort of an ‘in-house critic.’” I shrugged, as if I were searching for words, even though I knew my little speech by heart. “I’m sort of like a…psychotherapist and career coach for the production itself, helping everyone involved to achieve their full potential. I bring together interested parties, pull whatever strings I can so that a show is the best it can possibly be.”

Bill nodded slowly before glancing at his notes. “How involved are you with Mercer Project financials?”

“Financials?”

“Does your job involve your keeping books for the theater?”

I shook my head. “No.”

“Do you write checks on any of the Mercer accounts?”

“No.” Two simple, straightforward answers. Go, me.

I looked at the board members again. What was this all about? Was I in trouble for that reimbursement slip I’d submitted last month? Did they think I’d been too generous with my tip to that cab driver, the one who’d stopped for me in the middle of a deluge at three in the morning, after the first rehearsal for the Shepards? I’d thought the service was worth ten dollars, and if they weren’t going to approve the tip, I’d pay for it out of my own damn pocket.

The board members stared back at me. Yeah. This wasn’t about any ten-dollar tip. The board of directors didn’t give a collective damn about my reimbursement slips.

Bill continued, apparently unaware that every single person in the room was scrutinizing me as if I were some freakish new specimen of bug. Even Hal looked distant, bemused. Bill asked, “What is the maximum amount that you can sign for, here at the theater?”

“Without prior approval?”

“Without prior approval,” Bill agreed.

“Two hundred and fifty dollars. But my job doesn’t really require me to put out a lot of money up front. I might buy a book or two, or make some copies at the library. Sometimes I download fee-based articles online.”