Wishing in the Wings (36 page)

However Long was going to be seen by the movers and shakers at every leading theater company in the United States. I’d be astonished if it didn’t receive a full staging within a year. Maybe two would pick it up, simultaneously. Or more.

I shoved the binder into Ryan’s accepting hands, directing his gaze to the invitation list. I saw the precise instant that he realized what I was showing him, that he recognized our success.

His smile was brilliant, like sunflowers bursting into golden halos.

As he handed the notebook back to me, a postcard slipped free from the pages. I grabbed it before it could fall to the floor. The picture on the front showed a mother zebra and her foal, nuzzling each other against a backdrop of tall, bleached grass. I flipped the card over and saw that it was from the San Diego Zoo.

More importantly, it was from my mother. Her bold cursive filled the left half of the card. “Break a leg, darling. Wishing you and Ryan all the best for opening night. Dad and Pop-pop send their love. XOXO, Mom.”

Tears welled up in my eyes. My mother had never sent me a card before, had never acknowledged one of my shows. Or, for that matter, one of my boyfriends. I wondered what I’d done to earn such a booster-wish from Teel. Maybe he’d felt guilty about manipulating Ryan and me, about using us to entertain himself and Jaze. Whatever the reason, I wasn’t going to complain.

“Ryan,” Hal called from the stage. I hastily tucked the postcard back into my binder as my boss said, “Let’s go through this one more time. We need to figure out once and for all what we’re doing with the dream sequence stage directions.”

Ryan grabbed my hand, making sure that I stayed beside him. Hal watched us approach, his brilliant blue eyes seeing everything, knowing nothing. Kira gave us a curious glance as we drew near, and for just a second, I thought that she must know the truth, she must be aware of the changes that Teel had wrought in the production. Whatever concerns she had, though, drifted away before she could say anything, as if she were forgetting some vague dream, even as she woke up. I suspected I was seeing the last demonstration of Teel’s power.

Hal spoke with the diplomacy that had made him one of the most successful artistic directors in town. “Ryan, I know we’ve gone back and forth on this. I understand that the stage directions are important to you. They’re part of the script, part of the play that you created. But I just don’t see how to represent them for this reading. We’ve tried everything. When Kira reads them out loud, they sound flat against the fully interpreted dialog. When an actor reads them, they sound fanciful. People aren’t used to hearing stage directions at all. I’m afraid we’re only going to confuse the audience, no matter what we do.”

Ryan stared at the stage, at the stark wooden boards broken only by the scattering of chairs. The directions were the heart and soul of his script, the harvest that he’d sown with his software package, years ago, before he’d decided to go to Burkina Faso, before he’d ever dreamed of writing Fanta’s story. The directions were the remnant of the time he’d spent with Pam, the time he’d spent creating his software masterpiece. They were the fruit of all his wishes.

But in the intervening years—and in the past ten minutes—Ryan had learned a valuable lesson. From his genie, from mine, from the entire notion of a staged reading, he’d learned the art of compromise.

“Let it go, Hal.”

“But—” I couldn’t help interrupting.

Ryan shook his head. “Let it go. Maybe Becca can write something for the program, an insert that explains the traditional Burkinabe dances, describes their importance to Fanta and her people. That way, the audience will know about them, even in this setting. And when the play is fully staged, other directors can draw on the specifics I put into the script.”

Hal looked at me. “Becca? Can you write that?”

“Of course.” Hal had asked the question, but I gave my answer to Ryan. I wanted him to know that I understood the concession that he was making. “We can work together to come up with something appropriate.”

Hal nodded tersely. “Okay, then. Kira, let’s get everyone on stage. Let’s start from the top and make it perfect—those Yale folks will be expecting a lot tomorrow.”

Yale Drama. My alma mater. I wondered whom I’d invited for the preview. There’d be time enough to find out later.

As Kira summoned everyone to their chairs, Ryan and I moved to the center of the house. An expectant air drifted over the theater as we took our seats. There was a shuffle of paper as actors thumbed to the front of their scripts. I caught my breath in the endless moment before Fanta delivered her first line.

“When I was a little girl, I thought I’d marry a king.”

The accent was perfect. Fanta sounded like she’d lived her life in Burkina Faso, like she’d never even heard of the island of Jamaica.

I couldn’t help myself. I turned my notebook pages as quietly as I could, searching for an explanation. It took me halfway through the script before I found what I was looking for. Again, my handwriting was familiar, was perfect, was mine. But I had no idea when I’d written the note. Accent coach, it said. And underneath that, Teel. And a 212 telephone number.

With a sad certainty, I knew the number would be disconnected if I phoned now.

But what did that matter? I’d obviously brought in the help that Fanta needed. Affordably, too. Without the need for a Popcorn King stipend.

I sat back and enjoyed the rest of Fanta’s introductory lines. It wasn’t until she reached the end of the first scene, though, that I realized Ryan had stiffened beside me. He was leaning forward in his chair. His fingers dug into his armrests, and he caught his lower lip between his teeth.

And then I understood what he feared.

Anana’s first scene. I took an instant survey of the familiar actors’ faces. There was someone new up there, someone I had overlooked in all of my surprise, in all of the changed events.

She was younger than Teel had been. Deep lines ran between her nose and her mouth, but her forehead remained smooth. Silver whispered at her temples, but she had no hint of my genie’s regal halo. She held herself stiff in her chair, her backbone rigid, her neck proud.

And when she spoke, her commanding voice carried to the last row of the theater. She drew every eye in the house. She captured every ear.

She wasn’t Teel. She didn’t read Anana’s lines with the identical energy, with the exact same meaning, the by-now familiar grave vigor. Instead, she presented a new interpretation of a matriarch, a new view of Ryan’s core vision.

She wasn’t Teel, but she was superb. She was Anana.

I felt Ryan relax beside me. I heard him draw a full breath, and then another and another. I watched him sink back into his velvet chair, relax into the play, into the poetry of the lines, into the beauty of the reading.

The cast worked through the first act, then plunged directly into the second. The dream sequence was haunting, mysterious. What it lost through physical staging, it gained in the actors’ careful attention to every single word. Ryan’s lines resonated like ancient songs, thrumming deep inside my heart. When Fanta delivered her final, fractured words, I realized that I’d been holding my breath, poised on the jagged edge of creative perfection.

Hal held the silence for a full measure. Another. Another. And then he jumped to his feet. “Excellent, people! Excellent job! Ryan?”

I watched Ryan pull himself upright. He took his time, studying the entire cast, meeting the eyes of each actor in sequence. “Thank you,” he finally said. “Thank you for giving voice to my words. Thank you for understanding what I was saying, for preparing to share it with others so perfectly.”

There was a flurry of chatter after that. Hal delivered his inevitable notes. Kira reminded everyone to arrive early the next night, for a round of group warm-ups. One actor asked Ryan about motivation for a single obscure line. Three women cornered me, wanting to know if I could do yet more research about haggling in African markets.

Before we knew it, though, everyone was collecting their belongings. Scripts were shoved into backpacks. Empty coffee cups were tossed into trashcans. Laughing instructions were issued to the first people who left, requests to save tables, to order drinks. The Pharm would soon be filled with our boisterous cast.

As I watched order return from the controlled chaos of the reading, my cell phone rang. I excused myself from Ryan and stepped into the lobby to answer. With a sinking feeling, I recognized the phone number before I said, “Rebecca Morris.”

“Ambrose,” came the hangdog reply. I braced myself for more bad news, for more interference from Dean, for more deflating of my dreams, just when I thought everything was finally going perfectly.

“Good evening, Detective.” I tried to sound professional.

“Miss Morris, I just wanted you to know that we’re closing out our file on Mr. Marcus.”

I stared at the phone, wondering if it had somehow been broken in the electric jangle of Teel’s magic, if it had somehow been destroyed by the current that had passed through it, around it. “Excuse me?” I asked.

He sighed. “We’ve completed our investigation, Miss Morris. We’re turning everything over to the prosecutor.”

“Prosecutor? But what good will that do, if Dean is in Russia?”

Another one of those monumental sighs preceded Ambrose’s announcement. “Miss Morris, Mr. Marcus is en route to the United States as we speak. My men are waiting to take him into custody as soon as his plane touches down at JFK.” As if for good measure, he added a “Miss Morris.”

“But why would Dean come home?” My head was reeling. Was this something else my former, despicable boyfriend had somehow worked out, just to make me miserable? After all these months of my building my own life, of my working through the problems that Dean had left behind, was he coming back now, just to spite me? “What could he possibly want from me now?”

“Nothing like that, Miss Morris.” Another gust from Ambrose, as if a hurricane were swelling in his chest. “Let’s just say, Miss Morris, that once an embezzler, always an embezzler.”

“Dean tried to steal from someone else?” I was incredulous. What could he need more money for? He had millions to spare, if he just kept a low profile and parceled it out on vodka, babushka women, and balalaika song.

“Miss Morris, we find that’s often the case with criminals, especially when they spend as much time as Mr. Marcus did, structuring his theft from the Mercer.” Ambrose sounded so sad that I actually wanted to comfort him, wanted to tell him that it would all turn out okay.

“But who did he steal from?” I was so confused. “And why is he coming back here?”

“Let’s just say that the Russian mob is a lot less understanding than the U.S. court system. Sometimes even a prison starts to look like a good, safe place to be. For a thief.”

For the first time ever, Ambrose forgot to call me Miss Morris. And for the first time ever, I heard a smile in his voice, just a grim hint of one.

Dean had bitten off more than he could chew—way more. I could only imagine the people he had made angry. I could only begin to picture shadowy underworld bosses, slinging back shots of vodka as they ordered Dean’s head on a platter.

Dean was coming home. He was going to face the music here.

“Will he be forced to make restitution?” I asked, thinking of the Mercer, of all the trouble he had caused.

“Miss Morris, let’s not get ahead of ourselves. We’ll need you to testify against him.”

We were back to our usual formality, I noted, but I could hardly care. My own smile threatened to make my cheeks ache. “With pleasure, Detective Ambrose. With extreme pleasure.”

He told me more details, about Dean’s flight, about how he would be taken into custody. Someone from the prosecutor’s office would contact me. I’d likely provide a deposition, at least at first. There’d probably be a plea somewhere down the road, hopefully sooner, rather than later. Dean would definitely serve some jail time. And, yes, he would be required to make restitution, to the extent that he still had his ill-gotten gains.

I didn’t absorb everything that Ambrose said, all the details of how the criminal justice system would work. All I knew was that at long last, I was vindicated. Dean Marcus would be brought to justice. He’d be forced to pay for what he’d done to me, to the Mercer.

As Ambrose hung up, I couldn’t describe how I felt. Once upon a time, I’d been angry about Dean. And embarrassed. And deeply, terribly sad.

But now, I felt…relieved. I’d escaped Dean before he could truly, irrevocably hurt me. He was a thief and a liar and an idiot, too—he’d gotten greedy, and now he had to return home, to pay the piper.

For all practical purposes, I never needed to deal with Dean again. Ambrose and his ilk would dot i’s and cross t’s. And then Dean would be out of my life forever.

Forever.

I tested how that felt, rubbing my emotions across the discovery, like a tongue across a chipped tooth. It snagged a little, as I remembered how foolish I had been, how trusting, way back when. But I already knew I’d get over that. I’d forget it. I’d forget Dean. I practically had already.

Squaring my shoulders, I headed back into the theater.

Hal had already headed back to his office. There’d be time enough to tell him the good news, time enough to let him know that the Mercer’s coffers would likely be restored, at least in part.

Kira was pulling the onstage chairs back to their proper places, preparing everything for the next night. Still a little dazed by Ambrose’s call, I floated over to Ryan. He continued to be gripped by the play’s spell, by the power of the reading we had witnessed.

I grasped his hand and led him out of the magic cave of the theater, into the lobby. Like a man waking from a dream, Ryan reached out and touched the stark poster for the show. For his show. Our show. “However long the night,” he said, “the dawn will break.”

I laughed, thinking how appropriate the words were, especially in light of Ambrose’s call. Ryan’s smile, when he turned to me, was brilliant. His fingers tangled in my hair as he pulled me close, and I felt his laughter through his chest, down his arms. His lips on mine were teasing, playful, and I lost myself in the sheer joy of success.