Wishing in the Wings Read Online Free

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.

CHAPTER 2

    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