Wishing in the Wings Read Online Free Page A

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