knotted, rusted holiday heart strings. “What’s your name?”
“Ellen Nordlinger.”
“Ellen, I want you to be sure to buy tickets for our opening night. You and all your friends are invited to the reception afterward, as my guests. I’ll tell the box office right now.”
She stood on tiptoe to pat his cheek. With her glove on, it felt a little like being touched by a Muppet. “That’s wonderful. Thank you so much.” Finally, she let go and Jack hightailed it through the doors.
Becca beamed him a look of approval. “You did a good thing.” She shivered, from the idiocy of going outside without a coat just to give him some unwanted hoopla. So Jack rubbed her arms briskly.
“Don’t make a big thing out of it. And for God’s sake, tell me that there’s actually an opening night party planned.”
“You’re covered. Don’t worry.”
He realized his rubbing had slowed to more of a stroke/caress hybrid. Jack pulled back his hands and stalked across the lobby to a row of doors that hopefully led to the stage. “Sweetheart, I’m about to start rehearsing a cast of amateurs, kids and goats. I’m gonna do nothing but worry for the next ten days.”
Three hours later, Jack was considering changing his tune. Oh, he’d still worry. Any director worth a damn maintained a certain level of rampant panic over every last second of stagecraft right up until the first curtain. Worry that the actors might forget their lines. Forget their blocking. Hell, this show was a musical, so that brought in a whole other level of problems. No dancing—not a lot of polka numbers in the old King James version—so that was good. But the microphones might crap out. The recorded orchestra track might blip. And yes, for the first time, Jack actually had to worry about a goat taking a dump in the middle of the stage. That was a new one.
But his worry wouldn’t be at Defcon Ten. Threat Level Midnight. Code Red. Whatever. Turned out that this ragtag bunch of rank amateurs actually knew their shit. Most of them were repeat cast members, so they’d been trained in the basics. They knew their upstage from downstage, knew to look for the spike tape and stand on top of it, and most important of all, knew when to shut up and listen to the director. This show wouldn’t be the gigantic cluster fuck he’d expected.
When the stage manager called for a ten-minute break, Becca slid into the seat next to his. “How’s it going?”
“That’s a loaded question.” He shifted, stretched his arms overhead. Hoped the gym in his hotel came with a whirlpool and steam room. The whirlpool to relax his stiff muscles. The steam room to thaw his frozen bones. “Do you really want to know? Or is this show a sacred cow to you?”
Becca leaned back. Kicked her Sorel boots up onto the chair in front of her, which showed off about a mile and a half of long leg. Even through the navy blue cords, he could get a sense of the shapeliness of her legs from the way they clung. Same way he wished his hand could cling to her thigh. Not that he’d actually follow through on that impulse. At least, not during rehearsal.
“I’ll admit, I have a soft spot for this production. Probably because I’ve done it for so long, and I know it touches so many people. Like that woman you met out front. But not just the audience members. The cast, the crew, the board—everyone feels the holiday magic, as corny as that sounds.”
She’d told him that Christmas had lost its luster without her grandmother around. If Becca got this mushy over the holidays at half-speed, he’d hate to see what sort of overexcited elf she turned into when she decided to go full-throttle. “It sounds cornier than a corn-shucking contest—in overalls with a banjo playing—at the Minnesota State Fair.”
Becca waved off his comment with a languid movement of her long, tapered fingers. “All sentiment aside, I’m a producer first and foremost. I’ve got a professional reputation to
“Ellen Nordlinger.”
“Ellen, I want you to be sure to buy tickets for our opening night. You and all your friends are invited to the reception afterward, as my guests. I’ll tell the box office right now.”
She stood on tiptoe to pat his cheek. With her glove on, it felt a little like being touched by a Muppet. “That’s wonderful. Thank you so much.” Finally, she let go and Jack hightailed it through the doors.
Becca beamed him a look of approval. “You did a good thing.” She shivered, from the idiocy of going outside without a coat just to give him some unwanted hoopla. So Jack rubbed her arms briskly.
“Don’t make a big thing out of it. And for God’s sake, tell me that there’s actually an opening night party planned.”
“You’re covered. Don’t worry.”
He realized his rubbing had slowed to more of a stroke/caress hybrid. Jack pulled back his hands and stalked across the lobby to a row of doors that hopefully led to the stage. “Sweetheart, I’m about to start rehearsing a cast of amateurs, kids and goats. I’m gonna do nothing but worry for the next ten days.”
Three hours later, Jack was considering changing his tune. Oh, he’d still worry. Any director worth a damn maintained a certain level of rampant panic over every last second of stagecraft right up until the first curtain. Worry that the actors might forget their lines. Forget their blocking. Hell, this show was a musical, so that brought in a whole other level of problems. No dancing—not a lot of polka numbers in the old King James version—so that was good. But the microphones might crap out. The recorded orchestra track might blip. And yes, for the first time, Jack actually had to worry about a goat taking a dump in the middle of the stage. That was a new one.
But his worry wouldn’t be at Defcon Ten. Threat Level Midnight. Code Red. Whatever. Turned out that this ragtag bunch of rank amateurs actually knew their shit. Most of them were repeat cast members, so they’d been trained in the basics. They knew their upstage from downstage, knew to look for the spike tape and stand on top of it, and most important of all, knew when to shut up and listen to the director. This show wouldn’t be the gigantic cluster fuck he’d expected.
When the stage manager called for a ten-minute break, Becca slid into the seat next to his. “How’s it going?”
“That’s a loaded question.” He shifted, stretched his arms overhead. Hoped the gym in his hotel came with a whirlpool and steam room. The whirlpool to relax his stiff muscles. The steam room to thaw his frozen bones. “Do you really want to know? Or is this show a sacred cow to you?”
Becca leaned back. Kicked her Sorel boots up onto the chair in front of her, which showed off about a mile and a half of long leg. Even through the navy blue cords, he could get a sense of the shapeliness of her legs from the way they clung. Same way he wished his hand could cling to her thigh. Not that he’d actually follow through on that impulse. At least, not during rehearsal.
“I’ll admit, I have a soft spot for this production. Probably because I’ve done it for so long, and I know it touches so many people. Like that woman you met out front. But not just the audience members. The cast, the crew, the board—everyone feels the holiday magic, as corny as that sounds.”
She’d told him that Christmas had lost its luster without her grandmother around. If Becca got this mushy over the holidays at half-speed, he’d hate to see what sort of overexcited elf she turned into when she decided to go full-throttle. “It sounds cornier than a corn-shucking contest—in overalls with a banjo playing—at the Minnesota State Fair.”
Becca waved off his comment with a languid movement of her long, tapered fingers. “All sentiment aside, I’m a producer first and foremost. I’ve got a professional reputation to
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