Chapter 9
After frozen pizza (courtesy of Daisy) and the best night of sleep I’ve had in maybe my entire adult life, I wake up Friday
morning to the sound of my housemate singing “Firework” loudly and off-key in the shower. It makes me smile.
I glance at my phone and see new texts in my chat with my friends.
Maya: You got a love match yesterday, Ro!
Marnie: How do you know that?
Maya: I’m logged in to her account.
Taylor: Maya! That’s a violation of her privacy.
Maya: There are no secrets among friends.
And he’s kind of cute, Rosie. He could be your soulmate.
I read over the conversation and smile, loving that they’re in my business again.
Rosie: I don’t believe in soulmates.
And stop reading my messages, creeper!
I freeze at the sound of a knock on the door and then a mix of voices in the living room. After a few seconds, Daisy calls
out, “Rosie! Booker’s here for you!”
I sit up like a shot and catch an unfortunate glimpse of myself in the mirror above the small vanity on the opposite wall. My red hair is snarled, and my pale face could really benefit from some bronzer.
My door opens, and I instinctively gasp and pull the covers up to my neck, relieved to see Daisy, not Booker, looking at me.
“Just wanted to make sure you’re up,” she says. “Booker’s here for you.”
“Yep!” I say. “Just give me a few minutes.”
She grins. “You got it!”
I dash down the hall to the bathroom, carrying an armload of clothes, and hurry to make myself presentable.
When I emerge from the bathroom seven minutes later, I find Booker and Daisy in the kitchen.
I walk into the room, and they both stop talking.
“Hey,” he says.
“Hey,” I say.
And then... a five-second pause.
“He-ey,” Daisy says, her eyes widening, as if to acknowledge the awkward tension in the room. “Here.” She thrusts a to-go
cup of coffee at me. “I assume you drink coffee.” She nods to the fridge. “Creamer’s in there.”
I take it. “Thanks.” I pour cream and sugar into the cup, and when I turn back around, Booker is standing there and Daisy
is... gone.
“Sorry I just showed up,” he says. “I realized we didn’t set a time, and I don’t have your number.”
“Is that your way of asking for it?” I tease, hoping a playful approach will quell the nerves I feel around him.
He shrugs, the corner of his mouth inching up. “Might be good to have it. That way if I get an emergency request for tampons,
I’ll know who it’s from.”
I motion for him to hand over his phone. I take it, put my number into his contacts, and then send myself a text from his phone. I glance up and hand it back. “There. Now we’re phone friends.”
His eyes narrow. “Great.”
“Great.”
“Good.”
I smile. “Do you want to go?”
“Yep.” He walks toward the door, and I follow, grabbing my bag from the hook by the door.
“Bye, Daisy,” I holler down the hall.
“Have fun!” she singsongs back.
Seconds later, I’m back in the golf cart, bouncing along, resisting the urge to snap a photo of Booker to send to my friends.
“Did you get your pickleball injury all taken care of?”
He taps his thumb on the steering wheel and waves to another cart as we pass by. “Yep. Got there just in time. Probably saved
a life.”
“Ah, pickleball. The deadliest of all the sports.” I smirk over at him, but he doesn’t glance my way.
I smile to myself as he picks up his tour narration where he left off yesterday. And while very little looks familiar, I do
recognize the theatre the second it comes into view.
“Can we go in?” I ask, wanting to get a look at the space.
He checks his watch. “Absolutely. Most of the residents are probably still at breakfast, but we might run into a few of them.”
Residents , I think. Not just people.
“Everyone eats at the same time?” I ask, trying to understand, because I feel like I’m missing something. Like I’ve just stepped
into a twilight zone or joined a commune or something. By all accounts, Booker seems normal, but I bet those cult leaders
seemed normal too. That’s how they brainwash their members. By being handsome and charming.
And Booker is definitely both of those things.
“No, not necessarily.” He steps out of the golf cart. “I mean, most of the residents do. Some people cook their own meals
in their cottages, but most choose the clubhouse or the dining hall for their meals. It’s one of the benefits of living here.”
I hop out and follow Booker up to the entrance. I can’t wait to see what it looks like on the inside. I can’t remember the
last time I was this excited about theatre.
He opens the door, and I walk through, past the box office and into the lobby, stopping in front of two big doors that I assume
lead into the auditorium and to the stage.
I look at Booker and motion to the doors. “Can I...?”
“Sure, yeah,” he says. “This is your domain now.”
I smile at that. I’ve never had a domain. Especially not a theatrical one. I pull the door open and step inside the space.
It’s all dark except for what seem to be work lights on over the stage. They cast enough of a glow for me to see that this
isn’t some tiny, black box theatre. It’s a good size—probably seats about four hundred or so.
“How often do they do shows?” I ask.
Booker shrugs. “I’m actually not sure. At least a few times a year. I help out when they need things, but mostly I’m on the
other side of the campus.”
“It’s beautiful.” I look up at the theatrical lighting, the fly system, the sound booth.
It’s funny. Theatres all smell the same.
The stained wood of the floor, the years of fabrics and costumes, the slight acrid smell of the lighting fixtures, the faint
twinge of sawdust from the scene shop—the smell of possibility.
I think about some of the spaces I’ve performed in over the years. The eighth floor of an office building that had somehow
been converted into a performance space. The front window of a former retail shop. A storage unit.
Theatre spaces are insanely expensive to rent, especially in New York, but with a little creativity, I’ve learned you can perform anywhere.
There’s nothing like being on a real stage, in a real show, in front of a real audience.
“Hop on up. Show me something.” Booker points to the stage.
“What? Now?” I’m not shy, but for some reason I feel utterly unprepared.
“Come on, I thought performers love to show off,” he says.
I lift a finger in a point. “That’s a common misconception. Some performers are like that, but most actors I know are in it for the craft.”
“That sounds very—”
“Hoity-toity?” I say in a snobby tone, then soften. “It is. I don’t know why I said it. I love being onstage. But honestly...”
I pause, noting how comfortable I am being honest with Booker. “I’m never anxious to be the center of attention. I don’t need
to be the first in the program or the last one to bow. I just...” I look back at the stage. “I just love acting.”
He moves over into one of the seats in the fourth row, center, and sits, then motions to the stage. “Here’s your chance.”
I look at the stage, then back at him.
“Don’t you have songs and speeches memorized?”
“Hundreds,” I admit.
A whole portfolio, in fact. I have several dozen monologues, both comedic and dramatic, two Shakespearean monologues, and
a wide variety of songs meant to show off different parts of my voice and the depth of my acting ability, depending on the
character I’m auditioning for.
Three binders’ worth of material.
But the thought of going up on that stage and actually getting myself into character and performing for this particular audience of one gives me pause.
Performing for people I know in real life is one of the most difficult parts of this job, especially without the benefit of theatrical lighting, which turns every face into a blurry shadow.
“Are you scared?” Booker taunts.
“That won’t work,” I say. “I’ve never been affected by peer pressure.”
“Is that true?”
“No.” I shrug and laugh. Because while peer pressure never talked me into doing something I didn’t want to do, I know I care
too much what people think of me. Which is probably why I didn’t tell my three best friends anything honest the entire time
I was home. For someone who makes her living “making a fool” of herself, I sure do struggle with it these days. I guess there’s
a difference between being goofy and being a failure.
I walk up onto the stage. “Can I go backstage?”
“You’re really not going to perform?” He actually sounds a little disappointed. “How am I supposed to know if you’re any good?”
I chuckle. “Do you need to know if I’m any good?”
“Yes,” he says. “Doesn’t every physical therapist need to know that the resident theatre director knows what she’s doing?”
I raise my eyebrows and wave my hands and arms at him as if casting a spell. “I’m going to have to leave you in suspense.”
He shakes his head and smiles, which is currently in the lead of my favorite elicited responses from him. He leans in. “That’s
a shame.” He stands and makes his way up to the stage.
“Are you going to perform?” I ask, taking a step back.
He smirks. “I make a point to never put myself on display.”
I smirk back. “That’s a shame.”
He holds my gaze for a few seconds, and when he looks away, I note the disappointment that floods my chest.
I might not like to be the center of attention, but I wouldn’t mind being the center of his.
That’s not something I’ve felt in a very long time. Or ever. My relationship with Peter made sense, but it wasn’t built on
emotion. I liked that it wasn’t. I didn’t want anything to derail me from my goals. We got along well, so we made sense.
Until we didn’t.
“Feel free to look around back here if you want to.” He walks over to the stage-right wing. “I think there’s a whole crew
that handles the sets, and lots of volunteers who come in and paint. They team up with the art students to, you know, make
it all look pretty.” He motions to a door. “Scene shop back there, just behind the stage, and dressing rooms downstairs.”
“It’s an amazing space,” I say.
“It was a dream of one of the residents,” he says. “When she died, she left a huge endowment specifically for the construction
and operation of a theatre. Probably why they were able to bring you in and pay your salary.”
There’s that word again. “One of the residents?” I ask. “Like resident actors?”
“What are you doing in here?” A gruff, gravelly voice calls down from somewhere overhead.
I look up, searching for signs of life, but all I see is blackness.
“Arthur?” Booker calls out, shielding his eyes as he struggles to locate a person in the catwalks above us. “What are you
doing in the cats?”
“I asked you first!”
Booker looks at me. “That’s Arthur. He knows this place inside and out, but he’s a pistol.”
“Sound carries on the stage, Book,” he says. “Who’s your girlfriend?”
“Not his girlfriend.” I turn toward the voice and wave. “I’m Rosie Waterman.”
“Who?”
“Arthur, will you just come down here?” Booker asks, though it sounds more like a command than a question. “Let me make a
proper introduction.” Then to me, he adds, “He really shouldn’t be up there. He has balance issues.”
“Lobby!” Arthur’s bark is followed by the slam of a door.
We start down off the stage and make our way to the lobby, my mind buzzing with questions I’m not sure how to ask.
“Whatever he dishes out,” Booker says as we come through the dark theatre, “dish it right back.”
My eyes need a second to adjust to the bright light of the lobby, and my head needs a year to adjust to this new life in Door
County.
A few moments later, a nondescript door opens and a thin, nearly bald man walks out. He’s wearing what looks like a work uniform—gray
pants and a matching gray button-down—and a pronounced scowl.
He gives me a once-over. “You’re a child.”
I give him a once-over. “You’re an old man.”
He squints at me, expression holding steady. “How old are you?”
“I’m twenty-nine.”
He scoffs and glares at Booker. “Practically a toddler.”
I narrow my eyes. “This from the guy who probably owes Jesus a quarter.”
He stiffens. “‘Though I look old, yet I am strong and lusty.’”
Interesting. Shakespeare. I mentally roll up my sleeves.
I mock bow and retort, “‘Your lordship, though not clean past your youth, have yet some smack of an ague in you, some relish
of the saltness of time in you.’”
Oh yeah. Two can play, buddy.
I see a sliver of a glint in his eye, just for a brief moment, and he switches gears.
He starts to circle me, and I counter-cross.
“‘To get back my youth I would do anything in the world, except take exercise, get up early, or be respectable.’” It’s like
he just threw down a challenge and is now waiting to see if I pick it up.
Oscar Wilde. Nice touch. I offer my own Wilde in return.
“Well, ‘the old believe everything; the middle-aged suspect everything; the young know everything.’” I pause and then add
with a smile, “But I’m not quite young enough to know everything.”
He harrumphs. I’ll take that as a win.
Booker just stares. “Is this how theatre people fight?”
He abruptly turns his head to Booker. “ This is who they sent us?”
“This is who they hired ,” Booker says, nodding toward me. “She obviously knows her stuff.”
“I have my BA in theatre from Northwestern University,” I say, because that really is the only notable thing on my résumé.
“Plus she lives in New York,” Booker says.
Arthur waves his bony hands around in circles. “Lah-de-dah.” He starts off in the opposite direction, and I glance helplessly
at Booker, who glances helplessly back at me.
“I was in an episode of Law & Order !” I call after him.
“Everyone’s done an episode of Law & Order !” he hollers without looking back, and then he disappears behind another slammed door.
I look at Booker. “He’s old, but, boy, is he quick.”
“But you held your own, I think. I had no idea what you two were talking about.”
I shrug. “It’s one thing I’m good at. Memorization. I’ve got a lot of lines from random plays and books I’ve read stored right
up here.” I tap on my temple. “Especially the classics.”
“He’ll warm up to you then,” Booker says. “And you want him on your side because he’s the guy who knows how this whole place works.”
Well, good. Maybe this Arthur guy can shed some light on the question that’s been bothering me since I woke up in Booker’s
truck...
What in the world is this place?