Chapter 36
Words swim around in that foggy space between awake and asleep.
“Are they dead?”
“No, I can see them breathing. Look, their chests are moving.”
“Thank God they’re not naked.”
“I think it’s a crime Booker isn’t naked.”
“Evelyn!”
“We’re old, not dead.”
“What do you suppose happened here? Do you think they...?”
My eyes pop open and the four women standing over me let out a collective gasp. “What’s going—” I glance to my side and find
Booker. Asleep.
“Rosie!” Sadie says. “You’re awake.”
“Looks like you had a great night, if you know what I mean ,” Evelyn cracks.
“This is not what it looks like,” I say, willing my creaking muscles to work. A tarp on a stage isn’t a mattress.
I give Booker a shake and try to sit up straighter.
“Well, that’s a shame.” Evelyn looks genuinely disappointed. “Unless you’re just saying that.”
I shake Booker again. “Booker, wake up.” Then, to the Nosy Nellies: “I’m not just saying that.”
“What do the young people call this?” Sadie asks the others. “A walk of shame?” Back to me: “Rosie, walk around so we can officially tell everyone you did a walk of shame this morning.” She giggles.
Evelyn is staring at Booker. “Rosie, did you get to see him with his shirt off?”
I shake Booker a third time. Geez, this guy sleeps like the dead. He stirs, eyes fluttering open, confusion in all of his
features. “Rosie? What’s wrong?”
“He even looks good in the morning,” Evelyn whispers.
“Sorry the same can’t be said for you, Rosie.” Sadie winces and the others shake their heads in agreement, like a brood of
chickens.
Booker sits up. I can see him bring the scene into focus. “Oh. Uh... we fell asleep.”
“Looks like you had a good night, though,” Evelyn says.
Sadie giggles.
I’m about to stand when the door to the lobby opens and Bertie walks in. She lifts her hand in a wave, but her smile fades
when she spots us, still positioned center stage, on a tarp, where we’ve clearly spent the night.
She turns and glances behind her, just as someone else follows her in: a woman wearing a very nice royal-blue suit and sporting
a very specific kind of newswoman haircut, followed by a man carrying a camera and a tripod.
“Oh my gosh,” I say, jumping up. “Oh my gosh ,” I repeat, because what else do I say right now?
“What?” Booker says. “What’s wrong?”
“Are we going to be on the news?” Grace’s eyes go wide.
“Shoot, shoot, shoot. They never told me a time, and—” I start swiping at my hair like there are bees in it.
Sadie grimaces. “That’s not going to help.”
Bertie is staring at the stage, and I see the moment she realizes that Booker and I are both here, spread out on a tarp, like
we just had an indoor camping excursion. She glances at the reporter trailing behind, then back to me, eyes wide.
I smooth my hands over my leggings. I can smell my armpits. Beside me, Booker stands. “You have an interview?”
“Yes, but they didn’t tell me...” I stop myself from repeating. It isn’t going to change the fact that they’re here. Now .
“Obviously, you distracted her,” Evelyn says.
Bertie has reached the stage now, and she gives us a tentative smile. Her eyes flick from me to Booker and back again. “Things
here look... interesting.”
“Oh, this?” I’m about to spiral, I can tell. “This is not what it looks like.”
“Methinks she doth protest too much,” Sadie mutters.
I choose to ignore her. “We were working late, with the accident, everything was still wet, so the tarp, and the pizza. I
didn’t eat all day yesterday, so... yeah.” I turn off the open fire hydrant that is my mouth. “We fell asleep.” I helplessly
shrug, and then, as if I haven’t said enough, I add, “We just slept.”
“Fully clothed,” Evelyn says, then adds, “unfortunately.”
Sadie swats her across the arm.
“It’s my fault.” Booker runs a hand through his hair, making it even messier—and my goodness, sexier—than before. “I showed
up with pizza.”
“And really, how could she resist?” Evelyn gives Booker a once-over, and it’s clear she’s not talking about the food.
Bertie walks up onto the stage. “I just happened to bump into this lovely woman, looking a little lost over by the clubhouse.”
Then, quietly, she adds, “I’m sorry, Rosie, I should’ve called.”
“No, it’s good.” I step forward and look at the reporter. “I’m so sorry. I’m Rosie Waterman. The director.”
The woman smiles. “It’s really nice to meet you. I’m Deirdre. Your friend Marnie and I went to school together.”
Marnie. Just the mention of her name makes my heart squeeze.
“Are you able to talk with us on camera? About the accident and the show and this whole program?” Deirdre asks.
I look around the stage, and a million newsworthy stories come to mind. “Oh my goodness, yes. Yes, of course. There are so many stories here to be told.” I look over at the small group of women, still standing on the stage. “Grace, she’s our Cinderella.
She moved here from Omaha and found happiness again simply by becoming a part of this show.” In the wings, I see Arthur’s
shadow. “And did you know the theatre manager, Arthur Silverman—he’s a renowned director and former NYU theatre professor.
A true legend.” I run my hands through my hair. “The accident, the flood, the way everyone came together—I think we might
actually still open on time, and that’s a story worth telling.”
Deirdre’s smile looks practiced, her teeth whiter than they should be. “That’s so sweet! But, Rosie, we’re here to talk about
you.”
I frown. “Me?”
“Yes,” she says. “We’ll get to all of that—the others—but you are the story. Marnie told us you live in New York?”
I look around the stage, and I see them all watching me, Booker included, and I freeze.
I press my lips together. “I really don’t think I’m the most interesting thing here.”
“A young woman leaving a thriving career in New York to direct a musical for senior citizens?” Deirdre is holding a microphone,
and I notice there’s a flashing red light on the camera. “That was quite a sacrifice.”
I shake my head. I feel caught somehow. Like I’m on the stand.
“No, it wasn’t. It... isn’t.”
“Can you elaborate?”
I press my lips together. “New York is great, and my career”—I pause—“Is fine... but these people? And this musical? It’s
taught me so much. About myself, about life and community, and what it really means to be happy.” I meet Booker’s eyes, and
his slight nod encourages me to continue.
“And what does it mean to be happy?”
“Hold on!” Belinda hollers from the wing, stepping out onto the stage.
I didn’t even know she was back there. At the interruption, I pause, worried about what she might say to embarrass me.
“Belinda, they’re filming,” Sadie hisses.
“Rosie, I will not allow you to go on television looking like that.” She extends a hand, as if to usher me toward her.
I’m frozen.
“Come on,” she says, and then to Deirdre: “Give us five minutes.”
“She’s going to fix that in five minutes?” Evelyn says under her breath.
“She’s a miracle worker with the makeup,” Sadie says.
I glance at Deirdre, who gives me a kind nod, and I rush off toward Belinda.
“I’m not sure what you can really do,” I say. “I fell asleep on a paint tarp.”
“Yes. We all saw that.”
There’s a noted change in her voice. It’s not... harsh.
“You might’ve cast me as the Evil Stepmother, but today I’m your fairy godmother.” She starts toward the stage door that leads
downstairs to the dressing rooms. “I’ve got makeup downstairs. You’ll look, well, alive at least, in no time.”
I rush behind her, trying to keep up and finding I’m getting surprisingly out of breath. I wonder why, out of everyone who
lives at Sunset Hills, I’m the one in the worst shape.
Once we’re downstairs, Belinda opens the door to one of the small dressing rooms and pulls a bin off the shelf. She points
to a chair and flips on the bulb lights around the mirror. “Sit.”
I do as I’m told, watching as she starts pulling makeup from the bin. “Why are you helping me?”
“No talking,” she says. “Down here, I’m the one in charge.”
I press my lips together to conceal a smile.
She pulls out a bottle of foundation and starts dotting it on my face with a sponge. “I was impressed with how you handled things.”
My eyes flick to hers, but she doesn’t look back. “You were?”
“Every show has its challenges. I’ve been in more than a few, as you know.”
It feels like she’s trying to be nice, though she still seems to be handing me her résumé. I wonder if this is insecurity and choose
to give her the benefit of the doubt.
“But a flood in the theatre? That’s a new one.” She pulls blush from the bin. “Especially for a first-time director.”
She dots the brush into the powder and starts swiping it on my cheeks.
“But you took charge,” she says. “I believe in giving credit where credit is due.” She reaches into her pocket and pulls out
a breath mint. “You need this.”
Something about her bluntness mixes with my embarrassment, and I have to laugh. “Thanks.” I unwrap it and stick it in my mouth.
“I’ve been hard on you,” she says, sighing and still fussing over my face. “But calling your friend and getting the news here—that
took guts. You’re really going to let them do a story on you?” She swipes eye shadow over my eyelids.
“If it helps the show, then yes,” I say.
She inches back, and I open my eyes. “You surprise me, Rosie Waterman.”
I smile ruefully. “You surprise me too.”
“Good.” She clicks a compact shut. “I’d hate to be predictable.” She adds a few finishing touches, and then she’s done.
I sit back and admire her work. She hands me a comb, which I run through my messy waves, and when I’m finished, I almost feel
like I didn’t sleep on a hardwood floor.
I stand, and Belinda gives me a quick once-over. “I suppose that’s as good as it’s going to get.”
“Just when I thought you were nice.”
“You look thirty-foot pretty.” She quirks a brow, then explains, “Pretty from thirty feet away.”
I shake my head, but she’s not done.
“Hopefully the camera won’t add ten pounds. Now go out there and tell them how amazing I am.”