Chapter 46 ZACHERY IN THE STARS
Chapter 46
Z ACHERY IN THE S TARS
One year later
All three of my phones buzz simultaneously. I need to get rid of one. Or two.
I choose the one that reads “Kelsey” on the notification and pick up the voice call.
“Where are you?” she asks.
I glance up at the street signs. “Crossing Broadway. Two blocks away.”
“Allison Firenze doesn’t like to be kept waiting. Do you have the roses? She insisted on roses.”
I shift the bouquet to the inside of my elbow. “Thirteen yellow ones. Not twelve. Not red. Thirteen yellow.”
Kelsey sighs in relief. “Good. Make it look good.”
“Nobody buys it anymore. They all know you’re my one true love.”
She laughs. “Then take more acting classes. This is important. We need good pictures!”
And she hangs up.
I shake my head and check the other two phones. One of them is a reminder to meet Allison at the Edgemont Theater. The other is a text from Jester, also reminding me to go.
Nobody trusts me anymore.
I’ve had my head in the clouds since we all moved to New York and opened our own casting office, this time for live performing arts. We have everything on our roster from opera singers to dancers to, well, clowns. It’s wild how often a production needs a good clown.
I arrive at the theater as Allison Firenze pulls up in a limo.
The driver opens the door, and I slip through the crowd and nod at the security guard, who lets me through the satin rope.
Allison steps out to a wild pop of flashes, smiling and waving in a red gown with elbow-length gloves. That’s why she wanted yellow. Red roses would get lost against the dress. She’s good. She thinks of the photo op.
I step in and pass her the roses, kissing her cheek. I whisper, “Apparently, I’m supposed to look like I’m madly in love with you. It might be true.”
When I step back, her smile is girlish and happy. Snap, snap, snap. Nailed it, Kelsey. Where’s my Tony Award?
I take her arm, and we walk slowly up the carpeted stairs to the front of the theater. Then we turn, smiling. After a few seconds, I step away and out of the frame so she can get solo shots. Behind her is a sign featuring her face along with the name of the production that will open tonight, Blinding Red .
I wait exactly the right amount of time, then step forward to open the door for her. I take her arm again as we pass inside.
It’s quiet and dark in the lobby. She lets out a sigh of relief. “Thank you, Zachery. I did not want to do that alone.”
Allison’s boyfriend of eight years broke up with her two weeks ago, leaving her without an escort to her own opening night. I lift her gloved hand to kiss it. “It was an honor.”
We pass the closed-up box office for a hallway that leads to the dressing rooms. The noise levels rise as we approach, the cast and crew already deep in preparations for the night.
Once we’re out of sight of any wayward reporters who might be peering in, I give her a bow. “Have an amazing first night.”
She kisses my cheek. “Thank you.”
We part ways, and I head for a side door.
Doing these deeds for Kelsey feels very different from how they went down for Desdemona. I realize now how much of my self-worth was tied up in those paparazzi moments on red carpets with actresses. It was me proving I was still worthy of the Hollywood game, not a has-been, not a joke. The attention of those women proved it.
Desdemona knew me too well, and she used my need to be seen to ensure those actresses considered her projects first.
I don’t need that crutch anymore. And our agency doesn’t need to act that way to get projects to cast or find talent eager to work with us.
I’m stopped by a young man I met a couple of months ago. “Zachery?”
“Ahmed, hello!” I shake his hand. “How were rehearsals?”
“So great. I can’t thank you enough for getting me cast. It’s been a dream come true.” He brushes his hair nervously to one side of his forehead.
“You’re very talented. Let’s see how long this run goes, and we’ll talk again. Break a leg!”
I head for the door. I’ve just burst out of the dim corridor and into the bright light of afternoon when Kelsey calls.
“Jester passed me something interesting. Meet me at the pie shop on Fifty-Fourth. I’ll get there before you can walk it.”
“We can’t talk about it by phone?” I change directions to head for the shop.
“I want to see your face when I say it.”
“Are you going to propose marriage?”
She laughs. “You wish.” She hangs up.
A small spattering of rain starts to fall, so I pop into a drugstore and pick up a funny clear smiley-face umbrella. Between me and Kelsey, we lose approximately five umbrellas a week. I’ve stopped buying expensive ones.
As I walk up, I spot her in the window facing the street, and I love the way she bursts into laughter at my umbrella. I do a quick Fred Astaire spin on the light pole before closing it and stepping into the warm crush of the overfilled pie shop.
She’s already bought my favorite lemon meringue as well as her chocolate mousse, plus two plain coffees.
I sit on a stool next to her. “Hey! You took a bite of mine.”
She reaches over with her fork and steals another. “And I’ll take what I want from you anytime I want.”
I kiss her for her impertinence, savoring the moment. I love New York in the summer. It’s almost worth surviving the winter.
The energy here is different. And live-show casting feels right. There’s less pretense. Everyone is talented. Just as many divas, that’s for sure, but they’re usually worth it.
We’ve started small, calling in my old playwright friend and then his friends. We didn’t need to make money right away. I was able to cover the startup, get Jester moved here, and find a place, about a tenth of the size of my LA house but in the center of everything.
It’s been good.
Kelsey jumped right in, and she’s been the one to spot the talent who put us on the map. We stick to the scrappy startups, the new productions barely getting by on a shoestring. And we build careers from nothing.
It’s glorious.
When I finally release her, I snatch up a fork and attack her chocolate mousse. She easily parries me and pins my fork to the plate. “Women steal men’s pie; men don’t steal women’s. I don’t make the rules.”
“Fine,” I grumble and attack my lemon meringue. “So, what came across your desk?”
She opens a folder and slides a casting call toward me. Monday by Moonlight . I scan the call.
“A musical? Okay. They need a male lead. Late thirties, early forties. Baritone. Who are you thinking? Brassworth? That guy who did the revival of The Music Man ?”
She shakes her head. “I’m thinking of you .”
Her eyes never leave mine.
My throat tightens. “I haven’t seen a singing coach in years. I’m out of practice. I—”
“You can.” She lays a card on the printout. It’s the vocal coach we’ve sent some of our roster to, the ones who can afford it. “He has a spot. He’s ready to prep your audition material.”
I stare at the piano keys on the card. My mouth is dry.
I can’t possibly audition for something at this stage. I’m not an off-Broadway singer. I’m a joke who does terrible things in bad movies. I’m an expensively dressed arm for the real talent to walk in on.
“Get out of your head, Zachery,” Kelsey says. “Not all thoughts are worth listening to. Listen to me.”
She sets down her fork and holds both sides of my head so I can’t look away. “Repeat after me.”
“After me.”
She laughs. “Oh, Zach. Seriously. Say, ‘I am the son of a great talent.’”
That’s easy. “I am the son of a great talent.”
“I am worthy of this role.”
That one sticks in my throat.
“Say it!”
“I am worthy of this role.”
“I can do this.”
“I can do this.”
“My beautiful girlfriend will withhold sexual favors if I don’t audition.”
“Hey!”
She leans forward and kisses me. Then her next words brush my lips. “You are worthy of this role. I’ll arrange a private audition. See where you stand.”
I stare into her eyes. She knows me, all the way to the bone. My insecurities, always so well hidden behind a smile and a camera flash.
“Is this the first role you’ve wanted for me?” I ask.
She picks up bits of pie from the plate with the back of her fork. “I’ve been thinking about it since the headshot for Beatrice Good came across my desk.”
“Who’s Beatrice Good?”
She pulls out her phone. After a quick search, she shows me the picture. Midthirties. Dark hair. Where have I seen her?
Wait. It’s the fortune teller from the party.
“You found her?”
“She found us. She remembered us stopping by her table at the Hollywood party.”
I might be busted. “And?”
“She told me you paid her to give me a fortune to go find love.”
“How long have you known?”
“A couple of weeks.” She licks the back of her fork, clearly not upset in the least.
“But you waited to bring it up.”
She grins. “I gave it a good think. I figured you were trying to push me in the direction that was best for me. So I’m bringing it up now because—”
“You want to push me in this direction.”
Her smile widens. “I love how we finish each other’s—”
“Syllables.”
She laughs. “That’s perfect.”
I look back down at the page. “And if I fail?”
“Then I can sigh in relief that I’ve saved thousands of unsuspecting women from pining over you after hearing you sing. It’s hard to share you, you know. But I can do it.”
“You won’t be disappointed in me?” I won’t bring my mother up at this moment. Kelsey already knows.
“You’re amazing, Zach, no matter what role you play, center stage or behind the curtain.” She presses her palm to my cheek.
I slide my face to kiss the inside of her hand. “All right. Let’s see what happens.”
“Good.” She uses her free hand to stab my pie again. “Too slow!”
I love this woman. Her eyes are like stars as she steals my pie, then pulls out the songs from the audition packet, telling me which ones best fit the impression I should give.
And when Kelsey Whitaker tells you that you’re the star she pictures in a role—whether it’s a movie, a play, or the one who shares her bed and her dreams—there’s only one thing to do.
Exactly what she says.