Chapter 3
3
Sophie
I t only took six quiet nights in the pool house and four deep cleaning shifts in the tasting room—under the supervision of Natalie, my aloof sister-in-law who has yet to speak more than fifteen total words in my presence—to motivate me to spend yesterday reinstating my California driver’s license. Considering there are one hundred and sixty-eight hours in any given week and only twenty of mine are accounted for at the winery, I’m left with a whole lot of soul-shriveling silence to fill. And this Saturday morning seemed like the perfect time to escape.
When I first signed out one of the twin black Escalades from the winery’s small fleet of vehicles, I was surprised by the vibrant 3-D wrap advertisement featuring a giant bottle of Chardonnay with our new wine logo. My brother certainly wasn’t going for the understated look when he ordered these. But once I started driving, it wasn’t long before I forgot all about the obnoxious exterior.
It also wasn’t long before I felt a familiar pull to a long-ago place of comfort for teenage Sophie. And while I can’t say my destination wasn’t planned, I can say I’ve had a theory I’ve wanted to test ever since the night I fell catatonic in front of an audience of twelve hundred people: Did what happened to me in New York stay in New York?
I sincerely hope so.
I stare at the Summer Showcase Auditions Happening Today! sign hanging on the front doors of the same community theater where I fell in love for the first time. Not with a person, but with a passion that had given me a purpose beyond the life constructed for me. It had also given me a family.
My fingers twitch for the phone in my purse. I want to call Dana, but then I remember the pictures she sent of the cast and crew party last night—all those happy faces I used to joke with, laugh with, run lines with, share a stage with. No , I think. It’s better if I do this on my own. Dana has met her lifetime quota of Sophie pep talks this year, and honestly, I can’t bear to let her down if I fail again.
On a shaky exhale, I approach the ornate door of the old community theater in Santa Rosa as if I’m expecting it to come to life, shrink me down to size, suck me through its keyhole, and label me an imposter. Before I decide to reach for the handle, the door creaks open.
I leap back just in time for a petite Latina woman—who looks to be around forty, with sleek dark hair and deep fuchsia lipstick—to peek her head outside.
She stares at me through round, apologetic eyes. “Well, this is embarrassing.” She pushes the door the rest of the way open. “I keep telling our handyman—who also happens to be my husband—that this door is cursed. It always decides to jam at the most inopportune times. Glad I checked to see if there was anyone else out here before we got started.” She beckons me closer. “Please, please, come in, and don’t hold our faulty hardware against us. We’re still getting things in order since the reopen.” She props the heavy door open with her hip and then looks from me to her watch. “Auditions for our One-Act Summer Showcase start in nine minutes. Am I right to assume that’s why you’re here?”
I start to shake my head no, but my mouth betrays me. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Great!” She beams and then drops her voice to a conspiratorial level. “Here’s a hot tip: The regulars usually come through the side door by the alley.” She points stage left and winks. “And they usually bring donuts and plenty of drama to keep us well entertained.”
“What’s not to love about donuts and drama?”
“Exactly.” Her smile broadens as she ushers me inside. “I’m Portia Pimentel.”
For a split second, I see a vision of myself tucking tail and running back to where I parked without taking a single step farther inside this theater. But instead, I remind myself why being here is absolutely critical to my mental health. I need to test my theory. If I succeed today, then I might just have a chance at keeping some form of the dream I’ve held for a decade and taking it with me to whatever and wherever comes next.
“I’m Sophie.” I extend my hand and work to find my professional side. “Sophie Wilder.”
“It’s so nice to meet you. Also, may I just say, you are stunning ,” Portia adds appraisingly. “I’d kill for your height.”
Unexpected heat floods my face. Five foot nine may be on the taller side for the average American woman, but given that the top of Portia’s head barely reaches my shoulder, I can see how she might consider my height an impressive feat.
“I’d ask if this is your first time here, but seeing as we just purchased the Twilight Theater back in April, and seeing as I’m pretty much familiar with every thespian in the area currently gossiping inside that auditorium, I know that it is.” Her quirky laugh is followed by a wink, and I decide against telling her about the theater camp I attended here my junior year of high school or how it became a second home to me that summer.
“Just stick by me,” she says. “I’ll be happy to introduce you to your friendly competition today.”
I glance over her head into a dim lobby, and my heart double-taps against my ribs. “Wait, are these open auditions?” As in, everybody here will be watching me get up on stage for the first time since February?
She nods. “We’ve done it the same way since we were a tiny crew of drama nerds who used to meet in a church nursery over fifteen years ago now. But I promise, you’ll find this group to be super supportive. Our Summer Showcase is three different one-act plays that will run the last weekend in August—they’re a community favorite, and we’re thrilled to finally have a theater to perform at.” Her gaze drops to my hand. “Ooh, is that ... did you bring a portfolio with you? I’d love to take a look if you don’t mind?”
It’s not until she points to the yellow folder pinched between my fingers that I even remember I brought it with me, and I can’t be sure if I actually hand it over to Portia or if she coaxes it from my gummy fingers. But within two blinks, she’s scanning my headshots.
She whistles. “These are next level. Did you get them done around here?”
I try to swallow, but the roof of my mouth is drier than the outside of a cotton ball. “I, um, no. I had them taken in—”
“New York?” She’s perusing my resume now, and I go from hot to cold to hot again. In New York, its second nature to bring a portfolio everywhere ... but I’m realizing only now just how overkill it was for me to bring it to a small community theater.
“Wait.” Her eyes narrow and then promptly widen as she looks from the thin piece of paper where I’ve conveniently left off my most recent show. “You’ve been on Broadway?”
“Minor roles only.” For four years straight, until I landed my big break.
Which I’d promptly destroyed in the first act.
“Still, that’s...” She shakes her head and gives one of those breathy laughs as if she doesn’t quite know which emotion she should be displaying at the moment. “It’s an honor to have someone of your caliber auditioning with us. I’m positive there’s so much we can lean from you and your experiences. Don’t let our size fool you—there’s a lot of talent here. And wouldn’t you know it, but we’re short on female leads who can sing and dance.”
Mutely, I open my mouth, uncertain of what I should say to assure her that I’m actually a total failure of an actress, and that my name is likely blacklisted with every major director back east, and that I’d be thrilled to walk away from her cast as a bleating goat if it means I’m not completely broken. “I’m actually not looking to land any kind of lead role, I really only came to—”
But she’s looped my arm through hers and is practically skipping us toward the auditorium doors. “I absolutely cannot wait to introduce you to everyone, Sophie! You are an answer to prayer.”
With a strength that doesn’t match her stature, Portia flings open the auditorium doors, and every happily mingling thespian down below cranes their neck to stare back at us. I feel my body temperature rise as they assess my threat level. I’m about to attempt my meekest win-them-over smile when I catch sight of the stagehand flicking the giant spotlight on and off on center stage.
I can’t look away.
And just like that, the memory is here in present tense, clawing at my peripheral vision and scratching away the surrounding detail of this room until I’m forced to revisit a scene I’ve tried to forget since February. A wide-eyed audience. A wildly gesturing director. And a pair of lungs too frozen from fear to utter even a single word after the curtain opens.
My frozen lungs.
Even now I can’t make them inflate.
I can barely make myself do anything except for the one thing I want to do most. Escape.
Before Portia even has a chance to ask me if I’m okay, I’ve unhooked my arm from hers, muttered an intelligible apology, and stumbled my way back through the dark lobby and out the theater doors.
My theory was wrong: What happened in New York didn’t stay in New York.
Likely because New York isn’t where my nightmare originated.
California is.
When I get home later that afternoon, after driving aimlessly for hours, I head directly to my living quarters on the far side of the construction pit surrounded by heavy equipment. Jasper wasn’t exaggerating when he said the workers started at six in the morning to allow for peace during the hours when the tasting room is open. From what I could eke out of Natalie, the luxury pool and spa project should be finished in four weeks’ time. But by the looks of it, construction time seems to be on par with God’s time.
As soon as I’m inside the pool house, I call for Phantom and hear his quiet purr in response. Naturally, he’s been hiding under the bed. He’s about as big a fan of the construction zone as I am. My black, long-haired rescue cat with the white patch of fur around his blind eye circles my ankles. I bend to scoop him up and snuggle him close.
“It was awful,” I whisper in answer to his unasked question about my day, something I’ve been doing more and more of since I moved back. I take a seat in the small desk chair and proceed to nuzzle my face into his fur. Yet another thing I’ve been doing as of late. Somehow, it keeps the tears from falling. “I should probably add the words coward and fraud to my résumé after today.” A thick ache builds in my throat. “And maybe aimless , too, while I’m at it.”
Apart from working as a waitress on and off over the last few years, I’ve had the same dream since the summer I found a way to be a million other people besides the one person I didn’t want to be. I suppose that’s the hardest thing about dreams coming true at a young age: Once you’ve lost them, it’s impossible not to wonder if you’ve also lost yourself.
My phone rings, and I let it go to voicemail.
When it rings a second time, I know that if I ignore it again, my night could end with a wellness check from the local police, courtesy of Dana.
I answer and try my best to sound like I haven’t been facedown in cat fur. “Hey,” I say with forced cheeriness. “How are you?”
She doesn’t respond.
“Dana?” I pull the phone away. Check to see the call is still connected. It is. “Hello?”
“What’s wrong with your voice?” Her tone is calm, but I hear the suspicion behind it.
I quickly set Phantom on the floor as if he’s the thing responsible for giving me away. “Nothing, just a long day.” Thank goodness we’re not on video call.
And then she’s calling me on video. Dang it.
I swipe at the dampness under my eyes with the hem of my shirt and then answer with a smile. “Hello again.”
“Oh sweetie, you look awful. What’s wrong?”
I almost laugh when I see the mascara smudges under my eyes. Her assessment isn’t wrong. I look about as good as I feel. “I promise, I’m just having a bad moment. Mostly hormones.”
“Nice try, but you still have eleven days to go before you can claim PMS. We’re still cycle buddies, remember?” She narrows her fan of false eyelashes at the camera. “Did something happen with Natalie?”
This time I actually do laugh. “Other than her playing the ignoring Sophie game? No. She’s winning by the way.”
“So what is it?”
I bite the quiver from my bottom lip before I speak, knowing that once I say these words out loud there will be no taking them back. “I went to an audition at my local community theater today, and I couldn’t go through with it.”
“You did what ?” She looks directly at me through the camera. “Why didn’t you call me?”
“Because I needed to see if I could do it on my own.” I flop back on my bed and hold the phone above my head. “And I couldn’t. It’s ... it’s really over.”
I’ve avoided this truth, tiptoed around it for months now, even though everything in my life pointed to the same blinking neon sign of my failure. But hope is strange thing. It keeps right on living even when you feel like dying.
“No it’s not, it’s just...” Dana’s eyes shift as if she’s searching for the right vocabulary words. “You’re dealing with the stress of a difficult transition period right now. Give yourself some time. And remember, this isn’t your forever, it’s just temporary.”
“But what happens after I leave here? I have nothing. No plans. No dreams. No connections outside of—”
“You still have me.”
I sigh, thankful to be reminded of that. “I do, I know. But you’re in New York.”
“For now, yes.” She shrugs. “But it’s not as if my contract is indefinite. Besides, you know I’m a nomad at heart. Maybe we’ll find that traveling theater gig we’ve always dreamed of doing together.”
“Maybe,” I say, hoping I sound more optimistic than I feel about such an unrealistic opportunity. “But you’re living your dream right now, and I’d never forgive myself if you left it for me.”
She purses her lips and tilts her head. “You need something that excites you, Sophie. Something you can look forward to while you’re stuck in limbo.”
I tug a pillow close. “Like what?”
“Like an in-between dream—something you’ll do while we figure out how to fix you on stage and get you out of California.” Dana is even more of a diehard when it comes to hope than I am. “I’m thinking through possible hobbies. Hang on. I’ll come up with something.”
I flip over on my tummy. “Please don’t suggest I give crocheting a try again. You remember how horrible that lopsided hat I made for Jason’s birthday was.” I laugh now, remembering Dana’s ex-boyfriend walking around with a mismatched striped hat that looked like something from a Dr. Seuss book. I think I was more upset than Dana when they broke up. He was such a good sport, which is probably why they remain close friends.
I expect Dana to throw in a quip about my poor crafting skills, but instead she seems to be contemplating something else. “How weird you mentioned him—I just saw him last night.”
“Why is that weird? You see him at auditions all the time.”
She shakes her head as if she’s trying to recall something. “I know, but he was telling me about a gig he just got. Honestly, I was only half listening because it was karaoke night and you know how focused I get. But anyway, I guess he’s reading books for like a publishing house or something. Said he loves it. Maybe that’s something you could look into? You love books, and you’re a pro at character voices.”
I try to piece together her words. “You mean he’s narrating audiobooks?”
“Yeah, that’s it.” She nods enthusiastically. “Although I’m pretty sure he called it ‘voice acting.’” She sounds more excited by the second. “Never know, maybe it could be the thing that gets you out of that pit of despair you’re living in and keeps your talents from getting rusty. Plus, he seemed pretty happy with the paycheck, too.”
“Interesting.” I nod in solidarity, even if the idea feels wildly overdramatized. “Did he tell you how it works—how he got started?”
“I didn’t ask a whole lot of questions, but from what I understood, it sounds like actors submit a demo to various websites, and once they’re selected, they record the books in their home studios. Jason soundproofed his closet.”
And just like that, my brand-new in-between dream dies. I flip the camera to show her my living space. “The closest thing I have to a closet is my shower, and even if I did have one, there’s construction going on most of the day and I work most evenings.”
I can tell I’ve stumped her. “Listen, I don’t have all the answers, but I’ll ask Jason to send you a link. Maybe there are solutions for someone in your exact scenario. You can’t be the only down-on-her-luck heiress looking for a way out of her castle.” Her mischievous grin is marked by amusement. “You do realize you’re living out the real-life equivalent to several Disney movie plots, right?”
I laugh at this. “So you’re saying I either need to find Aladdin’s lamp or a dashing prince to ensure a happy ending?”
“Either of those options would be acceptable.”
“Okay,” I say decidedly. “I’ll look into it.”
Dana grins her most winning smile. “I have a good feeling about this, Sophie.”
“You said that about pickle ice cream once, too.”
She pulls a face and gives a full body shiver. “ Please never bring that up again. I still don’t know how you can eat that stuff.”
“Get him to send me the link.” I return to the desk and reach for my laptop.
“On it. Bye!”
Before I’ve even finished typing in my password, I receive her forwarded text from Jason, and soon I’m lost in a perusal of an entire industry I’d never given a single thought to in the past. Halfway down the page, I notice a sentence that hooks me like the desperate, gullible fish I’ve become since I moved back to California.
Are you an out-of-work actor looking for a reliable, flexible income? Click here to learn more information about one of the fastest-growing industries in entertainment today.
I hover my finger over the attached mini trailer of a woman wearing headphones and smiling like she’s living her best life as she talks into a radio mic while peppy music plays in the background. I refresh the page to watch the video a second time and then scan the Q&As below it. Apparently, some narrators prefer working in a studio outside their home. I click on the more details section and read that a narrator’s pay scale is based on experience. Does stage acting count?
Phantom watches me through his one good eye as I learn how to upload a sample using my iPhone. The quality won’t be stellar, but it’s a start. At least I’ll be able to register a profile and search the current job openings in my area.
I click the flashing headphones dancing on my screen next to the enter your zip code prompt. Immediately, I’m redirected to a page of local and national job openings for voice actors. I scroll through the list, reading each description and requirement carefully. I sort the postings that require fancy equipment I don’t own—which, as it turns out, are most of them. By process of elimination, there are only a couple that meet my limited criteria. And only one that catches my eye enough for me to upload my résumé and figure out how to send in a sample to Chip Stanton, the contact at Fog Harbor Audio in San Francisco.
And then I send it off and say a prayer to the same God my Gigi loved with her whole heart and hope He’ll guide me.