Chapter Two #3
I sneak an envious glance at the towering Victorian, peering at the upper windows for a glimpse of Violet herself.
Lo and behold, I get one. A dim shape parting the lace curtains of a second-floor window.
Although I can’t make out who it is, I assume it’s Violet.
Loretta and Ronan have yet to enter the house and are currently talking in hushed whispers beside the oak tree.
But whoever’s at the window isn’t looking at them.
She’s looking at me.
Instantly I stand up straighter. If one of the greatest actresses to ever grace the screen is indeed sizing me up, I want to make a good first impression. So I keep my spine rigid, smile, and feign enthusiasm as Brad opens the cottage door and gestures for me to enter.
Not that it matters. Before stepping inside, I return my gaze to the window. The curtains have fallen back into place. If Violet Wright was watching me, she’s now gone.
Inside the cottage, I survey my surroundings, which read college dorm more than a sacred space where I might discover my character. Mostly a single open room, it’s about the size of my Manhattan apartment and organized into two main areas, one for living and one for sleeping.
Any history the place might have contained has now been replaced with white walls and disposable furniture. The only sign of its age are the floorboards, which groan beneath my feet whenever I take a step.
The sitting area at the front of the cottage consists of an armchair from Ikea, a small end table, a fireplace, and a bookshelf stocked with paperbacks left behind by the researchers who usually spend the summer here.
I spot several John Grishams and James Pattersons, along with House of Horrors by Ewan Holt and a memoir by that Hope woman.
A single poster graces the walls, presumably also left behind by the researchers.
A Guide to Waterfowl of Northern Vermont, filled with Audubon-esque drawings of ducks, geese, and loons.
The sleeping space in the back contains a bed-from-a-box, a nightstand, and a dresser. Hurricane lamps and lanterns sit on nearly every flat surface. A further reminder that I’ll be living without electricity.
“The good news is that the island has running water, including in each cottage,” Brad says. “The bad news is that it comes from the lake, so don’t drink it without boiling it first. You’ll be sicker than a dog if you do. But at least you can wash with it.”
He opens a door tucked into the corner, revealing a bathroom straight out of the seventies.
The bathtub, sink, and even the toilet are Pepto Bismol pink.
When I turn on the sink, the pipes rattle and clank before spitting out water that’s almost clear.
While not ideal, it’s certainly better than having no bathroom at all.
“Sorry it’s not the Four Seasons,” Brad says.
“I’ve never stayed in one.”
“Trust me, the others have.”
“What about meals?” I say while looking for—and failing to find—any sort of kitchen. Although a wooden shelf runs along part of one wall, it’s bare except for another hurricane lamp and a box of matches used to light it.
“There’s a kitchen in the main house,” Brad says. “It should have everything you need. Stocked it myself. With era-appropriate food, of course.”
I think he wants me to be impressed. Which I am, to an extent. Preparing this island to meet some long-ago standards couldn’t have been easy. Will all his hard work be worth it? Because I’ve never done this before, I have no idea. I hope so, for Brad’s sake and for mine.
“As for your clothes, everything you need for the week is already in the dresser,” Brad says.
He eyes my suitcase, inside of which is a full week’s worth of clothes that I packed in a rush this morning.
A useless act, I realize now, considering how we’re expected to literally dress the part.
Inside the dresser’s top drawer are a pair of black leather boots, a pile of gray socks, a white cotton nightgown, and a single shapeless blue dress that’s somehow less flattering than the one I wore to my audition.
“This is my entire wardrobe?”
“There are some period-appropriate underthings in the drawer below it,” Brad says as a bright pink flush spreads across his face.
“Those are optional, I guess, since, um, no one will know if you’re wearing them or not.
As for the dress, Ronan would like you to wear it for as long as we’re here, beginning after the table read.
” He glances at his watch. “Which we really should be starting soon.”
I touch the dress, rubbing the fabric between my thumb and forefinger.
It’s rough. More sack than dress. I get itchy just thinking about wearing it for the next week.
Which I understand is the point of all this.
After five days in a scratchy dress with no electricity while sleeping in the same place my character slept, I won’t even need to act when the cameras roll next week.
Which sparks a single question that lodges into my thoughts as Brad leads me out of the cottage to the table read.
If Ronan doesn’t want me to legitimately act, why was I given this job?