Wish Upon a Star Read online

  Sam. Just thinking about him made me angry. There was no excuse for his failing to return my phone call.

  Gritting my teeth, I reached for the drop of wine that Timothy had poured for me. It bloomed across the back of my tongue, rich and robust, as if someone had secretly transported me to Tuscany. Shrugging, I filled my glass. If my credit card was going to end up bruised and whimpering at the end of the night, I might as well enjoy the battle.

  As if in recognition of my acceptance, Timothy emerged from the kitchen with my appetizer. The beet salad was formed into a perfect circle, tossed with a fragrant citrus vinaigrette and topped with delicate wisps of fried shallots. “Bon appetit,” he said before heading over to clear plates from another table.

  My first tentative bite left me scrambling for more. Even as I chewed, though, I told myself that I had to continue on the path to the New Me. I had to land a starring role so that I could live the life I wanted in New York. Alone. Without any lawyer boyfriend to make everything work out fine at the end of a tight fiscal month.

  Timothy interrupted that grim meditation by bringing out my main dish, still sizzling from its time in the oven. Goat cheese took a central role in the baked macaroni, playing off cheddar and something mellow—maybe provolone? Buttered bread crumbs on top made the casserole thoroughly decadent, and I fought to keep from licking the generous ramekin clean.

  With each bite, though, I forced myself to consider options for my theater career. It was time to seek out another audition, one where I’d get to deliver more than one line of my prepared monologue. Auditions were posted daily at Equity, the actors’ union. Tomorrow, I would sign up for the most promising show posted. I’d even make time to go onto the ShowTalk Web site, to gather all the relevant gossip. And if push came to shove, I’d invest a wish in my audition, guarantee myself a dream role.

  Problem solved. At least for the rest of the night.

  I allowed myself to sit back in my chair, to watch the scene around me. While I’d been eating, a woman had shuffled through the front door, burdened with three gigantic bags. Timothy had helped her transfer the luggage into a back corner, and then he’d seated her at the same table Backpack Guy had occupied. He didn’t actually take her order; he just brought out food—soup and salad along with a healthy serving of macaroni and cheese, and a steaming quarter of roast chicken balanced on top.

  Just as I thought I couldn’t eat another bite of my own meal, Timothy paused on one of his prowling circuits around the room. “I’ve got some great strawberry rhubarb buckle tonight,” he said. “And the layer cake is chocolate, with hazelnut buttercream.”

  I started to decline, but then I realized this might be the last restaurant meal I’d manage for months. “Strawberry rhubarb?”

  “You’ll love it,” he promised.

  And he was right. Sweet berries and tangy rhubarb baked on top of a buttery cake, all covered with a caramel streusel topping that made me wish I could take home a gallon of the stuff for breakfast, lunch and dinner the next day. With tremendous reluctance, I finally set my spoon down.

  Time to face the music. Too sated to give in to true dread, I closed the New Yorker and waited for Timothy to bring me the fiscal bad news.

  But first, he cleared away my dishes. He brought a tiny treat from the kitchen, a fragile white patty of crumbly mint candy, like the inside of a York peppermint patty, but with just a quarter moon of dark chocolate ganache kissing the edge. I was surprised as he hooked the chair next to me with his foot, lowering himself onto its seat with a lithe grace. He produced a pencil from that capacious apron pocket and starting writing on the table’s butcher paper.

  “Let’s see. Beet salad. Mac and cheese. Buckle. Wine.” He lifted the bottle and tilted it a little, gauging the level against the fire’s flicker. “One glass, I think.”

  One generous glass. One very generous glass.

  He tallied the column of numbers quickly, underscoring the result with two firm lines. “There you go.”

  “That can’t be right,” I protested. He frowned and started to review his arithmetic, but I clarified, “It’s not enough.”

  He laughed, the sound blooming deep in his chest like a purr. “This isn’t exactly the Rainbow Room.”

  “No,” I said, smiling as I took out my wallet. “It definitely isn’t.” I could easily pay in cash, with enough to spare that I didn’t have to worry about the rest of the week. I set down the bills, along with a thirty percent tip.

  Back to my life reorganization mission. Next up: Replace the Survival Job. I took a deep breath and said, “I have a question for you.”

  Before I could go on, though, the hungry woman with three bags stepped up to the table. “Mr. Timothy,” she said. “I can use the restroom, before I go?”

  Okay. That was strange. But Timothy didn’t seem the least bit fazed. “Of course, Lena,” he said.

  As she hunched toward the back of the restaurant, I chickened out. I couldn’t ask this guy for a job, not while I was sitting here as a customer. When Timothy looked back at me, I said, “Please! Go ahead. I didn’t mean to keep you from your work. Go get her check.”

  His eyebrows arched for a quick second. “Actually, Lena’s a guest.”

  Involuntarily, I flicked a glance toward the large bags stacked in the corner. It took me a second, but then I realized what was going on. Lena was homeless. Backpack Guy, too. Timothy was running his own luxury soup kitchen, at least at the table closest to the kitchen.

  Wow. What would it be like to work in a place like this? Good food, good deeds… I forced myself to meet Timothy’s inscrutable gaze. I was surprised to see that his eyes were amber brown, calm and serious. They seemed to belong to an older man than the guy with the scruffy beard sitting beside me. The flesh-and-blood Timothy couldn’t be more than thirty years old.

  “Any chance you’re hiring? I’ve done a fair amount of catering before.”

  He stretched and sighed. “I’m afraid not. I’m all set for now.”

  Disappointment soured the memory of the wine I’d just enjoyed. Of course he didn’t have a job. Not for me. No one in their right mind would trust me with customers and gourmet food. Concerned Caterers might as well have stamped a brand on my forehead.

  But I could do better than catering, I chastised myself. I was moving on in my life. I was taking charge. Bigger, better, more successful—that was the template for the new Erin Hollister. That was the Master Plan. I even had the peace lily to prove it, back in my apartment.

  Obviously unaware of my interior pep talk, Timothy said, “If you leave your name and number, I’ll keep you in mind, when I need someone.”

  I almost said no. I almost told him that I’d been mistaken when I’d asked about the job. I almost explained that I didn’t want to wait tables, that I wanted to act, that I wanted to launch my professional career into the stratosphere.

  But he didn’t care about all that. He was only a restaurateur, although admittedly one who had just fed me the best meal I’d ever eaten in New York. There was no reason to insult him, just because my personal life was in shambles.

  I took the pencil that he offered and ripped off a corner of the butcher paper, adding my name and cell-phone number with elaborate care. I could always decline the job, if he ever called, after I’d become a huge success.

  He glanced at my information before storing the scrap in his apron. “Thank you, Erin,” he said seriously, putting just enough emphasis on my name that I knew he was committing it to memory.

  I felt myself respond to that personal touch. I started to lean a little closer, to duck my head with just a shadow of flirtation. My hands started to flutter; my fingers thought they wanted to settle on his sleeve.

  I stopped myself with a mental jerk. That was the old Erin. That was the Erin who didn’t have the faintest idea how to be strong, independent and successful on her own. That was the Erin without a Master Plan.

  Instead of flirting, I extended a businesslike hand. “No
,” I said. “Thank you, Timothy.” And then, I forced myself to stand, to walk away, to head out into the courtyard, and down the alley, and back to my apartment. Back to the new life I was carving for myself. Alone.

  CHAPTER 4

  STANDING IN THE hallway outside the audition room, I forced myself to take deep breaths. I was holding the “sides” for the audition, the actual section of the script that they wanted me to read aloud. Sides were policed like gold; I’d been given the valuable pages precisely twenty minutes before my time slot, not a second more, not a second less. Every detail about auditions had to be scrupulously fair.

  I forced myself to take a deep breath and read through the pages once again. I had been walking on air since Wednesday morning, when I’d followed up on my promise to myself, on the vow I’d taken in Garden Variety. Like a good little actress, I’d checked out pending auditions, and I’d been thrilled to find Menagerie! on the board. The description practically begged me to try out.

  Seeking the Following

  Note: all singers should have equal facility acting and performing contemporary musical theater.

  LAURA: Eighteen years old. Shy and sensitive woman, too lost in her imaginary world to attend business school.

  While Laura limps in her spoken-word scenes, she is a vibrant, showstopper dancer in musical numbers. MUST BE STRONG SINGER.

  Okay, so I was twenty-five, not eighteen. But I played young. And I’d performed the role of Laura in a college production of The Glass Menagerie to great critical acclaim (in the Daily Wildcat, I had to admit, but good ink was good ink.) I understood Laura Wingfield’s trials and tribulations, the way that she suffered, the blinders that kept her from comprehending that everyone was afraid when they moved into the real world, when they lived life on their own terms. I had learned to display her perfect vulnerability onstage. Audience members had actually cried when my Laura proved unable to leave her damaged life behind, to go forward as a normal, healthy girl, facing life outside her controlling mother’s home.

  I shouldn’t have been surprised when Amy teased me on opening night. She said that of course Laura came easily to me. Laura built fantasies about men, about Gentlemen Callers, the same way that I did, with every guy I’d ever dated. I’d fought back at the time, pointing out that at least I went on dates—something that Laura in the play never managed. Amy had merely smiled her Wise Older Sister Smile and said, “Uh-huh.”

  Ah, good old sisterly love—always supportive, always considerate.

  I didn’t care what Amy thought. My Laura Wingfield had brought insight to a classic.

  So, when I saw the posting for a musical version of Tennessee Williams’s play, I was thrilled. My joy only increased when I read the buzz, over on ShowTalk. Everyone in town was talking about this show. The director was supposed to be phenomenal, and the producers were willing to invest a lot of money. I was over the moon. Musicals were big business in New York—my entire career could be made with a single role. And I was perfect for the lead.

  Except for the small fact that I wasn’t a showstopper dancer.

  And I’d really be pushing things, to say that I was a strong singer.

  None of that mattered, though. Fifty percent of a good audition was showing up, looking the part and demonstrating perfect confidence that I was The One the directors needed to cast. Besides, the acting audition was first, before I ever had to worry about singing and dancing. I could ace the acting—it was well inside my comfort zone. Well inside, that was, if I could become absolutely, one hundred percent comfortable with the sides that I was studying. I had ten precious minutes left to master the words, to see how the author of the musical production had modified the language of Williams’s classic play.

  Ten minutes. Which was why I almost didn’t answer my phone when it vibrated in my pocket. Long habit prevailed, though. I barely took my eyes from the precious papers in my hand when I checked the caller ID.

  Sam.

  I could let the call go to voice mail. I should let the call go to voicemail. I’d left him a message five full days before, telling him that the pregnancy scare was over. Five entire days, and this was the first chance he’d had to call me back?

  But what would ignoring him prove? I’d already staked out the moral high ground, letting him know he was off the paternity hook. I might as well stay up there on my mountain of superiority. Sighing in exasperation, I answered. “I can’t talk now.”

  “Erin!”

  “I’m in an audition, and I can’t talk.”

  “Okay.” He sounded the slightest bit chastised, if I could judge by that one word. “Come by tonight. I’ll be home after eight.”

  Home. Sam’s brownstone wasn’t my home anymore. Not to mention the fact that Sam didn’t have any right to dictate my schedule. “No,” I said vehemently. “I don’t want to talk there.”

  So much for my being walked over by every single guy I’d ever known. Amy would be proud of me. Sam hesitated before responding, wasting enough time that I wondered if this was a classic booty call. Did he have any intention of talking to me at all, of trying to work things out? Or was he actually arrogant enough to think that I’d just leap back into his giant bed, roll around a little for old times’ sake?

  This independence thing was actually starting to feel pretty good. I cut short the suspense of waiting for Sam’s reply. “If you really want to talk, then let’s meet at a restaurant. Some place down in the Village. I’m living there now.”

  “The Village?” I heard his incredulity. This conversation wasn’t going the way he’d planned.

  I hadn’t had a lot of time to explore my new neighborhood, but I knew enough to press my advantage. “There’s a place called Garden Variety. We can meet there at eight.” I gave him the address. He started to negotiate, using all his lawyerly skills at manipulation, but I snapped, “I’ve got to go, Sam. I’ll see you at eight.” I hung up before he could say anything else.

  Without my conscious permission, my fingers clutched at the fabric stretched across my belly. I’d purposely worn a soft pink sweater set, wanting to connote Laura’s old-fashioned vulnerability. The shell was smooth over my flesh, but I could imagine the faintest bump, the evidence that would have existed if I’d truly been pregnant. I tried to return my attention to the crumpled sides in my hand, but I couldn’t concentrate on the script.

  Dammit! Why had Sam called now? Why hadn’t he felt guilty—or horny, or whatever—a day earlier? Or three hours later? Why was he ruining the best theatrical lead I’d had since I’d arrived in New York?

  I shouldn’t have been so rude to him. I shouldn’t have hung up on him. I had never hung up on a guy before.

  And why was I making such a big deal out of going up to his place? He’d be tired after working all day. I should have agreed to a restaurant that he chose. I hesitated, starting to take out my phone, to call him back, to agree to his simple request that I stop by the home I’d lived in for ten full months.

  “Hollister!” The hall monitor barked my name. I jerked my thoughts back from Sam, from the mess I’d made of our relationship, and I forced a perky smile on my face. I’d worn my straight hair in a ponytail, further attempting to look young, shy. Now, my fingers itched to twirl a few strands, to work off my nervous energy. Instead, I crossed my fingers and breathed my personal incantation, “Just this once.”

  And I stepped into the audition room.

  I know that I introduced myself to the three people who held my professional life in the figurative palms of their hands. I know that I read from the sides. I know that the casting director offered up the few lines that belonged to the Gentleman Caller.

  Most of the piece was a monologue, though, a chance for me to bring Laura’s lovelorn jitters to life.

  I said something. I did something. I looked at each of them, the casting director and the artistic director and someone who had some other job related to the show.

  The entire time I stood there, I thought, I need to focus. I nee
d to be here now. I can’t think about Sam, about the past. I promised myself. I need to focus. Around and around, my mind chased itself like a kitten playing with its own tail. I tried to use my tangled emotions, to pour them into the reading, to make my confusion about Sam and the rest of my sorry life inform Laura’s dream of her Gentleman Caller, but I wasn’t sure if I was brilliant, or only the most pitiful woman in the world.

  “Thank you,” the casting director said when I was through. And then, impossibly, he added, “Can you come back this afternoon for the chorus call?”

  “Yes,” I said, surfing to the crest of a sudden wave of adrenaline. I pumped every acting trick I had into the one word, trying to sound like I always made the first cut. While I managed to restrain my enthusiasm as I left the room, I had to give a little jump and a yip of surprise after the door closed behind me.

  They liked me! At least enough to call me back for a singing audition. Enough to give me a chance to play Laura as I’d never played her before, with even more conviction than I’d had in college. Despite Sam, despite my distraction, despite my uncertainty, they liked me.

  Four hours later, though, my enthusiasm had been replaced by pure, unadulterated panic.

  I’d returned to the audition hall at noon, even though I knew I’d have to wait. I didn’t want to chance getting trapped by a parade, by a street fair, by a roaming band of urban pirates, that would somehow keep me from my afternoon audition slot.

  My paranoid promptness nearly cost me my sanity. I waited in the hall outside the audition room, listening as each of the men sang. Every guy was permitted sixteen bars of music—one minute to prove that he was the perfect tenor, the perfect baritone, the ideal Tom Wingfield or Gentleman Caller. More than once, I had to flee to another floor, take a break from the pure musical perfection.

  That was bad enough, listening to the men. But then the Amandas started singing—strong altos every one, belting out their snippets as if they wanted the Statue of Liberty to take notice all the way downtown.