I use these moments before the stage manager, choreographer, music director and cast arrive to walk through the theater, a more intimate setting than many others on Broadway. It’s not as small as some playhouses, but it’s not a cold, heartless theater like some of the newer ones. It’s the perfect size for a show like this since Crash the Moon isn’t about the extravaganza and spectacle; it’s about the relationships between the characters, about lives changing, hearts breaking, and passion. This theater is the only one that can handle the intensity and the sexiness of this production.
I head down the center aisle, trailing my hand over the creaky upholstered chairs that theatergoers will pay top dollar to park themselves in soon. Tickets went on sale last week, and Don emailed to tell me the show is already sold out for the first two weeks and counting. That’s 1,600 seats filled every night with people expecting to be blown away by this show. I tap the stage for good luck then turn to the empty house, picturing it full of faces, chatting, eager for the show, brushing up on actors’ credits in the Playbill then tucking away phone, closing purses and focusing as the overture to the newest Frederick Stillman show begins.
Four more weeks to get it ready.
My thoughts are interrupted when Shannon marches across the floorboards, clipboard in hand. “Alexis called. She has a cold and can’t make it in today.”
“Color me surprised,” I say dryly.
My stage manager rolls her eyes. “Shocking. I know.”
“Does that make it two missed rehearsals already, Shannon?” I ask, though I already know the answer.
“Indeed it does.”
“Remind me not to tell Don that I told him so when this keeps up during the show.”
She laughs once. “Of course. Should I let Ms. McCormick know she’ll be playing Ava today?”
“Yes. You can give her the new pages when she arrives. Same for Patrick. Give them an hour to read them over first and we’ll have them on at ten.”
She nods. “Absolutely.”
Minutes later, the actors trickle in and I work on a scene with two of the supporting cast members first. Then the stage manager calls Patrick and Jill to the stage.
I’m instantly hard when I see what she’s wearing. Tight jeans and a red sweater. She looks edible in red. Then I notice it has tiny little pearl-shaped buttons on it. I can hear the sound of them clattering across the floor if I were to rip it off her.
It’s going to be a long f**king day, watching her rehearse this scene with Patrick.
* * *
Shannon has one hand pressed against the stage door later that evening. “Alexis called. She’ll be back tomorrow. She said she—her words—simply cannot wait to rehearse the new scene.”
“I’m so glad she’ll grace us with her presence.”
“If we’re lucky, she might even try to reconfigure the blocking,” Shannon says in a deadpan voice as she zips up her coat. The weather forecast earlier today called for snow after midnight. Shannon taps the doorframe, as if an idea just took shape. “Maybe you could nail down some of the blocking tonight when you work with Jill. So there’s no wiggle room.”
I tamp down the mischievous grin that’s forming. I’d certainly thought of that myself, but hearing the suggestion from my stage manager makes my task tonight feel all the more necessary.
“Good idea, Shan. Now go get home so you can curl up by the fire and watch the snow fall.”
She raises an eyebrow. “Maybe we’ll even have a snow day tomorrow,” she muses. “Oh wait. Davis Milo never allows snow days.” She swats me playfully on the arm.
“You don’t allow them either.”
“You got me there. But I learned my merciless ways from you,” she says, then tosses her scarf around her neck with a final flourish. “I’m off into the tundra.”
She opens the door, letting in a cold blast of air. I’m about to close it, when a voice I long to hear calls out, “Hold the door! My hands are full.”
I push back on the door and see Jill practically sprinting down the alley, holding a cup of coffee in each hand. She says a quick hello and goodbye to Shannon as she passes her.
“Good luck with the hair scene, Jill,” Shannon says. “Make sure you guys finalize the blocking.”
“Hair scene. I’m on it,” she answers like a good soldier, following orders.
Jill reaches the door, and holds up the blue paper cups.
“Coffee.”
“I can see that.”
“I got you one,” she says, and there’s the slightest flutter to her voice, as if she’s nervous.
She thrusts a cup at me, and I take it. It’s just coffee but still, I’m dying to break into a grin because it’s not just coffee—it’s coffee from her, it’s coffee for us. It’s a little something she did for our private rehearsal.
“I’m impressed you can run and not spill the coffee.”
“It’s all part of my marathon training. In fact, I teach that skill to the more advanced runners in my coaching group.”
“But of course. Some of them probably even want to learn how not to spill a latte, or perhaps an espresso,” I say with a smirk.
“We’re actually well past the how-not-to-spill espresso training. By the way, do you think you can let me in now?”
I laugh, realizing I’m standing in the doorway and she’s outside, shivering, even with her coat on. I open the door wider, letting her in. I look briefly at the dark sky that’s brighter than usual, a sure sign the clouds are swelling with snow.