Read Online Midwinter Night's Dream by Whitley Gray - Free Book Online
Authors: Whitley Gray
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love. “Read Shakespeare to me.”
Joe swallowed hard, but the expected pain didn’t grab his heart.
Errol continued. “When the school chose A Midsummer Night’s Dream for the fall play, Mercury encouraged me to try out. I did and got the role of Puck.”
The choice role, in Bryce’s opinion . Joe nodded.
“It was…magical.” Errol’s eyes became unfocused, as if he watched a memory. “After that, I wanted to be an actor.” His gaze met Joe’s. “I’ve wanted it ever since.”
“How long do you plan to give it?”
Looking away, Errol fisted his hands by his bowl. “I don’t know. It’s hard, but it’s what I want.”
“What about wanting to be a writer?”
Errol snorted. “As far as dreams go, that’s not much better. Starving actor, starving writer.”
Judging by Errol’s too-lean frame, that wasn’t far off the mark. Joe peeled a strip off the label of his beer bottle. “I suppose.”
“What’s it like in Hollywood?” Errol leaned forward.
“Like living in a fishbowl.”
“I mean the acting.” Errol had that hopeful look, the one that Joe associated with people who wanted to experience it firsthand, not just hear about it.
“It’s a lot of waiting around. A lot of repetition. Sometimes people are easy to work with, sometimes they’re not. Most of the time I wished I was doing something else.”
The longer he’d stayed, the more he’d wanted out. Too many good people got sucked into drugs and alcohol and general debauchery. As sweet as Errol was, the star machine would snap him up, chew him to bits, and spit him out. The guy didn’t seem anywhere near jaded enough for Hollywood.
Joe stood and retrieved the pan off the stove. “More stew?”
“I’m good.”
“Help me finish it off.”
Errol nodded, and Joe ladled the majority into Errol’s bowl. To Joe’s pleasure, Errol inhaled the rest of his meal. “Was it fun to be on set?”
How long would it be before Errol asked for a Hollywood intro?
Chapter Seven
By seven p.m. the blizzard had not yet headed east, and darkness had crept in. Christmas was two days away, and Errol was beginning to understand the meaning of the term “cabin fever.” It must’ve been coined by a guy trapped in a one-room abode just like this, right before he went stark raving mad.
They’d spent all afternoon reading in front of the fire, Joe on the couch and Errol in a chair, sneaking glances over the top of his paperback mystery novel. The flames cast jumping shadows on the walls and made it difficult to see the print. There was nothing else to do; Joe had turned off the generator to conserve gasoline, which meant no electricity. Bed sounded like the best option.
As soon as Joe was ready to call it a night, Errol would grab a sleeping bag and rack out in front of the fireplace. So far Joe showed no sign of fatigue. He’d been reading for a couple of hours after dinner, and the irregular light didn’t seem to bother him.
“You want more coffee?” Joe asked.
“No, thanks.” At Joe’s urging, Errol had consumed enough fluids to float away.
“Hungry? We can do s’mores, or I’ve got cookies and fruit.”
“More sweets, huh?”
“Special occasion. And I’m on vacation.”
“I’m okay for now.”
Joe got to his feet and carried the mugs to the kitchen. He came back munching on the last of a cookie and brushed off his hands. “How about a game of cards?”
Errol stuck a scrap of paper in the book to mark his place, stood, and stretched. “What, like Go Fish?”
“No, like poker.”
Joe went to the bookcase, pulled a box off the bottom shelf, and carried it to the couch. Inside were a vintage carousel of poker chips and several packs of cards. Joe pulled out a deck and did a one-hand shuffle.
“Wow,” Errol said. “Play a lot of cards on fishing trips?”
Joe’s lip curled. “There’s more to a fishing trip than fishing.”
“Do tell.” Errol raised an eyebrow.
“Male bonding, don’t you know.” Joe
Joe swallowed hard, but the expected pain didn’t grab his heart.
Errol continued. “When the school chose A Midsummer Night’s Dream for the fall play, Mercury encouraged me to try out. I did and got the role of Puck.”
The choice role, in Bryce’s opinion . Joe nodded.
“It was…magical.” Errol’s eyes became unfocused, as if he watched a memory. “After that, I wanted to be an actor.” His gaze met Joe’s. “I’ve wanted it ever since.”
“How long do you plan to give it?”
Looking away, Errol fisted his hands by his bowl. “I don’t know. It’s hard, but it’s what I want.”
“What about wanting to be a writer?”
Errol snorted. “As far as dreams go, that’s not much better. Starving actor, starving writer.”
Judging by Errol’s too-lean frame, that wasn’t far off the mark. Joe peeled a strip off the label of his beer bottle. “I suppose.”
“What’s it like in Hollywood?” Errol leaned forward.
“Like living in a fishbowl.”
“I mean the acting.” Errol had that hopeful look, the one that Joe associated with people who wanted to experience it firsthand, not just hear about it.
“It’s a lot of waiting around. A lot of repetition. Sometimes people are easy to work with, sometimes they’re not. Most of the time I wished I was doing something else.”
The longer he’d stayed, the more he’d wanted out. Too many good people got sucked into drugs and alcohol and general debauchery. As sweet as Errol was, the star machine would snap him up, chew him to bits, and spit him out. The guy didn’t seem anywhere near jaded enough for Hollywood.
Joe stood and retrieved the pan off the stove. “More stew?”
“I’m good.”
“Help me finish it off.”
Errol nodded, and Joe ladled the majority into Errol’s bowl. To Joe’s pleasure, Errol inhaled the rest of his meal. “Was it fun to be on set?”
How long would it be before Errol asked for a Hollywood intro?
Chapter Seven
By seven p.m. the blizzard had not yet headed east, and darkness had crept in. Christmas was two days away, and Errol was beginning to understand the meaning of the term “cabin fever.” It must’ve been coined by a guy trapped in a one-room abode just like this, right before he went stark raving mad.
They’d spent all afternoon reading in front of the fire, Joe on the couch and Errol in a chair, sneaking glances over the top of his paperback mystery novel. The flames cast jumping shadows on the walls and made it difficult to see the print. There was nothing else to do; Joe had turned off the generator to conserve gasoline, which meant no electricity. Bed sounded like the best option.
As soon as Joe was ready to call it a night, Errol would grab a sleeping bag and rack out in front of the fireplace. So far Joe showed no sign of fatigue. He’d been reading for a couple of hours after dinner, and the irregular light didn’t seem to bother him.
“You want more coffee?” Joe asked.
“No, thanks.” At Joe’s urging, Errol had consumed enough fluids to float away.
“Hungry? We can do s’mores, or I’ve got cookies and fruit.”
“More sweets, huh?”
“Special occasion. And I’m on vacation.”
“I’m okay for now.”
Joe got to his feet and carried the mugs to the kitchen. He came back munching on the last of a cookie and brushed off his hands. “How about a game of cards?”
Errol stuck a scrap of paper in the book to mark his place, stood, and stretched. “What, like Go Fish?”
“No, like poker.”
Joe went to the bookcase, pulled a box off the bottom shelf, and carried it to the couch. Inside were a vintage carousel of poker chips and several packs of cards. Joe pulled out a deck and did a one-hand shuffle.
“Wow,” Errol said. “Play a lot of cards on fishing trips?”
Joe’s lip curled. “There’s more to a fishing trip than fishing.”
“Do tell.” Errol raised an eyebrow.
“Male bonding, don’t you know.” Joe
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