your professionalism. And for believing in me and in each other. These last few days haven’t been easy, but tonight, we’re going to give the audience a terrific show.”
My gaze swept across every face, just as Rowan’s had on opening night of
Brigadoon
. And, like Rowan, I asked everyone to take the hands of the people standing beside them and close their eyes.
My voice guided them, but it was Janet’s power and Reinhard’s that filled the green room. As many times as we had performed this ritual last season, I was still surprised by the exhilaration that filled me—as if I were the one who possessed faery magic.
My hands trembled as their energy flowed into me, Janet’s strong and commanding, Reinhard’s steady and calming. I urged the cast to let that energy move up through their arms, and as I spoke, the power rippled through mine, leaving goose bumps in its wake. I summoned it into my legs, and a rush of sensation shivered down my thighs and calves. As it circled back to fill my belly and my lungs, my heart and my throat, I felt like a medium, filled by the spirits she channeled.
The energy raced around the circle, linking us as surely as our joined hands, building in intensity and excitement until I could not contain it a moment longer.
“Let it go!”
The power burst free to the accompaniment of muffled groans and sighs and a couple of squeaks from my orphans. None of them had known the giddy excitement Rowan conjured or felt that uniquely powerful currentzinging through every cell, raising them to a fever pitch before returning them safely to earth. And I would never experience it again.
But what we had was strong and satisfying. It was enough.
“You’re gonna shine like the top of the Chrysler building. Break a leg, everybody!”
Although I knew the show was sold out, I still shivered when I saw that packed house. I took the aisle seat that Rowan used to occupy. As usual, Janet sat beside me; I needed her calming presence on opening nights. Mei-Yin and Hal sat behind us with Catherine and Bernie.
As the lights faded to half and Reinhard’s recorded voice reminded the audience to silence their phones and refrain from flash photography, Janet handed me a copy of the program. I glanced at the piece of paper inserted into it by our volunteers—a brief paragraph I’d written honoring Arthur and announcing that the role of Sandy would be played by Fifi.
The house lights went out. A spot picked up an Armani-clad Long strolling onto the stage, white mane and teeth gleaming. His voice was particularly mellifluous as he introduced himself and welcomed the audience. As he rambled on about the theatre, the show, and the fund-raiser, I fidgeted impatiently. Finally, he flung out his arms and said, “And now, I give you Alex Ross and the overture to…
Annie
!”
“Good God,” Janet whispered. “It’s the Greatest Show on Earth.”
Alex briefly acknowledged the applause, then raised his hands to cue the musicians—and, apparently, my stomach, which fluttered in nervous anticipation.
A solo trumpet sounded the opening notes of “Tomorrow.” A trombone offered a soft counterpoint. They climbed slowly to the high note and held it for a breathless moment. Then the trumpet skittered down the scale,the trombone slid up, and with a crash of snare drums, the band launched into the jaunty melody of “Hard Knock Life.”
I took a series of deep breaths to control the butterflies in my stomach, but by the time the triumphal restatement of “Tomorrow” neared its conclusion, the linguine I’d had for supper had tied itself into knots.
Alex’s hands sliced the air. The final sforzando chord was greeted by polite applause. Then the red velvet curtains swished open.
CHAPTER 9
SHINE
M Y ORPHANS BARRELED THROUGH the opening dialogue, but the pace settled down as the initial burst of nerves calmed. I suppressed a sigh as Chelsea blared out “Maybe.” So much for getting in touch with Annie’s softer
My gaze swept across every face, just as Rowan’s had on opening night of
Brigadoon
. And, like Rowan, I asked everyone to take the hands of the people standing beside them and close their eyes.
My voice guided them, but it was Janet’s power and Reinhard’s that filled the green room. As many times as we had performed this ritual last season, I was still surprised by the exhilaration that filled me—as if I were the one who possessed faery magic.
My hands trembled as their energy flowed into me, Janet’s strong and commanding, Reinhard’s steady and calming. I urged the cast to let that energy move up through their arms, and as I spoke, the power rippled through mine, leaving goose bumps in its wake. I summoned it into my legs, and a rush of sensation shivered down my thighs and calves. As it circled back to fill my belly and my lungs, my heart and my throat, I felt like a medium, filled by the spirits she channeled.
The energy raced around the circle, linking us as surely as our joined hands, building in intensity and excitement until I could not contain it a moment longer.
“Let it go!”
The power burst free to the accompaniment of muffled groans and sighs and a couple of squeaks from my orphans. None of them had known the giddy excitement Rowan conjured or felt that uniquely powerful currentzinging through every cell, raising them to a fever pitch before returning them safely to earth. And I would never experience it again.
But what we had was strong and satisfying. It was enough.
“You’re gonna shine like the top of the Chrysler building. Break a leg, everybody!”
Although I knew the show was sold out, I still shivered when I saw that packed house. I took the aisle seat that Rowan used to occupy. As usual, Janet sat beside me; I needed her calming presence on opening nights. Mei-Yin and Hal sat behind us with Catherine and Bernie.
As the lights faded to half and Reinhard’s recorded voice reminded the audience to silence their phones and refrain from flash photography, Janet handed me a copy of the program. I glanced at the piece of paper inserted into it by our volunteers—a brief paragraph I’d written honoring Arthur and announcing that the role of Sandy would be played by Fifi.
The house lights went out. A spot picked up an Armani-clad Long strolling onto the stage, white mane and teeth gleaming. His voice was particularly mellifluous as he introduced himself and welcomed the audience. As he rambled on about the theatre, the show, and the fund-raiser, I fidgeted impatiently. Finally, he flung out his arms and said, “And now, I give you Alex Ross and the overture to…
Annie
!”
“Good God,” Janet whispered. “It’s the Greatest Show on Earth.”
Alex briefly acknowledged the applause, then raised his hands to cue the musicians—and, apparently, my stomach, which fluttered in nervous anticipation.
A solo trumpet sounded the opening notes of “Tomorrow.” A trombone offered a soft counterpoint. They climbed slowly to the high note and held it for a breathless moment. Then the trumpet skittered down the scale,the trombone slid up, and with a crash of snare drums, the band launched into the jaunty melody of “Hard Knock Life.”
I took a series of deep breaths to control the butterflies in my stomach, but by the time the triumphal restatement of “Tomorrow” neared its conclusion, the linguine I’d had for supper had tied itself into knots.
Alex’s hands sliced the air. The final sforzando chord was greeted by polite applause. Then the red velvet curtains swished open.
CHAPTER 9
SHINE
M Y ORPHANS BARRELED THROUGH the opening dialogue, but the pace settled down as the initial burst of nerves calmed. I suppressed a sigh as Chelsea blared out “Maybe.” So much for getting in touch with Annie’s softer
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