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Chapter Text

"Curtain," Linda said, and the soft sound of scripts closing ran around the table. No one spoke. Scott and Eileen met each other's eyes, nodded slightly, slowly. Derek, frowning in thought. Julia, stunned, almost fearful. Ivy blinking back tears. Simon, composed, watchful. Sam, apprehensive and a little dazed. Ana, Jessica, exchanging glances, Jimmy, lost.

Someone had to speak. Tom, at the piano, "Well -" Derek, as if on cue,

"Right. Well done, everyone. No notes for now. Go home, work on your music, we've got a show."

The universal sigh of relief snipped the last thread of tension, whispering giggles replaced the silence.

"Off with you, then." Kissing his wife lightly. The cast dispersed, the production team gathered. They had a show.

Two years, almost, since "Hit List's" Broadway run had ended. "Bombshell" was still packing in audiences, its third Marilyn Monroe getting better reviews than the second, who had had the misfortune to follow Ivy Lynn.

Karen had left Broadway for Hollywood a few months after the one-two punch of Ivy's Best Actress Tony and Jimmy's jail sentence. Without her glamor and the real-life chemistry she and Jimmy had brought to the production, "Hit List" had folded quickly, but not before Jimmy had sold, shortly before his (early) release, the film rights. For more zeroes than he had ever thought to see. Zeroes that had bought all creative control, leaving him – zero. Jimmy had hated what they had done, to his songs, to Kyle's (and Julia's) script. Had begged Karen not to be a part of it. Had got drunk with Derek, who had also admonished Karen, told her in no uncertain terms she would regret her choice.

Hollywood-clever people. They'd adapted "Hit List" into a semi-musical. Amanda Chambliss (all the "real-life" characters had last names in the film), later singing star "Nina," sang four songs, her rival, "Diva" (no "the," now) sang two. Some of the score was drawn from Jimmy's music, but film-Jesse, played by the flavor of the month, sang only the opening bars of "Broadway, Here I Come," written for suicidal Amanda. "Heart-Shaped Wreckage," sung by Karen alone in voice-over, was the film's theme. Gone, all gone, "Rewrite This Story," "Voice in a Dream," "The Love I Meant to Say," "The Goodbye Song." "Reach For Me," gone. Two of Amanda's songs were new-written for the film; both of Diva's were. Pop-crap. Jimmy hated them.

Three of his orphaned songs. Just three. "Good For You," which wasn't even supposed to be good. Cold comfort that the "mixed" reviews (defined by George S. Kaufman as "good and lousy," according to Tom Levitt) had singled out his orphans for praise. Daisy Parker had fared well, too, with the critics. Her Supporting Actress Tony had been juice, Hollywood had scooped her and Karen up in one net. Karen had not been so favored by the reviewers. "As bland a nonentity as her character." "Can sing, can't act, can dance a little." "It is perplexing in the extreme that this characterization garnered a nomination for Broadway's highest accolade." The tone varied, the wording varied, the meaning and melody didn't. Derek had known. Karen live had magic. Karen filmed had none. Cutting the songs and beefing up the dialogue had laid bare her weakness as an actress, stripping off the musical fig leaves. Audiences had stayed away in droves. The film had closed without earning back a quarter of its modest investment. Karen had landed a couple of product endorsements, though not Apple, which her agent had angled for. No further acting offers.

She'd returned to New York, and Jimmy, just two weeks ago. He loved her. Couldn't quite forgive, could never forget. But he loved her. Took her back, at her urging had asked Derek if she could be squeezed into "Gatsby." "She'd be perfect as Jordan Baker – Jessica can still do "Bombshell," Karen needs this!"

Derek had refused. Wouldn't consider it, wouldn't discuss it.

Ivy had performed in "Bombshell" until pregnancy became prohibitive. Had worked non-stop, almost furiously, until labor started, two days before her due date. Television producers filming on the East Coast had practically stampeded her with roles, scripts written and re-written to enable opening credits to boast, "Special Guest Star Ivy Lynn." And, after Miranda's birth, stage roles beckoned; readings and workshops took precedence, although Ivy continued to fatten her bank account and her resume with television roles.

Derek had lain fallow. An unfamiliar, uncomfortable position. Producers were leery of a director who had confessed to replacing an actress giving a well-recieved performance with one who slept with him for the role. Television work there was, a little. In between, he had amused Ivy by attending childbirth classes with her. Later, he changed diapers, warmed bottles while his wife worked.

Tom and Julia, Eileen Rand with them, had come, with a very rough first draft of "Gatsby." Eileen had agreed to produce a workshop. Would Ivy play Daisy Buchanan? Would Derek direct – with Tom's assistance? Oh, yes. Yes, they would, each, and both.

"Are they going to make a fetish out of dying protagonists? First Marilyn, now Gatsby?" Derek was joking, but Ivy spoke seriously.

"Death runs through most of their work. Always has. "Three on a Match?" That was about death, friends dealing with the death of a friend. "Heaven and Earth?" It's all about death. In a funny way, but it's still death. And "Bombshell," yes, and now "Gatsby." It's a natural progression for them."

Her intelligence – he wouldn't admit it was greater than his, but it was quicker. She was right, and he hadn't seen it.

The first draft had begot a second, a third, without achieving the right focus. The songs were uneasily worked in, pieces from the wrong puzzle. The workshop had – well, it had made "Marilyn – the Musical's" reception look like a roaring success. Tom and Julia had fought. Tom and Derek had squabbled and bickered; more than once, Ivy had broken the tension by noting that she and Derek were married, not Derek and Tom, and she'd thank them not to carry on as if they were. Eileen had rippled with tension like a caged tiger.

It had been Ivy who had sent them all back to the drawing board. They were approaching "Gatsby" the wrong way. It wasn't going to work as a conventional musical. Julia had thought "outside the box" when she'd re-worked "Bombshell," even if the final version had differed from that vision. Tom had used a variety of musical idioms for "Bombshell," he should explore that freedom further, instead of limiting himself to 1920s styles. Ivy had suspected, but had not said, that Tom and Julia were finding the material intimidating. They had to not, or "Gatsby" would never get off the ground. And she'd fallen in love with Daisy. The show had to happen.

The resulting book, the songs, were audacious. Chunks of Fitzgerald's narrative were snipped, stitched, patched and embroidered by Julia into prose poems, half spoken, half sung by Nick Carraway. The songs ran the gamut – "No Tomorrow," Gatsby's party guests sang, a Charleston beat with a dark, almost dirge-like note running through it to undercut the merriment. Joplin cadence for Daisy and Nick's duet, "What's a Cousin For?" Gatsby's haunted almost-waltz, "A Light on the Pier." The Daisy/Gatsby counterpoint "Looking Back / Look Ahead," she reminiscing to herself against his passionate plea for their future. Myrtle's fierce "Wanting," Jordan's flip, defiant "(Just a Little) Cheating." Gatsby's wrung reprise of "Looking Back," the last scene before his murder. Nick's closing recitative, "A Grotesque Thing."

Yes, audacious, ambitious, it was. It might – might – be great. It was wildly unconventional – by comparison, "Hit List" had been timid. Eileen had cajoled, scolded, and, in the end, raged. In vain. Investors kept their wallets safely under their bottoms.

It had been Scott who had saved the day, he had sold his Board on "Gatsby." They couldn't turn it down, he told them, willing them with every bit of charisma he could summon to agree. It would be the most important, the most talked about, event in New York theatre – for seasons to come. Even if it wasn't a hit, producing it would add to MTW's prestige. They couldn't lose. Scott wasn't completely sure he believed what he told the Board, but he made them believe, and Huston and Levitt's "The Great Gatsby" became the centerpiece of the Manhattan Theatre Workshop season. Eileen Rand would co-produce.

Recasting, this time mostly with known quantities. Ana Vargas had sung "Wanting," with pure heartbreak underlying Myrtle's ferocity, and been cast without callback. Jessica's audition for Jordan Baker (Ivy had lobbied hard for her) had been a revelation. Like Ivy, the girl had been consigned to the ensemble way too long. An immense talent, and sexy as hell in her sleek, cat-lean fashion. She hadn't been the only possible Jordan they'd seen, but in the end, she'd been the best. And Derek was not going to re-work the casting now for his erstwhile star, Karen Cartwright. Couldn't even come and ask him herself, she'd laid it on Jimmy to do her dirty work. Karen's spell was broken for good, as far as he was concerned.

They'd looked at a lot of Tom Buchanans, and settled on Simon, so good as JFK in "Bombshell." Jay Gatsby had been a problem. They'd offered Michael Swift the role, but he hadn't been available. Tom had been the one who suggested they ask Jimmy Collins to audition. Derek had argued, but had agreed to see him; Jimmy had demurred, but had agreed to read. His audition, Ivy reading with him, had vindicated Tom, and Jimmy was hired.

The audacity carried into the casting, if only once. Sam Strickland was to play Nick Carraway. His audition had been breathtaking, had made any other choice unimaginable. Audiences would have to suspend disbelief in Daisy's black cousin. Sam had never been so close to carrying a show, and was as nervous as he was thrilled. Ivy, New York agnostic, had said novenas for his casting. She'd had to find out exactly what a novena was, but she had done so, and had said one to St. Genesius, who was apparently the patron saint of actors, and another to St. Cecilia, patron saint of music.

And they had gathered, this morning, at Manhattan Theatre Workshop, for a first reading. Unsure how, or whether, this strange collection of wonderful parts would fit together.

Derek thought, on the whole, they would, and well. He didn't have a clear vision, yet, but there was a shape in his mind, and parts of it were coming into sharp focus. Nick. Sam would be the audience's "in," and their guide. Ivy's and Jimmy's voices meshed well. Daisy, indeed, was very clear, and Ivy was looking to him for guidance she had not needed in "Bombshell," which was gratifying.

Yes, he thought, they had a show.

Chapter Text

"Hey."

Ivy turned round, startled out of thoughts of Miranda and dinner. "Jimmy?"

"Sorry. Could we, um, could I – can I talk to you a minute? Not here?"

Ivy hesitated. She had barely seen her daughter – awake – in days, but there was need in Jimmy's tone. And Paulette wouldn't clock out for another two hours. Her "Sure" came out simultaneously with his

"Please." They laughed a little.

"Let's get a drink." Oh, it was a relief to be able to drink again. Pregnancy, nursing (and pumping). Over now.

Melio's, less than a block, was already the cast's usual spot. Like a boy in an etiquette class, Jimmy sat Ivy at a postage-stamp table, fetched his tap-beer and her Pinot Gris. She sipped, waited. He stared into his glass, turning it round and round by the base. Looked up.

"Do I need some acting lessons here?" In a rush. "I mean, I haven't acted since high school, except "Hit List." You guys, you're all, I mean, you know what you're doing, you all do, and I don't. I don't have a clue. So, tell me. Do I need to get some help with this?"

Oh, dear. It was true, Jimmy was a little more at sea than the rest of them. She picked her words very carefully, they had to be both true and tactful. "It might help you feel more confident, if you got the right lessons. The wrong ones might be worse than none."

He pulled out a piece of paper. Frowned at the writing. "Ana said Jenn Campbell was good. That's her coach."

Ivy shook her head. "No. Absolutely not. Jenn's great, I've taken from her, but she always tries to start new students with a complete re-build. From the ground up." Whether they need it or not. "You're in rehearsal, you can't afford the time." We can't afford the time. "If you're serious, you should try John Paul. He's good, he lets you start from where you are, and he gets great students."

"Like George and Ringo?" There was that bad-boy smile.

"How did you know?" She grinned back at him, but his smile faded.

"Ivy, tell me the truth. Am I kidding myself? Can I – maybe I should – just – I don't know."

Her pause was so long he thought it an answer. She sighed.

"Jimmy, if you don't know the answer to that, no-one does. That's the truth. For what it's worth, I think you can do this. I read with you at the audition. I saw "Hit List." We're only a week in, we're all feeling our way. And the songs – you're doing great with those. You know you are."

"They're good songs. They seem like they'd be hard to sing, but they're not. And," there was the smile again, "anyone who can't sing with you can't sing, period."

"You know, you're nothing like" it was said before she realized she was speaking. Couldn't she have said thank you, and left it at that? She could have smacked herself.

"Like I was? Nothing like four months in jail to give you time to realize what a jerk you are. I didn't want to stay that way."

There wasn't a way to answer that. And Miranda was waiting. "I should really go."

"Sure. Yeah. I know, your kid's waiting." A not-bad-boy smile, very slight. "Thanks, Ivy."

"Anytime." Surprised to find she meant it. "If John Paul says he can't fit you in, tell him to call me, OK?"

"I will. Yeah. Thanks." He looked at her, squinted, as if she were out of focus. "You're a terrific lady, Ivy."

Now, that she knew how to answer. 'You're not so bad yourself – Mr. Gatsby." She patted his shoulder. "See you tomorrow. And don't worry. That never helps. Believe me, I know."

Jimmy watched her go. If he was "nothing like" he'd been before, Ivy was nothing like he'd expected. Karen was, had to be, a little biased, sure, and he'd allowed for that, he thought. But he hadn't been prepared for Ivy's kindness. Or how good it felt to work with her. She was so there, even in these early days, when her eyes, like his, like everyone's, kept dropping to the script. When he was acting with her, he didn't feel so damned inadequate. The rest of his scenes, though . . . he'd call this John Paul. He'd try the class. How did it feel, he wondered, to be as good as she was? Could he be that good? Ever? He could at least try to find out.

Chapter Text

A hell of a monkey wrench.

Too perfect, too smooth, it had been. Tom grieved for the brief span of halcyon days, even more for the reason they'd ended.

The jitterbug of nerves that had been the workshop had given place to a gavotte of courtesy. The exemplar of which was, of all people, Derek Wills. The leopard doesn't change his spots, at least, not all of them; Derek was still an autocrat, still devoted to his vision above all else, but he treated the rest of the production staff, and the cast, if not quite as colleagues, at least not as obstacles. And he was, almost unfailingly, polite. Polite for Derek, anyway. No-one knew better than Tom how profound a change that was.

Tom hoped he'd never get to a place where he wasn't proud to bursting of "Bombshell." If I forget thee, oh Israel. But he knew his score for "Gatsby" broke new ground. And Julia's book – God. Her scenes, pearls knotted each to the next by Nick, distilled Fitzgerald's essence. She could absolutely have made "Gatsby" a straight drama, and a fine one.

Derek was doing something truly beautiful with Ivy. In this production, Daisy Buchanan's hallmark was delicacy. A quality you could fail to associate with Ivy Lynn, until you realized you saw its manifestations every day, every hour. That Derek saw it in her, appreciated it, was taking pains to bring it out, was almost worth forgiving all the past.

"The audience has to see Daisy as Gatsby does," Derek had, astonishingly, expostulated in the early days of the rewrite. "She's not a person, she's a symbol, to him, of all that's lovely, all that's desirable, everything that isn't his life, that's above it, before, and now. She can't be a real person, to the audience, until she kills, and betrays him, and even then, it's got to be through his eyes."

If Derek's description, those words, in his mouth, had conjured the ghost of a name other than Ivy Lynn's, Julia and Tom had never acknowledged it beyond a single shared glance.

Tom wasn't AD on the production, after all. Not officially. But – part of this strange dance – Derek spent time, once or twice a week, discussing the production with him, from a directorial standpoint. Why he was doing what he was. How each choice impacted each character.

Tom appreciated the effort. He knew he had a lot to learn, if he was to pursue directing. At the same time, he had ideas of his own. Derek listened, considered Tom's suggestions, sometimes for as much as five seconds before rejecting them.

Mark Castle, their George Wilson, had come to them. In pieces. His wife, Elisabeth, had seen a doctor for her headaches. Tests, more tests. Then more. Brain tumors. Cancerous. The planned surgery held out small hope, but they had to try. They had two children, the elder six.

Scott and Eileen, helplessly, released Mark from his contract.

They hadn't even scheduled auditions when the call came. Word got round fast. No less a light than Porter Mallory, six-time Tony nominee, two-time winner, so very sorry to hear about Mark's poor wife. He'd be pleased if they would consider letting him step in as George Wilson.

He was a good fit for the role, his casting would be a huge coup, his presence a draw. His experience, his professionalism, would guarantee a relatively swift integration. They should thank their stars, so Scott and Eileen argued. Tom, Julia, Derek siding with them, were less certain. Star-power like Porter's, in a small role, however vital, could upset the balance and focus of the show – perhaps fatally. Derek didn't voice his worst fear – that Porter Mallory would outpower Jimmy. Deadly, that would be.

And they shouldn't kid themselves. George Wilson's one number was a brief reprise of Myrtle's "Wanting." That wouldn't do for Porter Mallory. They'd need at least one new song, and where would it go?

Tom and Julia would see what they could come up with for George Wilson, as possibly-to-be played by Porter Mallory. Eileen would call his agent back, explain, and ask for a couple of days' grace.

"And no-one is happy," Eileen fumed, reaching for the telephone.

Scott shrugged. "That's what "compromise" means. We're happier than Mark."

Eileen sighed, annoyance wiped out. "If we're not, we damned well ought to be . . . Let's pass the hat. Arrange a benefit."

"They'll need it."

Chapter Text

Karen hung her coat up. An empty loft. Jimmy had bought the building with the money he'd made selling "Hit List." She lived with him in the space he'd shared with Kyle. The rent-roll made Jimmy self-sufficient. Karen wished to God she were.

She was getting work now, cutting demos. Karen knew she should be grateful, but recording studios were claustrophobic, isolated. She hurt with longing for a real audience.

It wasn't every day you got a compliment worse than an insult. Before they'd got started, the young phenom producer had shaken her hand like he was pumping water.

"I've listened to 3 of your demos, you're amazing!" he'd gushed. "What's so great about you," with genuine enthusiasm, pumping all the while "is you don't try to put any spin on the songs. You just sing the words, the notes. Not trying to do anything else, no character overlay, no interpretation. You're so basic! It's exactly what we're always looking for, and we almost never find it. You're just awesome!"

If he'd slapped her face, it would have been less humiliating. Glad the song was a melancholy one, she'd done the job she was being paid for. She needed this work.

There were modeling offers. Several. Karen didn't want to take them. She knew she was pretty – very pretty. Most people said beautiful. But she'd never traded on that. Had really wanted never to have to.

And, truth to tell, when she looked in a mirror, all she saw were flaws, failures. What she'd thought – assumed – was a staircase to stardom had proved a magic-carpet ride. The carpet had been yanked out from under her. She'd fallen a long way. Landed on her face. Flaws, failures.

She'd had one "acting" job. A cable commercial for a Queens hot tub retailer. Four locations! Flushing, Forest Hills, Little Neck, Rockaway! They'd been thrilled beyond measure to have a real Broadway star promote their little business. "Dear Miss Cartwright! We're so honored!" Rushing to get her tea, or coffee, soda, anything (she'd liked the egg creams). It had been balm. For a day.

But there were too many days.

After Jimmy had insisted on taking acting classes, Karen had halfheartedly followed suit – a different school, a short-term scene-study class with a famous director. It had all seemed a little juvenile, unnecessary. The director had listened to her monologue, had spoken at length. Nothing he'd said had made sense. She'd watched, listened as the other students showed their work, and been critiqued. It was Greek to Karen.

She'd picked an actress she'd thought was very good; suggested a scene. They'd got together to work a couple of days later, and Karen had tried to make common cause of their teacher's bizarre style of communication. Her partner had, very gently, tried to translate for her. Without lifting the veil an inch.

At the next class, she'd done her scene. The teacher had given her a couple of comments, looking at her intently. Then addressed her partner. One couple did Blanche and Stanley in "Streetcar," the rape scene. The class was invited to comment. "I think we should see more that Blanche really feels attracted to Stanley," Karen had volunteered. The teacher had barely let her finish before "I wanted particularly to note the lustful glance you gave Charles, Caroline, right before you told him to pull the curtain." To Karen, "You really didn't feel that?" The question was put straightforwardly, but it had to be hostile, Karen was sure. It was frustrating not to know why, or how, she was being snubbed.

He pulled Caroline aside for further notes as the next scene was set up. Close to Karen. "I want to see more precariousness. Stanley is cutting every support from under you." Caroline nodded tensely, "So, it's like being knocked up one step on the rickety ladder with each exchange? Until there's no more up, and the wind is blowing, and then crash." "Exactly!" He was triumphant. And what was any of that supposed to mean? For that matter, what would Caroline, who was younger than Karen, want to work on Blanche DuBois for, anyway? That was a role you played when you were over the hill. Stupid, stupid.

Karen had stuck it our for two more classes before saying "to heck with it." All the classes did was make her feel bad. She certainly didn't need more things making her feel bad. She was a good actress. She was a Tony nominee. How many of them could say that?

If she could just connect with – touch – a real production. She had to talk to Derek. There was so much buzz around "Gatsby." He'd give her something, surely, if only an understudy position.

She had to talk to Derek.

Chapter Text

As if scripted. Enter, Porter Mallory, beaming. Famously ugly features, rendered attractive by extreme, good-humored intelligence. Body thick with muscle. Jimmy followed, not beaming; it was somehow puzzling to note he was actually the taller, by an inch or so.

Porter's smile embraced each of them; the deep voice was soft, light-toned when not on stage.

"Eileen! Unmarried life suits you," kissing her hand. Julia he embraced; Porter Mallory and Michael Swift had co-starred in last season's very failed attempt to make a hit musical of "The Untouchables." It had run three weeks in preview, two in performance. Porter's Al Capone, and Michael's Elliott Ness, had been acknowledged stellar performances. Some of the songs had been deemed acceptable. It had been enough, given the timing of the production, to garner Drama Desk awards for each, and for Porter, his second Tony. "Law of the Land" was now a staple in Michael's repertoire; Porter was near-sick of "Chicago Businessman," so often was it requested.

"Miss Lynn! Miss Ivy Lynn! An unexpected pleasure – a real lagniappe, as we say in New Orleans. Your most ardent admirer," he kissed both her hands with flourish. "I saw you in "Bombshell," no less than six times. A magnificent performance. The first two, I brought a date, but it wasn't fair to ask anyone to compete with you."

Ivy, surprised as much as flattered, thanked him prettily, agreed it might indeed be considered unfair to ask his dates to live up to Marilyn, given the different chromosomal arrangements involved. She was there at Jimmy's request, the only other cast member present.

Smile and handshake for Linda. Scott, Derek, Tom, greeted with compliments - "Bombshell," "Hit List," "Gatsby."

"You've cast so cleverly. I cannot wait to see them all in action."

Derek growled. On the subject of action, could they get down to it? Porter and Jimmy were ready; they'd marked through it twice together. Tom and Julia, drawing to an inside straight, had magicked a royal flush, Derek thought. There was a new, brief song in Act I, "Gears, Grease." George's single verse and bridge were picked up by Myrtle, a new intro to "Wanting." The reprise was replaced by "Deathlight," cadence and melody variations on "Gears, Grease," equally brief.

Gatsby's desperate reprise of "Looking Back" would now have its own counterpoint. Stage right was Nick's living room; stage left the garage. Jimmy would sing his first verse. Lights up on the garage. George would begin "Close the World," they'd alternate two-line bits for the next verse; the bridge rewritten to be sung by them both; then one-lines, tempo increasing, overlapping, end notes vibrating together.

Julia had unsnarled it. The men, Gatsby and George, were both grieving lost loves. "Close the World" would see George Wilson implacable in despair. Vengeance and suicide, one, two, and done. He might take out, clean and load his pistol as business. Gatsby, clinging anguished to a hope he knew forlorn.

Derek had hand-held Jimmy that morning, telling him to use whatever emotions arose, put them into the music. Telling him a lot of things, each of which had made Jimmy sicker with fear; Derek, in exasperation, had tried one last angle.

"Look, he's basically going to show you his wanker. Show him you've a bigger one." Jimmy had laughed, which was something.

The two actors sat, apart, on folding metal chairs with folding metal music stands in front of them. Tom played opening bars; Jimmy's voice lifted, fell silent. Porter Mallory took up the counter. Separate men, utterly alien, unwittingly merging in anguish.

Porter might have been rehearsing the number for months. Jimmy's raw power was stunning – and new.

"May I take it I'm in?" Porter spoke into the silence.

Scott and Eileen spoke almost in unison. "We'll call your agent." "We'll draw up the contract."

"Gatsby" had dodged a large-caliber bullet. Hell, yes, Porter Mallory was in.

Chapter Text

Eileen had wanted rehearsal this Sunday. The benefit for Mark Castle was next day, Monday being "dark night," and they'd had one single run-through. Derek had vetoed it. Every one knew what they needed to do for the benefit. And the "Gatsby" cast needed to breathe for a day. He hadn't needed Ivy to tell him so – but when she had, it had been rather sweet, her soliciting what he was already determined on.

How stardom became her. Motherhood, too. He had seen her, now, turn everything to account – failure and success, bad luck and good. She'd vanquished her demons. And still she was Ivy, the girl whose opening up in callback had wrung his core, had opened a door he could never close afterward.

Two polar bears swam a vertical ring, round and round, over and under, the plexiglass a fishbowl. "Bearbowl!" Miranda giggled. She loved the polar bears, their whiteness, their watery, icy world. "Ghosty bears," she insisted on calling them. "Ghosty bears," Ivy cooed back at her. His golden girls.

Ivy had been singing softly as she'd dressed Miranda; Derek had caught "biffalo buffalo bisons, and a great big bear with wings," A.A. Milne's poem and a baby-tune. "But I give buns to the elephants when I go down to the zoo." Lovely, her soft singing. Dancing their daughter to him. Derek's heart turned over, for the – how-many-thousandth? – time. "Daddy Daddy Daddy," Miranda patting all over his face with her tiny hands. Ivy as unabashedly delighted as the little one.

A family day.

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Karen wasn't happy. She was working steadily, her days filled with demos and catalogue shoots. She didn't complain. She didn't say much of anything, in fact – and since Jimmy didn't want to rub her nose in "Gatsby," and Karen was impatient with talk of acting classes, they barely spoke at all, outside the daily stuff. Can you pick up milk on your way home. It broke Jimmy's heart.

Ana had reached out to Karen, he knew, and been rebuffed. It annoyed Karen that Ana had rented Ivy's old Hell's Kitchen flat. Everyone was where the lights were, except her.

Tom had spoken to Jimmy about the exhibit, at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. A history of musical theatre, with a great number of hand-written scores. Notes on staff paper, placed there by hands named Gershwin, Berlin, Porter, Kern, Rodgers. Jimmy had found himself wanting to see them, those notes.

It had taken half the morning to convince Karen. She never wanted to go anywhere now, wouldn't go to see friends' shows, Jimmy could barely get her to go out for burgers. But he'd persisted, cajoled, pleaded – he'd never been to the Museum. They could take a little blanket, or something, pick up some sandwiches, have a picnic in the park after. "Please, can't we just get out of our heads for one day? Do something, go somewhere? It'll be fun . . ." Maybe she'd agreed just to shut him up, but at least she had agreed.

They'd jounced and rattled the long subway ride.

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Julia, Michael and Tom sipped mimosas as Porter Mallory whisked drops of Crystal hot sauce into hollandaise. Bach's Third Brandenberg played very softly, an elegant background.

"Won't be another minute, darlings," as he tossed sauteed crabmeat with diced avocado, heaped it over thick slices of tomato on warmed plates, set on the table a basket of napkin-wrapped cornflour biscuits. Removed poached eggs from their bath, laid them gently atop the mounds, spooned sauce. "Tom, will you give me a hand here, please? Thank you very kindly."

Julia thought perhaps Porter was moving, slowly, easily (everything he did breathed ease, an ease that testified to mastery through past effort), toward courtship of Tom. Little things – asking Tom's help in serving was one. Smiles a hint deeper, tones a shade warmer. It would be interesting, if she was right, to see how Tom reacted. For all his near-trademarked boyishness, Tom had played lead in his past relationships, had been the one with power. Porter Mallory was no subordinate.

"Oh. Mygod." Tom spoke around a mouthful. Delicious. Porter laughed. "If we understand two things in New Orleans, they are music and food. Oh, and sex, of course. Three things, then."

Julia chimed, "No-one expects the Spanish Inquisition!"

"Darling Julia, you just watch yourself now, or I will give you the comfy chair."

Comfy. Elegant. Porter's small Central Park West apartment was both. Antique chairs and sofa, neither ornate nor fragile, easy alike on eyes and buttocks. The glow of good wood, well cared for. Library bookshelves, filled with well-worn volumes and record albums. Porter had no CD player, preferring, he said, an actual aural capture to a digitized translation.

Ambiance, food, wine, music. The company. It was a hot-tub for the soul.

Chapter Text

It had been an awful mistake, taking Karen to the exhibit. If he could do the day over, anything else. Tom hadn't told him. A small, screened area, devoted to "Bombshell." He could see the sense of it - "Bombshell" was a current hit, and definitely in the "traditional Broadway" style of musical that was being celebrated. But Karen was a walking wound, these days, and this was a lot of salt.

Jimmy had tried to steer her past, when he'd seen. Karen had insisted. Had made him rent the headphones, to listen while the video played. Tom's score, Julia's book. A mannequin of Ivy in white. Then the video, a little, totally weird, warped history of the production, with a silly fruity voice narrating over stills, mostly. Shots from the workshop, "fraught with difficulties," intoned the voice, over a shot of Karen falling off a platform. Stills of Rebecca Duvall in Boston. One shot of Karen in costume, held for a second before Ivy and Broadway took over, the voice noting that "Karen Cartwright, understudy for Rebecca Duvall, completed the Boston run; Ivy Lynn, who created the role in workshop, was brought back for the Broadway production, winning an Antoinette Perry Award for her performance as Marilyn Monroe."

The video ended with an actual film clip. Ivy, singing "Don't Forget Me." Jimmy didn't watch it, he watched Karen. She didn't take her eyes from the little screen. Nothing on her face. Nothing, as she watched herself practically wiped out of existence, in this show that had meant so much to her.

Jimmy hadn't thought he could hurt for her any more than he already did, but this was too much. "It's like you weren't anything to "Bombshell!" This totally sucks!" He was so angry for her. What did these idiots know, anyway?

Karen shook her head. "Let's face it, Jimmy, that's about right. Things might have been different, but they weren't. Can we please go get some sandwiches? You promised me a picnic in the park, and I'm hungry."

It was the most she'd said in weeks. "Sure. Me, too. Let's go."

So easy, playing Jay. Pour out what he felt for Karen in life to the Daisy Ivy created onstage. Speak to that. That was where he had the inside track, that was what he brought to the table. Jimmy knew he was going to be good in the role, the acting classes had helped, and had, as Ivy said they might, given him confidence. But acting wasn't his future. He had known, looking at those scores. There, with them. That was where.

They didn't know the neighborhood, had walked blocks to find a deli. Bought too many sandwiches, and laughed as they walked back to the park. When Jimmy took her hand, Karen hadn't pulled away, but clasped back.

Smoked turkey, ham and cheese, roast beef, shrimp salad. Pickles, potato chips. Little egg custards in foil cups. The deli had had chilled white wine, plastic cups and a corkscrew. Jimmy would have preferred beer, but wasn't about to say so.

They found a spot in the sun, spread the blanket, and the food on it. Karen reached for a sandwich, Jimmy took the hand. "Karen, I'm really sorry. You have to know I didn't know. I'd never have – I'm – I love you – so much."

"I know, Jimmy. It's OK. I love you, too. You're the only good thing I have."

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Eventually, Miranda had allowed herself to be torn from her bears, and they wandered, without plan. Derek lifted his daughter high to see the red panda, asleep on a branch. "Raccoon, Daddy? Funny big raccoon."

"No, darling, that's called a red panda. It is, however," reading the card, "related to raccoons, which makes you a very clever girl."

Miranda dissolved in giggles, shook her sturdy little body vigorously. "Not panda, Daddy. Panda bears! Silly Daddy." All three laughing as they left the funny raccoon, strolled toward the sea lions. More water and plexiglass, Miranda's eyes big, head tilting as two adults swam with a baby. "Mommy and Daddy and Manda!" she pointed.

Ivy scooped her up, squeezed, kissed her. "Yes, precious girl, just like Mommy and Daddy and Miranda. Can you say thank you to Daddy for giving Mommy the day off, so we could all come to the zoo?"

Set down, Miranda curtseyed gravely, then held out her hand. Derek shot a quizzical glance at Ivy, who shrugged; took the little hand in his. Miranda wagged their joined hands with all her might. "Thank you for zoo, Daddy!"

By the time they reached their Fifth Avenue flat, Paulette would have lunch ready. Derek pushed Miranda, who murmured "seepytired" as her eyelids closed.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

"Oh, shit," Jimmy stopped gathering lunch remnants, and Karen looked behind her. No, no, no. Not now, not today, not them, not like this. She'd left Derek four messages, texted twice, before giving up. Too much, too desperate, despite the jauntiness she'd tried to assume. But she'd clung stubbornly to the conviction that Derek wouldn't, couldn't give up on her. Hadn't she been his muse? She knew she could be again. If she could just talk to him. But Derek obviously didn't intend to give her the chance, and she'd pinned her last hope on waylaying him at the benefit.

She wasn't ready, after the exhibit, didn't have her legs under her to deal with the happiness radiating from the little family group. They hadn't yet seen Karen and Jimmy. Could she escape? No, not realistic. That would look too weird, to everybody. Suck it up. Put on your best smile. Who said she couldn't act? She and Jimmy advanced.

Awkwardness all around. Karen squatted to peer at Miranda, still sleeping. "She's really beautiful," her eyes going first to Derek, whose "thanks" was unsmiling. Ivy said, "I hear you're cutting lots of demos – that's great, you have such a beautiful voice, they're lucky." A little hesitant, as if she had to fit the words together like puzzle pieces.

Karen smiled, added her own "thanks," feeling she'd swallowed a big lump of lead. Heavy in her gut, poisonous. At least Ivy hadn't seen the catalogues. Or if she had seen them, had the tact not to say so. Which was unlikely, since it was Ivy. Why wouldn't she want to rub Karen's nose in her comedown? Ivy had Derek and wealth and stardom, a Tony, a beautiful baby girl. A starring role in the most talked about new musical since "Bombshell" and "Hit List" had flooded New York like twin tidal waves. Karen remembered the feeling of the world at her feet. At Ivy's feet, now. She, Karen, left with demos, modeling, Greenpoint anonymity. And Jimmy. Crumbs and scraps. She shouldn't feel that about Jimmy, but she sort of did, in her heart. You can't afford to feel that, she admonished herself. You need Jimmy, he's all you've got.

"Miranda's a pretty name," Jimmy offered. Derek and Ivy spoke together,

"One of Ivy's first paying gigs was a summer Shakespeare festival."

"It was Derek's mother's name." Laughing, again speaking over each other,

"And it was one of my first roles."

"Miranda was also my mother's name. She's Miranda Leigh."

Blue eyes opened. "Mandalee. Mommy, up!" Little arms stretched, Ivy bent and gathered her out of the stroller. Eye to eye with Jimmy, Miranda touched his face with a finger. "Not Daddy."

Jimmy laughed. "Got that right, kid. I guess you're pretty smart, huh?"

"Smart." Miranda nodded, serious. Ivy and Jimmy grinned at each other.

"Sorry about this, Ivy. Your day off, you don't need to see me. I should have thought about it – this is your turf. This whole day was a mistake."

Ivy shook her head, shrugged, "It's Central Park, I don't own it. And what are the odds we'd meet up? What brought you up this way, though, can I ask? There are much closer parks in Brooklyn, aren't there?"

He winced. "Tom was talking about the exhibit. About musicals, at the museum? He didn't tell me they practically had a shrine to "Bombshell." I'd never have brought her." Both glanced, a little furtively, at Karen. Talking to Derek, who wore an impassive face. Ivy breathed in, out, and turned smiling back to Jimmy.

"You didn't return my calls," Karen tried a lightly chiding tone. Banter, right?

"I've been busy, Karen." No smile, the ball lay at his feet, not the slightest effort at a return.

"Derek, we need to talk."

"Maybe you do."

"OK, I do, then. Please, Derek. Please. There's so much I need to say to you."

He sighed. "I'll call you after we open, alright?"

"Can't we talk tomorrow? At the benefit?"

"I don't expect I'll have time." She was so crestfallen it was almost comical. Almost. Derek felt a faint twinge of guilt. Karen did have some right to think he'd be on her side. His fault.

"We'll see. Ivy, love, we should get Miranda home for lunch. Are you hungry, darling?"

Miranda nodded. "Hungry, Daddy."

A round of goodbyes. And that was over.

Chapter Text

Riding the subway in silence – as much silence, anyway, as the New York subway system would allow. As they waited to connect with the “G” train, Karen finally spoke.

“What were you and Ivy talking about? I had no idea you were so friendly.” Jimmy had heard that resentful tone before; he stomped down irritation. The whole disastrous outing – she'd behaved damn well. No wonder if she broke a little, now.

“Just telling her I was sorry she had to deal with me on her day off. Ivy's helped me a lot – she's been really great.”

Karen nodded, as if to herself, and said no more.

For dinner, they'd eaten the remaining sandwiches. Soundtrack the rustle of unwrapped paper, chewing. Karen's eyes on her food. She didn't look up as she said, hesitating,

“Jimmy? Could I – please – have a little space? I'm sorry, I'm just –” she stopped, looking at him now, frustrated, lost, helpless. And so sad.

“Yeah, OK. Sure. I understand.” He didn't, not really. But if she needed space, he'd give it to her. He shrugged his jacket on. Kissed her. Karen made the kiss a quick one, but huddled in Jimmy's arms for a second, burying her face in his shoulder. He hugged her tight. “It's OK. It's all OK, Karen.”

And he was on the street, walking. Once more on the subway to Manhattan. Jimmy secretly liked the subways. The snaking tunnels, the rattle of the wheels. They spoke movement, action. He didn't know where he was going; he just wanted to move. Changed trains, left Greenpoint further behind.

Up into the dark air. Walking again. And now he knew. Took out his phone. All the “Gatsby” contacts were programmed in. Pushed “call.”

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

After brunch, Tom had strolled with Julia, Michael and Porter a few steps ahead. “Deathlight” needed some tweaking, they agreed. “Dead Lights,” maybe? Both syllables given equal stress; play on “headlights?” Yes, perhaps that. They'd see.

Change partners, walking with Porter. “It is just inconceivable to me that you've never been to New Orleans, cher. You must come and visit. New Orleans is like no other city. You just must come – for the music, at least.”

“I can just see myself in sequins for Mardi Gras,” Tom laughed.

“Do come for Mardi Gras! One of the three essential New Orleans visits.”

The other two? “You must come for Christmas – we light up every bit as much as New York, but it's a very different magic. And in the summer, in the still, damp heat, when there are no tourists. I am quite serious, Tom, I've plenty of space for a guest. I would so love to introduce you to my town.”

Tentatively, with caveats – who knew, at this point, where “Gatsby” would take them? – Tom had agreed.

He was at the piano, finessing the cadence for “Dead Lights,” when his phone rang. Jimmy calling?

“Hey, Tom, I was wondering if I could buy you a drink? Where's a good place?”

Tom didn't really want to go out; why didn't Jimmy just come up?

As Tom made drinks, Jimmy looked around him. Posters, photographs. Oh, God, Kyle among them. Yes, this was Kyle's sort of place. He could almost see him three-dimensions, hear his voice. The lump in his throat wouldn't be swallowed. Nor would the tears stay in, as he stared at his dead friend's smile. Sounds, something being set down, a loud sniff. Tom's arm around him, they wept together, Jimmy's pain for Karen and the day mixing with his grief for Kyle, pouring out.

“Well, that's one way to break the ice.” Tom grinned crookedly. Jerked his head toward chairs, handed Jimmy a glass. “What's up?”

“Did you know?” Tom looked blankly at him. “The exhibit. The musicals. The scores. Did you know?”

Ah. “I wondered. Something about the way you take the songs, it's a different appreciation.”

“You're not telling me I should keep my day job, not do acting?”

“No. You're a good actor. I'm the one who suggested you for Gatsby, remember? I just thought maybe that wasn't what you really love. I was right, wasn't I?”

“Yeah.” But . . . “I haven't written anything since -”

Tom nodded. “You will, I think. In time.”

“It's just, it's hard, you know? Kyle was – he – he could make me see, make me hear what I wanted. He was always smarter than me. And I don't know how to do it without him. You know? When someone really “gets” you that way. And then they're gone.”

Tom did know. He'd almost lost his partnership with Julia, through his own stupidity. Lucky for him he hadn't. Jimmy would find another partner, Tom said. It wouldn't be the same, he couldn't expect it would be. But it would happen.

He went to the piano. “We're re-working “Deathlight” a little. What do you think of this?” Playing the new cadence. Jimmy listened, frowning.

“Yeah, yeah, that's good. That's really good. Maybe a C-sharp, there?” He touched the score to show. “Make it pop, you know?”

A good ear. By the time Jimmy left, late, “Dead Lights” was something Tom could take to Julia.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Derek stood in the doorway, listening as Ivy sang Miranda's favorite bedtime song - “Moonshine Lullaby.” An unlikely Annie Oakley, his Ivy. But so lovely, her rendition.

Paulette was now live-in. Ivy hadn't wanted that, had resisted until it was impossible to argue Derek was wrong. She just didn't have the time. Time Miranda needed. Even if she was going to start spouting Hatian-French any minute.

Scrambled eggs for supper, toast, bacon, wedges of tomato. Tomorrow the benefit. Elisabeth Castle had survived surgery, a small miracle. Still not conscious, two days after, but that wasn't unexpected, apparently. Still critical, but the tiny hope was the smallest bit bigger.

No mention of the sloe-eyed elephant in the room. High road, Ivy.

“You and Jimmy seemed awfully chummy, what was that about?”

Ivy's mouthful of wine spurted out her nose, burning, bringing tears along with the laughter. She breathed, tried to speak, but out of her mouth came nothing but more laughter, and more.

“What's so funny? What?” Derek's honest perplexity set her off again.

“Nothing. Nothing at all. Oh, Derek, I do love you.” Still she couldn't stop.

“I love you, too, darling, I just wish you'd let me in on the joke.” Infectious, her laughter, he was laughing, too, in spite of himself.

“Life's the joke. Just – life.” She reached, he took her hand.

Held fast.

Chapter Text

Curtain down on Sunday's Indian Summer. Monday dawned grey, chill. Chill, too, the news. Elisabeth Castle had been rushed back into surgery in the night. Mark had hoped to put in a brief appearance at tonight's benefit; out of the question now.

Ivy had been very quiet since they'd heard. She, Jessica and Beth Castle (Sommers, then), had shared a tiny studio and classes years past. Beth, for all her dedication, had not been as gifted as her friends, had a thinner skin, and less luck. She'd found her real calling in motherhood, supplemented Mark's theatre earnings with revenue from her small daycare center. Who looked after those children now, Ivy wondered.

She frowned at the beaded rose chiffon she'd bought for the benefit, rummaged until she found the blue silk she'd worn to the Tonys two-plus years ago. A lucky dress, Ivy thought. She'd accepted her award and Derek's proposal in that gown. If she could tap into that luck, send it to Beth and Mark, their little girls. A tiny bit loose at the waist, but wearable.

Derek was touchy, irritable. Ivy knew he needed to be – Derek at work was an oyster. No irritation, no pearl. He controlled, channeled it now with better grace, but it remained a requisite. Derek wasn't altogether happy with the benefit arrangements. Saw Scott's point, the intimate setting, a few songs in tribute, created a sense of exclusivity that might, they hoped, result in larger donations to supplement the $2,500 ticket price. Manhattan Theatre Workshop's Board and best-heeled subscribers, a select few others. Still, he'd have preferred a larger scale. Would have accepted at least some of the offers to perform from non-Gatsby cast actors. Michael Swift, surely, could have sung. Karen's last unanswered text had hinted; perhaps he'd owed it to her to at least raise the question of her inclusion.

But Scott, Eileen backing him, had been adamant. Immediate-theatre-family only.

“Derek? Time we were going.” He stared. The night he'd last seen Ivy in that dress, told the world he loved her. Learned he would be a father. Blonde in blue – Madonna image.

“Beautiful, darling.” He kissed her her brow lightly, careful not to smear her makeup.

The car was waiting.

An hour to go. Last-minute sound checks. The production team, a few early-comer Board members, the Gatsby principals. Their guests. Nick Felder and Michael Swift mingled. Karen Cartwright sat alone, in the 20's-style steel-beaded frock she'd donned for “Bombshell's” opening night. She was the only female showing leg. Karen had been greeted cordially, lots of “where've you been hiding yourself?” Variation, “where's Jimmy been keeping you?” Keeping. Not now, not really, she was working. But the word stung. Derek hadn't given her more than an abstracted nod. He was, as he'd warned her, busy. She would wait. After the songs. She'd make him listen, hell or high water.

The musicians played a snippet of “Gatsby's” overture. Eileen Rand and Scott Nichols took the stage. Boilerplate acknowledgments, MTW, the Board, the subscribers, the cast.

“Most of you know how long Mark Castle has worked with Manhattan Theatre Workshop, how many of our productions he's acted in,” said Scott. He went on to speak of Elisabeth's condition, the latest ominous development.

Handed the microphone to Eileen. “We in the theatre like to think we take care of our own. All of you, coming here, are showing the world we do just that. On behalf of Mark and Elisabeth, thank you.” Short and sweet. The cherry on top - her own six-figure check.

The “Gastby” players took the stage. Songs of love, longing, hope. Struggle.

Simon began with “A Quiet Girl,” (without the intro) from “Wonderful Town.” Ivy managed not to weep as his fine tenor took “soft, soft as snow.” Ana followed with a haunting “Reach For Me,” leading into Jimmy's aching “The Love I Meant to Say.”

Jessica sang a fervent “Hold On,” from “Secret Garden.” Porter and Ivy delivered “Some Enchanted Evening” gorgeously. Eileen's suggestion. Derek suspected she had thoughts of reviving “South Pacific.” She had not approached him about directing.

Ivy had insisted on “They Just Keep Moving the Line.” Derek had opposed her choice. Her “Gatsby” numbers all told contained a scant handful of full-belt notes. Much use of her exquisite upper register. But he stood alone; Tom, Julia and Eileen had felt that if there were two “Hit List” numbers, one from “Bombshell” was appropriate, Scott agreed.

And oh, Ivy's instinct had been right. She sang as Beth Castle, not Marilyn. Hearts broke almost audibly. Hands found checkbooks, pens.

Eileen's phone vibrated. Check of the number; had to be taken. She listened, spoke briefly. Gathered Scott, Julia, Tom, Derek. Astonished the performers by taking the stage (and Ivy's mic) once more.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” she began. Her throat clutched, she swallowed, willed composure. “I've just had a call from Mark Castle. Elisabeth,” she had to get through this, “was briefly conscious this evening. She spoke Mark's name. She is sleeping now. Mark says they expect her to live. He asked me to thank all of you from the bottom of both their hearts.”

She left the dumbstruck performers to get through the finale – fate-defiant earlier, oh, so appropriate now.

Sam Strickland, the others joining in chorus, sang “Let's Start Tomorrow Tonight.” “With you, Beth, I'm ready for flight, yes, I'm laying odds on tomorrow, so let's start tomorrow tonight!” The last note still vibrating, Ivy fled to the ladies' lounge to weep out her relief. Ana and Jessica followed, lips held tight against trembling, sniffling back tears.

“Derek.” Low, urgent. He looked -

“Not now, Karen.”

“Derek, I am only asking for a few minutes. God damn it, you owe me that much!” Never had he heard Karen use language like that. Heard her sound so desperate. Guilt. He did owe her that much. Took her into the hall, she moved toward a sofa. Derek sat in one of a pair of chairs with a table between. Karen quickly took the other. Don't show defeat.

“All right. What.” Barely a question. And she couldn't start. She'd known, seeing the Wills family in the park, that her hoped-for last resort was closed. For this season, anyway. She had only one round to fire.

“Derek, I need you to help me. Please, please. I can't even get an audition, my agent hasn't actually dropped me, but he doesn't return my calls. I don't know what's happened.”

Derek sighed. “Jerry Rand happened, Karen. He lost money on “Hit List,” and didn't take kindly to your running off to Hollywood. I know,” he forestalled her, “you didn't breach your contract, but Jerry only cares about such things when they're points on his side. He wields a lot of power in this town. You won't find many willing to go against him.”

“I can't find any, Derek, you have power, too, can't you do something?”

Oh, Karen. He smiled ruefully. “I'm afraid I haven't much right now. If you hadn't noticed, “Gatsby” is the first show I've been offered in years. I've done nothing onstage since “Hit List.” My own fault, but there it is. I can't help you, I've no favors to call in. Once “Gatsby's” running, if it's well received, things may change. Until then, there's nothing I can do.”

She couldn't believe it – she didn't want to believe it - but she did. And if Derek's bad fortune was his fault, Karen's was her own. Jerry Rand against her. Nothing Derek could do to help.

“If that's all, I have to get back in there.” Derek rose, Karen blocked his way. It was absolutely the wrong thing, but she couldn't help herself. She threw herself against him, sobbing her heartbreak on his shoulder until he gripped her arms and stepped back.

“Don't, Karen, don't.” He sighed. “If I find I can put in a word, anywhere, I will. Go fix your makeup, your mascara is running.” It was, a little. He went to wipe the cosmetic smear from his jacket. Hoped Ivy wouldn't notice; he didn't want to explain this sad little scene.

Karen stood abandoned in the hallway. Waited for pieces of her to start dropping off onto the floor. In a minute or two, there would be no Karen left. And maybe that was OK.

“Miss Cartwright?” A deep, gentle voice. “I know we haven't been introduced, I'm”

“Porter Mallory, I know. Karen Cartwright.” She couldn't manage a “pleased-to-meet-you,” pleasure was something she could barely believe existed. For her.

“Yes, indeed, Miss Cartwright, I saw you in “Hit List” a bit ago. You look rather pale, please sit with me a moment.” They sat, he was talking, soothing things to hear, “marvelous voice,” “lovely presence,” “unusual gift,” as he dabbed the mascara from under her eyes with his handkerchief.

“There, that's much better.” Porter Mallory smiled at her. “I wonder if you would take tea with me, at the Plaza, some afternoon we're both free. I'd love to talk with you a bit. I must get back, but give me a call – do, please.” He was gone; Karen looked at the card he'd left in her hand. Porter Mallory, it read, and a telephone number.

At least someone – and Porter Mallory was Someone with a capital “S” - wanted to talk to her. Tea might be OK.

Karen breathed, straightened her shoulders. Jimmy would be wondering what happened to her. She'd tell him about Porter Mallory. Not the rest. No, not the rest. Derek was a closed door, now. Karen had to learn to live with that. And she would.

Smile. You're not done yet.

Chapter Text

Should he have sent a car? Timing subways' caprices was a mug's game. Porter Mallory sipped jasmine tea, refrained from looking again at his watch. Perhaps the female prerogative of lateness would never die.

Ah – there she was. Speaking with the Palm Court host, looking about her rather bemusedly. Porter stood, beckoned, and Karen crossed the bright room.

“Miss Cartwright!” He took her outstretched hand in both of his. “I am so glad.” A waiter seated Karen, Porter seated himself. Poured tea into his guest's cup. Did not shudder as Karen doused the delicate brew with milk and sugar.

“Sorry I'm late, the G train broke down. This is so nice of you.” Nervousness as well as curiosity under her words, Porter noted.

“My pleasure entirely. I've ordered us the Fitzgerald Tea, it seemed appropriate. And, clever girl, you've dressed for it. A lovely frock.” Another 20s-style, loosely fitted, low-waisted dress. Apple green. She should, Porter thought, avoid the color, it made her skin very sallow.

“Why,” Karen began, but the first round of fare was arriving – lobster salad with apples, deviled quail eggs, more.

Dishes arranged, assurances given that nothing else was wanted for the moment, the waiter effaced himself.

Karen swallowed a bite of lobster. “This is really good. I've never been to tea before. It's really nice of you.” She was repeating herself, she knew. And not asking what she wanted to know. “I mean, I appreciate it. Your taking an interest in me. But – why?”

He sidestepped her question. “I understand you are much in demand for demo recordings, my dear. I can't imagine you find it very rewarding, though. Do tell me if I am wrong.”

He wasn't, of course. “I miss the audience. Don't get me wrong, I love singing, but studios aren't the same.”

“Of course they aren't. And you should have an audience. You've an exceptional gift – and not just your lovely voice. But it must be experienced live, it does not can well. I have heard a few of your demos, and I saw your film.”

Ouch. But she knew he was right. So many had called Karen “magical,” but on film, whatever magic she had disappeared like a vampire's reflection. She hadn't been able to sit through “Hit List.” Derek had warned her. Did he hate her for defying him? Did her lousy reception in Hollywood tarnish her in his eyes? Would she ever know?

And it wasn't likely she'd get a live audience anytime soon. Not with Jerry Rand against her.

Porter nodded. “Yes, I've heard. Unfortunate, of course. Not one of nature's noblemen, is he? But there are opportunities for a singer of your gifts in areas where he wields far less influence than he does in theatre.”

She wasn't just a singer, she was an actress. And he hadn't answered her question.

“Miss Cartwright, at the benefit, I saw in you two things I hate to see. Waste and pain. I hoped perhaps I could help.”

She was nonplussed at his frankness. And what could Porter Mallory know about pain, anyway? Two Tonys, six nominations, pretty much whatever work he wanted when he wanted it. She said as much.

Porter looked down. Spoke quietly. “My dear Miss Cartwright, I am a gay musical theatre performer. My family are conservative Roman Catholics. No, they've not disowned me, they love me, and I them. What I am, what I do, are never discussed. But in their world, sodomy and murder are much equivalent – I do not exaggerate – they believe I am on track to burn in hell eternally. This pains them greatly, and their pain pains me greatly. And there is nothing to be done about it.”

He looked at her, now. “We can only be what we are, Miss Cartwright. I am sincere when I say you've an exceptional gift. But – forgive me, my dear, but believe me, too – your gift is not for acting.”

Karen objected. The Boston reviews for “Bombshell.” Her “Hit List” notices (for the stage version, anyway). Her Tony nomination.

He smiled. “My dear, you are, or were, a fresh face, something new. And you've a marvelous glamor, you know, you cast a spell with your voice. You are a true siren, in fact, but time breaks such spells as yours, when there aren't talent and technique to sustain them. With regard to acting, you have neither to offer. Singing is another matter entirely. There, you have everything and more. Why not focus on that – by your own choice, before the choice is forced on you?”

“I can't. I just can't. I want to act, it's all I ever wanted, to act in musicals. How can you ask me to give it up?”

His eyebrows lifted. “I ask nothing, Miss Cartwright. I point out that, if one wants to conquer the world, it is best to ensure one has proper artillery for the battle. Pick a world you can conquer with the weapons at your disposal.”

“So you think I'm not as good as Ivy.” Oh, no, had she really said it? Open mouth, insert foot. Damn it.

“You are not Ivy Lynn, and Ivy is not you. Ivy is an actress, a greatly gifted, well-trained one. When Ivy sings, it is in the service of her character and the song. When you sing, my dear, it is in the service of your own mystique. This is not a bad thing, it is merely unsuited for theatre. I've friends, contacts, not just in New Orleans, who can offer you outlets for your genuine, exceptional abilities. I've said I hate waste – you won't deny, I think, that you are at present wasted upon studio recording. Your gift needs an audience, and you know this.”

Karen looked away; the waiters were clearing the table, she had a minute. She was shaken by the words, so horrible to hear, so gently, so kindly offered. He had to be wrong. He had to be . . . didn't he? She wanted to resent, to be angry. Once she might have managed, but she couldn't, now.

She looked across the bare tablecloth. Heard the words as she spoke, without planning them. “Mr. Mallory, maybe you're right. Maybe. I don't know, I don't know anything anymore. Except that acting is what I have always wanted to do. Singing is just part of that. I can't, I can't stop trying. Maybe I'll fail. But I can't not keep trying. I just – I can't.”

Porter Mallory nodded, smiled a little. “Miss Cartwright, I understand – believe me, I do. The offer is open, you have my card. Thank you so very much, my dear,” as they rose, “for taking tea with me. I know what I've said cannot have been easy for you to hear; I hope you will believe it was offered out of a sincere interest.”

Karen acknowledged, thanked her host in turn. And they parted.

She needed a drink.

Chapter Text

“Stop. Hang on.” Derek was on his feet, frowning not at his actors but the stage. Specifically, the stage right area, Nick Carraway's living room. Jimmy, Sam, and Porter waited.

“Ivy, love. When Jay sings the “Yesterday's dance” line. We need to see Daisy . Come in from downstage, waltz upstage and off. Keep right, close to the wings. Let's see it. From the top, Jimmy.”

He watched the number out. “You're rushing it, Ivy. Don't. Again, please.”

Better. Still not quite what he wanted, Derek thought. What did he want? What was – just – missing, just beyond identifying? “Take ten.” He stared at the empty stage, fingers absently drumming the “Looking Back / Close the World” tempo.

It hit him so abruptly Derek barely noticed he'd knocked his coffee cup over, as he went in search of Scott.

“I want holograms. For “Looking Back,” Gatsby's reprise. Holograms of him dancing with Daisy long ago. She's in white, he's in uniform. The scene needs it.”

Scott, as Derek expected, protested the expense. “This isn't Broadway, Derek. We don't have that kind of money. “Gatsby” isn't a cheap production as it is; you know we're going to need extra stage hands - we don't have any wiggle room in the budget. We just don't.”

Derek played out the scene (Porter Mallory had the gun business, Jimmy's side of the stage needed more than him singing to Nick and himself), knowing it useless. But it had only been right to talk to Scott, first. His turf. That done, his conscience was clear. Derek pulled out his phone, found the contact. “Eileen?”

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Ivy wasn't easy. Derek had found the focus he needed; not astonishingly, it was Jimmy. Nothing wrong with that, perfectly appropriate, in fact. But, in her heart, she realized, she had been looking forward to, even fervently anticipating, being the focus, the beloved focus, of Derek's work, his creative attention. Not fair, to lay that on him, even in her own mind. But the disappointment was there, was real.

Compounding her frustration was Derek's vision of Daisy Buchanan. Ivy had known Daisy was to represent an iconic figure, rather than a real human being, but she hadn't understood how hard it would be for her not to play Daisy's humanity. Daisy was very real to Ivy, she wasn't some illusion, she was a heartrendingly conflicted woman, juggling a chronically unfaithful husband, an adored little daughter (nothing so easy for Ivy to relate to as that!), a best friend of questionable honesty, the happy arrival in the neighborhood of a much-loved cousin, and, to top it off, an importunate lover of her own, pressing her hard to abandon her life for him.

Not to keep to Derek's vision would be a terrible betrayal, unthinkable in a loving wife, proud of her husband's abilities and accomplishments. But denying Daisy her fully-human self, that was also a betrayal – of her character, of Ivy's own artistic integrity. Ivy knew how good an actress she was. But could she actually reconcile Derek's vision and her own? Good direction toward that end would help, would at least show whether it was possible. But that was just what she would not get, and couldn't ask for.

At least, she wasn't going to get it from, and couldn't ask, Derek. But Ivy frequently took refresher classes, private coaching sessions, to keep her technique honed. John Paul had done so well with Jimmy. She hadn't been to him for a while. Maybe . . .

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Chinese take-out spread on the coffee table, Derek dividing his attention between food and work notes. He employed a fork, Ivy chopsticks.

“Derek,” she began at a moment when he was not buried in notes, “I'm thinking I'd like a little outside coaching just now. How would you feel about that?”

He looked at her in surprise. “Whatever for? You're bloody marvelous. You're giving me everything I want.”

And nothing more. And that's the problem. “Darling, I just wonder if you aren't a little biased. It's been a while since “Bombshell,” and I've only been in a few workshops since. I feel like I'm a little, well, rusty, in a couple of places. And I don't want to put more on your plate, or interfere with your focus, not with two weeks of rehearsal left.”

Derek shrugged. “I can't see you're rusty, and I'd say if I did. But if you feel you need it, love, go ahead. Just see to it it doesn't interfere.” And went back to his notes.

Ivy ate a shrimp, and picked up her script, smiling.

Chapter Text

“We have to do it – no, we really have to! It's perfect, it's great – the holograms are ghosts, and these people are haunted! I'm just mad,” Julia smacked Derek's upper arm, “I mean, how dare you think of it when I didn't?”

Derek had let Julia take the lead. She had pounced on the idea of holograms with an enthusiasm so intense it made him smile. Even now, trying to maintain an impassive facade, he couldn't keep the corners of his mouth from twitching. Julia. He'd never known anyone more passionate, more open. Fiercely at work, simmering with sexual heat, sodden with misery, it was always 150% with Julia.

She had moved on to holograms of Myrtle, to haunt, in turn, George Wilson's song. The dancing Daisy / Gatsby ghosts should be balanced – and countered - with Myrtle's broken corpse, her death the only living thing in her husband's shattered consciousness.

Tom was still on the fence, but intrigued. It didn't matter – Julia was a juggernaut. Eileen, Derek thought, was as amused as he, and Scott, massively outnumbered, had agreed, with the proviso that the money had to be found. Derek trusted Eileen for that.

Done, and done.

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“So, how's my star?” John Paul's suite in the Carnegie Annex had one large room for classes and several smaller ones, his office, private coaching studios. In the tiny reception area, Ivy had noted her headshot was now second in the top row of current and former students, just behind Laura Benanti.

Ivy would never forget the telegram she'd received the night of “Bombshell's” Boston opening. John Paul had traveled up in hope of seeing Ivy. Had, tactfully, not attempted to visit her after, but had sent word. “Wrong choice. Stupid of them.” She'd sobbed with gratitude. Crumpled and re-crumpled, smoothed and re-smoothed, his telegram rested hidden in a box in her closet.

Pleasantries. Comfort. “Tell me about Daisy. Who is she, what does she need, what is she afraid of?”

“She's afraid of hurting people. She's scared of being hurt. She needs – she needs .. . .” How did you put it into words? Ivy could feel Daisy's need. In her bones, in her skin. Articulating it was something else. “She's sweet, really, she's nice, but she can't deal with Tom. He's awful, he isn't the man she thought she was marrying. He's cheating on her, she knows it, he knows she knows, and he doesn't care that he's hurting her. He's contemptuous of her, or she thinks he is. She needs -” Frustrating.

“She needs life to go smoothly, doesn't she? And of course it doesn't. A little childlike, do you think? Perhaps she stopped growing up, after losing her soldier?”

That made sense, that meshed. “And that's part – that's the biggest part - of why she doesn't leave Tom for Jay. Because she can't face the upset.”

“Good! Then, what's the problem between Derek's understanding and yours?”

“I think it's because Derek's seeing her from Gatsby's point of view. Daisy isn't a person to him, because she isn't to Gatsby.” Ivy frowned. “She isn't real to anyone. Except herself, and Nick. Derek wants this sort of white image. Purity. But Daisy isn't pure. She's nice, and she wants everyone to be happy, but she's not pure, she cheats with Jay, she turns a blind eye to Jordan's dishonesty. Then she kills Myrtle and lets Jay take the blame. And when he's murdered, she just stays with Tom. That's not purity.”

“No, it's not. And that needs to be clear, you're perfectly right. But there's something in her that conveys purity, not only to Gatsby.”

“Purity isn't something you can play, anyway. I just want her to be real, I want her life to be real, to the audience. She isn't white, she has colors. I can't – just – play 'white.'”

John Paul smiled. “What did you tell me back aways, about Derek's colors for Marilyn Monroe – sky-blue-pink, didn't you say? This is a little like that, isn't it. I think you feel it is. But it isn't the same. Sky-blue-pink is very constricting. But what makes white?”

Ivy blinked at him.

“Ivy, you're forgetting your high school science. What makes white light?”

Oh, God, of course. All the colors together. She was getting something. Could feel the gears in motion. Prickles, excitement. Life.

“All right, then. Let's see what we have here.” John Paul picked up the script.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

“You are so good. Lovely stuff, Ivy.” The best actors weren't always the best students. Ivy was both. Such a delight, quick, intuitive, responsive. Emotional instrument honed and vivid, immediately accessible.

“When are you called tomorrow? “ John Paul opened his daybook, took a pencil. They settled a time; John Paul making a surreptitious note to have Millicent re-schedule Carter Smith, Janet Halliwell, and Martine Allison.

“Think about something, Ivy. Daisy must be very frustrated, don't you think? But she's been a very sheltered girl, very carefully raised, no?”

Ivy snorted, delicately and ruefully. (How on earth did she manage that, John Paul wondered. Remarkable). “Uselessly raised, if you ask me. She never learned anything except to want to please people.”

“Good. Good. And you've established that she's afraid of hurting others. So she wants to please, she's afraid of causing pain.”

“Because – because she's afraid if she isn't adorable, if everyone doesn't love her, if she isn't nice to them, if she hurts them, then they won't take care of her anymore. And she needs people to take care of her. She doesn't know how to take care of herself. I don't think she even understands the concept.”

“So she never acts, does she, without that desire, and that fear, and that need. And we put on top of that the hurt of her life at present, and some sense of alienation from it, perhaps. What do you think we get?”

Alienation. Not expressed in anger, but illustrated by “She's bewildered! She can't think it through, and she can't get away, because that would make waves.”

“Yes, excellent. And what are Daisy's first words to Nick?”

“I'm paralyzed with happiness. Oh, God, paralyzed.” Paralyzed. Paralyzed, paralyzed. “Inside. She's paralyzed inside. She reaches out, she tries to, but she can't reach far enough.”

“Yes, she's wanting, needing, fearing, but it's all tentative, hesitating. Not committing, not really connecting – that's astute, Ivy. And the hesitance, the tentativeness, will look like delicacy, and the stillness of her paralyzed sadness will appear as purity.

We'll pick it up with that tomorrow.”

Chapter Text

Wide awake in the dark. So suddenly that the dream which had jolted her out of sleep blanked. Came back patchily, little cloud wisps.

Ivy slid carefully out of bed; Derek stirred, reached, mumbled querulously. She stayed still until he settled into quiet. The door opened, and closed behind her, silently.

Clicking through the photos. Before the “Gatsby” rehearsals had started, the Wills clan had spent a few late-summer days on Long Island, looking at the 1920s mansions, walking the beaches. Climbing the dunes that were left. Echoes, Miranda's giggles, Derek's laughter. Her own.

The dunes. Every day different. The sand, shifting under sneakers, sandals, bare soles. Shifting sand. Shifting sand. She had the key.

John Paul had suggested Daisy needed life to go smoothly; it was the right direction, but the reality was more fundamental. What Daisy needed was solid ground to stand on. If Daisy didn't move or reach far enough, it was from fear of motion miring her more deeply in the shifting, treacherous sand.

And Daisy did reach, and move – once - her yielding to Jay Gatsby was a huge, decided step, her hope that their love would give her that grounding, that place to stand safe. And that step set tragedy in motion. Which, in a way, made Daisy Buchanan the central agent, the real protagonist, even, of the story.

At the last, Daisy, now a killer, retreated to the treachery of the sands; her own tragedy that those sands were the nearest thing to firm ground she could choose.

Ivy could even see, now, a kind of purity, an integrity, in Daisy's refusal to disown her having loved Tom.

When the house woke to the day, she was on a third pot of herbal tea and ¾ of the way through Act II.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

She'd told Derek she wanted to “try something” with Daisy. Jimmy, Simon, Sam, Jessica, she'd spoken with each of them after her first session with John Paul. She had managed to keep her queasiness under control, had not vomited. God knew, she needed her voice at its best this morning.

The schedule was perfect – the scene between Daisy and Gatsby that began their affair. The “Ever-After” duet, one of Tom's loveliest melodies. Daisy clasping Jay's outstretched hand was the telling moment, not the ending embrace.

Well, here goes – something, she hoped. Not, please not, nothing.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

If it were a comedy film, they'd have put crickets. A muscle in Derek's jaw twitching.

“Take lunch, everyone.” It was 10:34. “Ivy, back in 15, please.”

Tom and Julia slid out on the heels of the actors, Linda scurried after them.

What did she think she was doing? Ivy's ability to disturb him . . . he remembered her shattering “Let's Be Bad,” in rehearsal for “Marilyn – the Musical.” She'd almost un-moored his entire vision of the story's arc.

Different, this. He couldn't even put his finger on a single specific change from his image-Daisy. Yet change there was. Not a still icon, Ivy's new take glowed white, yes, but an iridescence permeated, little shimmers of almost random colors.

Ah, there was a specific change. Daisy did not just yield to Jay, she chose to yield. Visibly. In honesty, though, Ivy's choices somehow made Daisy harder to pin down, more elusive, more mysterious, and – even more fatally desirable. And Jimmy's response had been a fiercer, yet fearful, hope.

It would be pleasant to smack Ivy down for this. Ten days until tech. He was very seriously annoyed. Most of all, he was annoyed at his own excitement. Too bloody good by half, she was. Christ.

“Derek?”

Back. In less than 15 minutes, he thought, but didn't bother to check. He looked at her. A little fear in her face.

“This was what the coaching was about, Ivy? I told you not to let it interfere, but that was the point all along, wasn't it?”

“Derek, I just needed to find out who I'm playing. People have to be – people, nobody is just someone else's image of them.”

“You should have come to me. Going behind my back . . . I don't like it, Ivy, that's not how we should work.”

“I know. I'm sorry, Derek. I didn't have a good choice here. And I needed to have something to show you. You weren't going to help me, all you saw was Jay's image of Daisy. What do you see now?”

“What I see is one holy hell of a complication. We've a week and a half.”

He hadn't said no. She'd won. Kept triumph off her face, out of her voice.

“I talked with Jimmy. And Sam, and Simon. They'll all put in extra rehearsal time. And John Paul promised to be on call 24/7. We'll get it right, I promise we will.”

“John Paul can go fuck himself. And get his beauty sleep. If you think you're doing this without me, you're crazy. In fact, you're a very naughty girl for even suggesting it. I think you may need a good spanking.”

Ivy grinned outright, now. “Can we get some lunch? And talk about Daisy?”

Chapter Text

Write your name on the sign-in sheet. Karen knew the hallways – narrow, lined with suspended wood benches, dented metal chairs, both. But she'd gotten a good agent out of college, had made well-produced, professional audition tapes. She'd been auditioning by appointment (even if the time wasn't kept to) for most of her New York existence. This was lots of steps – a whole staircase - down. Cattle calls, and for regional stuff, mostly.

Karen had learned better than to try for New York productions. Two bars, three, “thank you, that was great, we'll call you.” A couple of weeks of that, and she was impatient with kidding herself. If she wanted to be an actress, she had to do what it took. Go where work could be found.

There were fewer demo offers. Jerry Rand, it was whispered, hadn't fared well in court against Eileen, and had looked for a dog to kick. Picked Karen.

And modeling was draining; she couldn't afford to lose the energy. She needed it. So, she took the few demos that still came her way (some people liked her enough to buck the tide), and had gone back to waitressing nights. Auditions – or, waiting in audition halls - took the rest.

Karen and Jimmy barely saw each other, these days. The “Gatsby” rehearsals had engulfed him, extra time put in. Karen didn't want to hear. She'd have to see the show, unless she got a gig of her own. She didn't want to hear how great Derek was, how much Jimmy was learning. Not that Jimmy said these things. But Karen could almost hear him not saying them.

And Ivy, who was apparently going to be spectacularly spectacular. Karen didn't remember anyone telling her, but the whispers, they osmosed, spread around. She hated hearing Jimmy not saying that.

So, put your name on the list. Run and sign in for anything else you can audition for. Nothing else for Karen, not today. But – this was “Chicago.” Montclair, New Jersey. Maybe too close to New York, but she had to try.

The name just above Karen's rang a muffled bell. Caroline McMahon. A name she knew, from - ? She scanned the hallway – a few heads (it was early), most of them bent, reading the trades. One head bent over a thick book. Long ginger braid, wound into a bun – and she remembered. From Karen's aborted acting class. The Blanche DuBois the teacher had liked so much.

First impulse: duck and run. To hell with that.

“Hey, Caroline?” The ginger head lifted. Startling makeup – if she hadn't had her head bent to her book, Karen wouldn't have known her. OK, 20s style. Puzzlement for a split second, then a smile -

“Karen!” Caroline moved her bag from the next chair for Karen to sit. Toe shoes protruding, Karen noted. So Caroline did ballet. That could help – there was the Russian girl in “Cellblock Tango.”

Karen sat, glanced at the now-closed tome. A biography of someone named Helen Morgan. The dust jacket showed a 1920s photo.

“Have you listened to her? The style was so different, then, way too much tremolo, but she had so much emotion in her voice, it still comes through.” Listened to her – Karen had never heard of her. Sidestep.

“How did the class showcase go? Did you and Charles do 'Streetcar?'”

Caroline blinked, then “Oh. Yes, we did.” Quick flash of smile. “Kind of you to ask. Kevin” (the teacher-director) “convinced me – I liked doing it for class, but I wasn't sure I could really pull Blanche off for an audience – yet. I know I'm young for her. But it went OK, I got a few episodes on “Days of Our Lives” from it.”

Karen remembered soap work. Caroline was better off than she was, now. Jerry Rand had never heard of Caroline.

“I felt so bad for you – I was sorry I never got a chance to tell you. It's awful when you and the teacher don't speak the same language. So frustrating. I had one like that in college, first sophomore term. He had me so discouraged, I almost switched to just dance.”

“Thanks.” Surprised and touched. “You're right, it was like he was talking a different language.” And so were you – fluently. You understood him just fine.

The hallway was full, now; monitors arrived, took the filled pages of list into the audition room, closed the door on the waiting actors. You could almost feel the beating of butterfly wings in multiple stomachs.

The flutter slipped in under Karen's and Caroline's talk; the closed door took focus. Caroline had done an off-off-Broadway “Crucible,” playing Abigail, and an experimental ballet. Karen spoke of demos, Jimmy's involvement in “Gatsby.” Heard herself spinning her “support” of him into something it wasn't. At all. Breathed silent thanks when the name called was Caroline's.

The flashing smile, with a deep breath. “Break a leg,” Karen offered. It took an effort, but she managed.

“Thank you,” Caroline murmured, and, headshot in hand, she vanished behind the door. The rooms were soundproof; Karen was glad. She wasn't sure she wanted to hear Caroline sing – what if she were amazing?

Not long to wait, now. She, Karen, was next. Deep breaths.

The door opened, Caroline came through, pink-cheeked, eyes bright. A monitor's head - “Give us a couple of minutes, people.” Caroline had impressed them. OK.

“I could wait for you, if you wanted to get a cup of tea and compare notes, after - ?” The offer was hesitant. She could use a new friend, Karen thought.

“I'd like that, yeah. Thanks.” A little ruefully, “You know it won't be long.”

Caroline laughed, butterfly flutter under. “I know. Great. I'll be here. Break a leg, Karen!” As the monitor appeared, intoning “Karen Cartwright.” Here goes.

She'd had a hard time picking a song. Started working up “Beautiful;” it had worked once. But the association with “Bombshell” gave it an unpleasant taste. Rationally, her substitute should have tasted much the same, but she loved “Broadway, Here I Come,” hoped the desperation would dovetail with Roxie's.

She sang well, she knew it. And had the satisfaction of hearing, “Give us a minute, people,” behind her. Oh, God, please.

Joined Caroline; they went in search of tea, breathless with hope.

Chapter Text

Jimmy rolled a stiff shoulder against the back of his seat, massaged his cricked neck. The green room sofa had made a lumpy bed. He tried to keep back a massive yawn, without success, spilled half his coffee over his jeans. Great. Mopped at the stain with an ineffectual napkin.

A well-bred little commotion at the back – Jimmy turned his head sharply. Ouch, dammit. Ivy glided down the aisle, cardboard tray of 4 coffees in hand. Ana Vargas and Jessica followed, like-burdened. Kind girls, they had brought coffees in – good coffee, not like the stuff MTW brewed, which Jimmy had spilled - for general consumption since tech had begun two days ago.

In her element, Jimmy thought. Ivy approaching “Gatsby's” opening was a mermaid in water. Awesome. Her re-work of Daisy had brought in Fitzgerald specifics to over-lie Derek's broad-stroke vision (Jimmy had gone back to the novel in initial puzzlement at her changed choices). Like Fitzgerald's Daisy's, Ivy's voice "glowed and sang." The balance was masterly.

Ana's performance was there, too. All day yesterday, or nearly, on Myrtle's death scene. Ana, Jimmy, Ivy, Porter, and not a word, sung or spoken, among them, until “Dead Lights,” which had had one run-through only. The focus, of course, light- and sound-effects. The blood. The “tech” stuff. Let it all go wrong now, work it out now.

The garage only lit, misty yellowy-white. Sound of the motor, the first appearance of the headlights, twinned baby spots. Myrtle, yellow-gowned, running to just left of center, burning with desperate hope. The squeal of brakes, the crazy zig-zag of the twinned spots. As they raked Myrtle, Ana's dancer's body spun, sprawled face down. Blood packets broke beneath her, the pool of red spread slowly over the stage. The motor silenced, the lights stationary, Gatsby and Daisy rushing from the stage right wings, stopping well right of center. The rapid, pantomimed expostulation, Jay Gatsby dragging Daisy off right, the motor again, the lights sweeping away. George Wilson, moving uncertainly toward the mangled thing that had been his wife. “Dead Lights,” which trailed off into soft, broken keening, George kneeling in the bloody pool.

Jimmy wished he could see the scene from the audience, which was weird. Yawned again, but didn't spill the coffee Ivy had handed him. Kissing his cheek quickly. Jimmy didn't pretend, even to himself, that he understood the bond they'd forged. That had been forged, somehow - they hadn't worked at it. Didn't understand, even if he felt such a thing, why she did, too. But she did, and he did, and he would never, he thought, not be grateful for it.

John Paul's classes had been confidence-giving, they'd provided some building blocks, given him words to name things, thoughts - a few, anyway. The best gift, though, was the realization that he already knew a lot of this - stuff about choices, questions. From songwriting - you had to work out what word with what note conveyed the right shading of emotion. You had to work with melodic lines, imagery, outside what you naturally went toward, tread new paths, or the old ones just got stale, false. Maybe all art was like that. Hell, Jimmy thought, life was like that.

And he'd had the chance to put what he'd learned he knew into play. And learned a lot more in the process. Working with Ivy, as she reworked Daisy, had been strange, scary, and revelatory. She was too deeply focused for him to want to ask questions, so he worked and watched, as she tried, rejected, incorporated, fine-tuned facets of the new character-take. His heart had thumped hard the first time he'd seen - really seen - her shift, shade a moment in response to his own shade-shift, which had been a response to another of hers . . . Jimmy found he loved acting, at least with Ivy Lynn. He could fly without a net, her hands would be there to catch.

Thoughts about Ivy, inevitably, brought thoughts of Karen; unwelcome thoughts. He'd packed a couple of changes, toothbrush, and left. They hadn't fought, you couldn't call it that, they never fought, not really. Jimmy longed for something as personal as a fight.

He'd been so happy for her, seeing energy and focus come back. Was glad to make up moneys lost when she stopped modeling, had assured her she didn't need to wait tables. Had respected her insistence, encouraged her as she went from rejection to rejection. Respected, too, her doggedness. It was a characteristic he hadn't thought she'd had.

But – she didn't even pretend to give any of her new-found focus to them, to their life. It was all for her work. Or, rather, for her attempts to get work. Her tone at home, more and more, was sharp, snappish, as if she resented Jimmy - as if he were an unwelcome distraction.

He had tried not to resent it. Eventually, he failed. Last night, he'd come home to an empty loft, and a curt note. Karen had forgotten to buy milk. Just that. Not even a “could you, please?” Let alone “I'm sorry.” And that – such a little thing - did it. He'd packed his bag and spent the night at MTW. At least they had a couch, and showers. Hadn't thought beyond today's tech. Would deal later.

Jimmy yawned again, sipped coffee.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Sam was struggling with the entre-scene recitatives. Derek was unsure how much of that was due to the apparently intractable problem of props. There were a lot of them, glasses, books, decanters, vases and flowers, the bits that identified separate settings for the audience, in “Gatsby's” stylized overall mis-en-scene. Staging Sam's recitatives to cover the time needed to set the scenes created an unfortunate drop in pace. Which did not help Sam's performance. Derek thought, though, that there was more to it; he wasn't sure what.

“Too bad we can't have the ensemble dance some of the props onstage and place them behind Sam,” Tom joked. “The stage-hands' union would have our heads.” Julia and Scott laughed, ruefully.

Derek stared. “Tom, you're a bloody genius. We'll choreograph the ensemble behind Sam. To hell with the props, we can use the dancers to give the stage-hands time.” And, if any of the struggles were due to those stretches alone onstage, the dancers might prop (Derek smiled at his in-head joke) up Sam's confidence.

Eileen spoke. “Let me make a call, we might be able to persuade the union. Kill two birds? We should speed up the scene changes a bit, if we can, dancers or no.”

She called Nick, who made another call. More calls ensued. Within an hour, the head of IATSE Local One had assured Eileen that the union appreciated that the production had provided more jobs than originally contracted, and would be willing to give “Gatsby” a waiver for the dancers to set a few props.

The ensemble members were not sorry to have more time on stage. Rollie Gold, the costumer, had kvetched, but would, Derek knew, provide the proper suggestive colors for each entre-scene. Tom and Julia had headed for the piano, to work up music; Derek, full of ideas, expostulated at them until Tom had to send him away.

Part of Derek found the need to make last minute changes frustrating; a deeper part loved it. A production is a living, growing thing; when it stops changing, it dies.

“Gatsby” lived and breathed. Derek breathed, too, and for a moment listened to his work's beating heart.

Chapter Text

Karen, grabbing her coat and bag with her free hand, tried Jimmy's cell one more time. Still straight to voice mail, she didn't want to leave a message. It had been a shock, finding him gone, no note. Her own hasty scribble about milk had caught her eye. God, that was brusque. She hadn't meant it that way, she'd just been in a hurry. Small wonder, though, if Jimmy couldn't see that. Karen knew she'd been shutting him out – and worse, shutting him down. He couldn't know the reason, and she couldn't tell him.

Jimmy was all “Gatsby” to her, these days. The sound of his voice brought echoes of other voices – Derek, Ivy. Porter Mallory, too. Unwelcome voices, saying things she couldn't stand to hear. Not now, when she was trying so hard, when “no” was all she had heard for so long.

But she owed Jimmy an apology. And in person, not some voice message.

Karen bolted the loft door behind her. If she weren't lucky with the trains, she'd be late to the recording session. Another demo – and the first she'd got in over two weeks.

The one hope, not “no,” not yet, anyway - “Chicago.” They'd called her back for dance. Caroline, too.

After the initial cattle call, they'd compared notes – and hopes. Caroline had heard a recording of “Broadway, Here I Come;” offered praise. She had sung – what?

Blushed a little. “I know you aren't supposed to sing from the show you're auditioning for, but I had to do “All That Jazz.” You can tell me I'm crazy, I probably am, but I thought I might never get another chance this good, to sing that song in any sort of professional setting. And once I thought that, I couldn't not do it.” Caroline laughed at herself, but Karen thought she was a little pleased with her daring; Karen herself was a little shocked.

Karen was hoping for Roxie Hart – of course she was, that was first lead, what else would she go for? Caroline glanced at her oddly, but only said, “Sure. With your credits, you can probably have any role in this you want. I expect the auditions are a formality, for you.” Karen didn't contradict her with the reality.

“Realistically, my best shot is Hunyak. I have the ballet training, I'm good with languages and accents - I've been listening to tapes for Hungarian. Unrealistically, Velma, definitely – I really think I could do her, but I won't hold my breath. I don't have much of a resume.” Caroline laughed. Not as if she found anything particularly funny, more like she was excited, anticipating something – something wonderful. Karen had felt like that, a long time ago. Just wait. You'll find out.

They'd both quickly been brought to the front line of dancers. Karen knew her strengths – good line, stretch, amplitude. But she watched Caroline in the mirror; Caroline had those strengths, and better extension, sharper isolations than Karen's.

Neither of them had heard back yet, but it was only two days. You waited. You grabbed your phone whenever it rang, you cut off family for any incoming call that might be word. You waited.

And recorded your demo, and thought about apologizing. Jimmy had deserved better from her. Admit it – he'd been nothing but good to her, since she'd come back from Hollywood with her tail between her legs. She'd cut off everyone else she knew; she'd made him her only support. And he'd been there.

All while tackling the title role in an important new musical. Jimmy had less experience – much less – than Karen. He'd taken the acting classes she'd despised, had worked hard, and hadn't expected support. Had assumed she would have none to give, under the peculiar circumstances.

And she hadn't given a thought to what his needs might even be. So wrapped up in her own story, she'd forgot anyone else had one.

Yes, Karen owed Jimmy an apology. Big time. Whether they had any future – now, after her behavior, which she had to admit had sucked – or not.

And she had to hear from the “Chicago” production team, soon, or she would go nuts.

Chapter Text

And here they were, at last. “Gatsby's” tech issues had spilled through dress rehearsals and into previews, but the central, platformed turntable now revolved smoothly and quietly, the scrim providing the background for the occasional downstage New York bar scenes lowered and raised uneventfully, props and practicals had been pared to manageability, holograms danced smoothly, or lay horribly inert, as appropriate; new blocking, new choreography had been devised, learned and incorporated, lines and lyrics tweaked.

Ivy sat at her dressing table, half-listening to the muffled backstage bustle outside the closed door. She was all in – not as Derek used the phrase; “all in” meant tired to death when Derek said it. For Ivy, it was poker – she'd been dealt a decent hand, she'd played it well, she thought. She'd pushed all her chips to center-table. And now, she had to lay down her cards.

Floating thoughts – Miranda, this morning, sitting on the floor with her favorite stuffed bear – white, of course. Struggling with a white ribbon - “Mommy, help!” Ivy had tied a bow neatly for her around the indicated limb, but Miranda had pulled at it impatiently - “Not bow, Mommy, bannage! Caspar bear hurt. I make better.” Bemused, Ivy had wrapped the ribbon around the hurt.

She and Derek had traveled separately to the theatre. At work, they spoke easily, confidently. Derek had been astonishingly, almost bafflingly different, in his work with his cast, as Ivy had re-created Daisy. He didn't bark publicly, he had watched, at first, given sharp pointers here and there to keep the players within the framework of the show, but had taken each actor aside, at the end of the day's work, given private notes. With Ivy, he had spoken softly, but, eventually, authoritatively, once he saw where she was going. Asked sober questions that shone light into little dark corners, corners Ivy wasn't always eager to explore. But Derek was there, with her, as she cleared old cobwebs. An image had caught her, persisted - it was as if he had slipped his hands in, to work with hers. In her work. Fingers brushing in the depths. The process had been stripping, but the emotional nakedness, and Derek's new attitude, had been stirring. At the end of each day, Ivy had found herself aroused, wanting.

But the closeness didn't translate. At home, there was an odd little tension; preoccupation with "Gatsby" led to careless wordings, raw nerves led to flayed feeling. They had even come close to fighting once – over Ivy leaving something (she couldn't remember what) off Paulette's shopping list. Voices, words had sharpened, escalated, until they both broke off, appalled. “Sorry. I'm sorry, Ivy.” And he'd left the room. They had retreated into near-silence, except at the theatre. But Derek's “Good night, darling” was always loving; and most nights in the quiet hours, they would wake, and couple urgently, wordlessly. If they could work together, if at home their flesh could speak, Ivy thought, and if they could continue to give each other space when needed, the two relationships could work together, if not always exactly in harmony. Thank God.

Intimacy. And Daisy. Daisy, Daisy. Daisy Buchanan, nee Fay. So alone, so wholly alienated from any real, any vital human connection. What would her life had been, Ivy wondered, if, instead of rising from her bed of tears to marry Tom, she''d stayed true to her soldier? Daisy Gatz . . . if she'd had the backbone. And what would Jay's life have been? No, their marriage would have been a disaster. Poor Daisy. Poor Jay.

A knock, “Come in?” Derek. Last minute notes; he seemed oddly awkward. Took both her hands in his, looked down at them.

“Break a leg, darling. Not that you need luck. You're giving one of the finest performances I've ever seen – and tonight, the world will know it.” Derek kissed her hands gently, and left to find Jimmy.

The call, Linda - “half-hour.” Ivy began final vocal warmup.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Other warmups in other dressing rooms. Sam Strickland prayed; he was not the only actor doing so.

Jimmy was in at least three differing states of being. He was a terrified rat trying to find his way through a maze. He was an actor who had done his homework, knew his character, his lines, his music, knew his performance worked. He was a lover, wondering whether love had died. Put it into the work – Jimmy smiled wryly – he could almost hear Derek.

Karen's apology had been heartfelt – he'd watched her cut off every attempt to excuse or justify (her own instinctive attempts; Jimmy made none). And she had no-one else – how could he leave her? How, indeed – he had stayed, for a while, at Tom's apartment, but the loft was his, and where would Karen go, if he threw her out? So he had gone back to his home. But he was not happy.

Why wasn't he? He had loved – adored – Karen for years. He wanted to forgive, wanted even more to forget. Why was his heart holding back? He'd forgiven, or almost, her participation in Hollywood's travesty of “Hit List.” Why not this? Jimmy was baffled, but would not lie to himself. Something had changed in him. He wasn't sure, now, what he felt for Karen.

She was here, tonight, of course. Jimmy knew she didn't want to be, and he didn't really want her here, either. But, of course, Karen had to come to opening night. Too weird, if she didn't. What a farce.

He finished his warmup. The call for “beginners, please” would come any moment.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Manhattan Theatre Workshop's performance venues didn't run to orchestra pits; the “Gatsby” music had had to be carefully arranged for the instruments that could be squeezed into the makeshift space they'd managed. Upright piano, some strings, a few woodwinds; drum set. Tom had complained loudly at the constraints – at first. Then become intrigued. Composed incidental music to weave in and out.

The overture began with a drum and plucked-bass riff from “Heat, Dust, (We Need) Ice;” Tom's and Julia's Fosse-tribute opportunity – a gift to Derek. The number proper would introduce Tom Buchanan's New York apartment, the guests speak-singing two-line exchanges, the hissing stage-whispered refrain, the dancers shifting with pointed languor. Derek Wills was perhaps the only choreographer with the wit, the style to have pulled it off.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

“Careless people, broken lives,” Nick Carraway sang mournfully; the music spiraling to an end, the dancers, one by one, pirouetting to collapse to the stage, echoing Myrtle Wilson's last motions. On the raised center platform lay Jay Gatsby, in a 1920s swimsuit, on shining sheet of blue with a shining patch of red on his breast. The lights around him dimmed, darkened, the white spot held, then snapped off. Finis.

The applause started slowly, but built to thunder as the actors took their bows.

Backstage, Ivy, Jimmy and Sam hugged together tight, all three in tears. Porter Mallory kissed Ana Vargas' hands, thanked her. Simon and Jessica, who had started dating early on, kissed ardently.

Out front, Tom, Julia, Eileen and Scott licked cream off their whiskers.

And Derek looked on his work, and saw that it was good.

Chapter Text

Eileen sighed a little, under her smile. “Bombshell's” opening night party had been a far grander affair. The trendy little Soho club she'd rented (on her own dime) for “Gatsby” could have fit into the Hotel Carter space five times over. Bright side, it wasn't likely she'd be called upon to throw buckets of ice on a brawl.

The small space hummed with happiness. Derek and Tom laughing at one tiny table, Scott speaking intently to Julia at another. Four more tables had been pulled together to gather the “Gatsby” principals – Ivy glowing in pomegranate silk (“anything but white!” she'd told the saleswoman), Ana in soft-draped dark blue velvet, the color of her eyes. Jessica, sleeveless beige jersey; prettily simulated nudity. Such beautiful girls, and they'd given such beautiful performances. Star blossoms in a garden of talent. Ivy the chiefest rose, of course. Eileen loved her star (Ivy would always, in Eileen's mind, be “her” star).

And Jimmy Collins. Who would have thought three short years could transform a drug-addled singer-songwriter, however talented, into an actor of such impact? Certainly not Eileen Rand, who had cold-doused him at the Carter. The transformation went deeper - she found the two men, Jimmy-then and Jimmy-now, hard to connect.

Sam Strickland, sitting with Porter Mallory, looked as dazed as he had when they closed scripts after the first read-through. Outstanding work, tonight. Whatever the knots in the recitatives had been, they'd been untangled; Sam handed each scene on to the next with confidence, elegance. With a soft yet driving rhythm that compelled the story – and the audience – forward. With ineffable grace. It was – it should be – a star-making performance.

Phones and tablets everywhere, fingers pushing “refresh” constantly. Early reviews were trickling in, scattering fairy dust.

“Ground-breaking!” “Extraordinary!” “Houston and Levitt's greatest triumph!” “The must-see of the season!”

At last, the Times review. Richard Francis had not felt an Off-Broadway effort (particularly one involving Eileen Rand, perhaps?) merited Ben Brantley's presence; he'd sent an eager youngster, still a bit damp behind the ears. He had sufficient journalistic integrity to print the result, as written, under its header, “A Great 'Gatsby.'”

Quote upon quote - “Ivy Lynn is incandescent as Daisy Buchanan,” “Jimmy Collins' Jay Gatsby will haunt the memory,” “Sam Strickland – a soaring new star,” “Ana Vargas breaks all hearts.” And so on. And on, and on. Praise for Derek, “Deeply-felt, deeply personal work, with all the mastery we expect from him” (the young reviewer donning a masque of borrowed experience).

“Gatsby” was a hit. Life was good, no alloy in the gold. Jerry's face had turned almost purple when the judge read the settlement; it had been a happy moment. Happiness since. Nick, “Gatsby.” Tonight's triumph. Tension had snaked in Eileen's veins for decades; a python diminished lately to a slender worm, frisking, friendly. If Eileen missed, a little, the tension-power, she wasn't complaining. She had nothing to wish for.

Horrible thought – it slapped the smile from her face. The worm twitched, flexed – swelled. Her python, returning. Relief. Eileen had ridden her tension to an extraordinary life. Welcome back. Now, wish, and make.

The Broadway transfer of “Gatsby” - once the MTW run (sold out before the third preview, with an impossible waiting list) was done. She and Scott had laid beginning plans weeks before.

After that, “South Pacific” for Ivy and Porter. Eileen had had the inspiration within days of Porter Mallory's joining “Gatsby.” Tested it with their duet at the benefit – gorgeous, their voices had sounded together. Tom to direct, Eileen thought. Not Derek – the wrong artistic worldview entirely for good, old-fashioned Americana.

There would be arguments, of course. Derek would have no genuine interest in directing “South Pacific,” but would certainly resent not being her first choice. Eileen smiled. Family squabbles could be very stimulating.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

“Where's Karen? Why isn't she here? Didn't she want to come?” Ana looked beautiful, Jimmy thought. Her face was so vivid, she crackled with life and energy. She should – she'd been great tonight.

“She's got a callback tomorrow, early. In New Jersey. Third one, I hope to God they let her know soon. She's about to go to pieces.” God, why had he let those last words out? He felt disloyal for exposing Karen. She'd done her duty, she'd sat in the audience with Tom, Julia, and Michael Swift, she'd come backstage to make the congratulatory round.

Karen's and Jimmy's combined relief at the scheduled callback might be comical, one day. Not yet. He sighed.

“Cheer up! You were wonderful! I know what you need.” Ana took Jimmy's hand, led him to the bar, took the almost unsipped champagne from his hand, and got him a beer. Jimmy chuckled – she did know. Ana downed his bubbles, and got herself another glass. Touched it to Jimmy's.

“Here's to you, Jimmy Collins. Here's to all of us!” Drank her toast, and had her glass filled again.

Take it easy, Ana, he wanted to say, but didn't. Why should she, after all? She'd surely earned her celebration – and an un-wind. He'd see her home, if she needed it.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Karen's teeth chattered in the unheated subway car. A good thing. She was exhausted by the effort tonight had taken, and falling asleep on the train was not a good idea.

Tom Levitt had been kind; he'd asked Karen to be his “date” at “Gatsby's” opening. Memories of that fateful, fatal night, when he'd taken her to see Ivy in “Liaisons,” and she'd jumped ship. Changed “Bombshell's” frigate for “Hit List's” row-boat. Rising tides . . .

Karen and Tom had dined with Julia and Michael beforehand. She'd smiled and chatted. Her face felt stiff now, she couldn't remember a word she'd said.

She'd sat through the performance, isolated and alone, among those she'd once considered friends. Why once, and not now? Karen didn't know, and didn't want to think about it. All these questions. She'd never asked herself questions. But questions were asking themselves. And you couldn't shut your mind's ears.

Focus on tomorrow. Focus on hope.

Chapter Text

The hired Lincoln purred smoothly; Ivy leaned back against thick-cushioned leather, closed her eyes. Could not remember being so tired – every socket felt disjointed. Not wholly unpleasant. Like one of Miranda's rag dolls. Her left hand, clasped in both Derek's, rested in his lap.

 Ivy longed with every nerve, every hair, for bed. But obligation bit, worried at her. With effort, she pulled her awareness from depths to surface.

“Derek,” and she waited, watched as he alike hauled his attention up to her. He must be almost as worn as she. “All in.” She'd used the phrase earlier, to herself. Poker then, not now.

Take a breath. “I need to thank you. For Daisy, for letting me do what I needed to to get her right. For working on her with me. For making sure I asked the right questions, even when I didn't want to. For everything. You've been just – so great. Thank you.”

Derek looked at her as if he couldn't quite make out what she was saying; turned and addressed their driver. “Look, can you stop at Highlands for a bit? Drive around until I call you?”

Ivy could have wept. Didn't; smiled at her husband instead. Sometimes it was a good thing for a wife to be able to act.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

The Lincoln decanted them at the bar's Second Avenue entrance, purred away. Ivy had been to Highlands once or twice; she knew Derek came more often. One of the best collections of single malts in town.

The bar was quiet this late, few customers; the dark wood interior soothed. A neat-featured, neat-moving waiter guided them to a high-backed booth, produced wine and whiskey menus. Derek waved them away. “My Aberlour, two glasses. And a bottle of the Vesselle Brut Reserve, two glasses also.”

“Right away, Mr. Wills, Miss Lynn!” Ivy's heavy lids lifted a tiny bit – that tone vibrated; she noted the particularly neat and expressive hands. She met the dancer's eyes (oh, she knew!); a slight flush at her amused awareness. A little effort made her smile more collegial, and he smiled back briefly, before whisking off.

Derek's eyes were on the table. Words hesitant, as he began. “Ivy, you didn't need to thank me – you make me feel a bit of a fraud. I must tell you something, I should have told you before, it wasn't honest not to, but I couldn't say it at the theatre, and I couldn't tell you at home, either.”

Oh, God. Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God, what was this? Awake, wide, now. Terrified of hearing. What could be so momentous, unless (oh, she did NOT want to think about the 'unless' that came to mind – but she must) - what if he were leaving her? Please no, please not that. She couldn't bear hearing that. Not tonight. Not ever. Please, God, no. No.

He sighed, heavily. “Bear with me, Ivy, this is hard. Only because I'm an arsehole, I admit it.”

The arrival of wine and whiskey gave Ivy unwanted time to listen to her stomach churning. Derek poured whiskey, slid a glass toward her; she sipped the rich malt, holding the glass in both hands.

He had a fuzzy memory of holding a glass of whiskey in two shaking hands, thinking of her. Spoke again.

“It's I who needs to thank you, Ivy. You've opened up my work, given me a new vantage. If I'd been cleverer, I'd have learned the first time you offered it. Or the second. Or at least acknowledged it to you.

“My vision.” He snorted. “I put on blinders and called it artistic integrity. More fool me. And you yanked the blinders off. Or I finally let you. I can't thank you enough. And you will never have to go behind my back again, I promise you that.”

Whatever he had expected, it was not this – he watched, horrified, as Ivy burst into tears, heaving sobs he didn't know were relief.

But she was up, around the table, sliding next to him – she sobbed against his shoulder. He held her, stroked her hair.

Continued, as she quieted, “The image I had of Daisy, that tentative, sad stillness – it wasn't really Fitzgerald at all.” He shook his head. “It had to do with – I don't quite know how to tell you, how to say it.”

Intuitive, Ivy's stomach plummeted yet again. She pulled back a little, considered her husband and director with narrowed still-wet eyes. Formed words carefully, did not spit them at him. “I hope you aren't about to tell me you saw Karen Cartwright while you worked with me. Not again.”

“No. No. It isn't the wrong question. But - no. My mistake was I DID see 'my Marilyn.' Not Karen's version, though – yours.”

Ivy blinked. “When was I ever your Marilyn?”

“On “Bombshell's” opening night. Remember, the Gladys numbers were added after I quit.” Hint of smile, “In “Hang the Moon,” there you were – and there she was – my sad, blue-white Marilyn, as I'd never seen her. As if you kissed me, so sweetly, as if you slapped my face. I didn't know which, or perhaps both. As if you were saying, 'Of course, silly, I can do that – and better than anyone else, I simply won't be limited to it." I couldn't look away from you. I barely noticed your mother, for God's sake.” He pulled Ivy's whiskey toward her; she sipped again, one hand now.

“I was going to tell you that night, when we were alone. But we weren't.” Derek winced at the memory of that night's later goings on. Irrelevant, now, thankfully.

Ivy sipped whiskey silently, digesting what he'd said. Set her glass down, pushed it away. Reached for the champagne flutes. “You said two times. Was that the first?”

Derek poured wine for them both. “The second.”

Bubbles ascended in unsipped-at flutes. “What was the first, then?”

A corner of his mouth curled up. “You're a clever girl, Ivy, can't you guess?”

“Derek, I am much too tired to” and suddenly, she knew. “Oh, my God – it was “Let's Be Bad,” that workshop rehearsal. Wasn't it?” Derek nodded.

“I never knew why you stalked out. That did hurt, you know it did.”

“I stalked out because, if I didn't, if I looked at you another second, I'd have had to change my view of Marilyn. I wasn't ready, too stubborn, too stupid, I suppose. I'm sorry. It wasn't meant to hurt. Misguided self-preservation.”

He picked up the flutes, handed her one, and touched his glass to hers.

“Congratulations on another magnificent performance. And – my love and thanks, my darling.”

“Back at you, double.” Ivy drained her glass, set it down smartly. “Can we go home and go to bed, now? Please?”

Derek chuckled, and called for the check.

Chapter Text

Something was insisting he wake up. His phone. Jesus, what time was it? “H'llo?”

“Hey, Jimmy, did I wake you? I'm sorry, I just wanted to be sure you got home all right.”

“'S OK, Ana,” he mumbled. “Didn't sleep so good, is all.”

“I'm sorry,” she said, again, softly. “Thanks for getting me home in one piece. Now I feel bad, you not sleeping.”

“Not your fault, honey. Look, can I make some coffee and call you back?”

He didn't have to, she said; Jimmy said he would, anyway. Honey? He had never called anyone that.

Thought about last night, as coffee brewed. Ana had sounded brighter than he felt, though she'd drunk a good bit more. It hadn't been the drink, really, though, that had put her over the edge, it was the combination. Alcohol with the crash when the exhilaration of opening night faltered. If he'd had more than a few beers, he'd have been swaying on his feet, too.

They'd cabbed to her place – she'd said she was lease-buying it from Ivy. He hadn't been able to imagine Ivy Lynn in the tiny studio. Couldn't swing a mouse, let alone a cat. Accustomed to his open loft, Jimmy couldn't imagine such a small space containing Ivy Lynn. Ana's own presence pushed at the walls.

He'd made her drink water, take aspirin; she'd collapsed on her bed minutes after. Jimmy had looked down at her, and taken off her shoes. He'd known Ana a long time. Never told her, but he'd put in a plug for her when he'd sold away “Hit List.”

“You do know Ana Vargas got great reviews? She was only replaced because Daisy Parker was screwing the director . . .” No use, hard to argue with a Tony, he guessed.

Sold away. Yes. Maybe that was why he could sort of excuse Karen – she'd betrayed him, but not before he'd betrayed himself, his work. Kyle's. You couldn't undo what was done, you could only hope you learned.

Jimmy drank his coffee, picked up his phone. He didn't know he was smiling.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Karen rode the subway, met Caroline at the PATH station; they took that to Hoboken, and caught the railroad to Montclair. This was going to make for an epic commute, if Karen were cast. And LORT contracts paid less than a hopefully-Broadway-bound workshop. But Caroline had told her the young company was getting buzz, and it was work, if. If.

The train rattled, even with the windows shut against the cold. Too loud for talk. Caroline had finished the book about Helen Morgan, had lent it to Karen - “You know, they based Roxie's songs on her, you might be interested?” Karen had taken the book, had tried to read it. She didn't see how details of someone's life from 90 years ago were any help to her. Caroline had also provided some MP3s of Morgan's singing, which were, if anything, less helpful. Karen certainly wasn't going to sing like that. What was the point?

Caroline was working through another biography, someone else from the 20s, with the idiotic name of Texas Guinan, on whom, according to Caroline, Velma Kelly was very loosely based. Karen didn't understand why she put in the effort – it wasn't as if Caroline was assured of any part, at this point. She could sort of see it, once you were cast. If you needed that sort of thing.

The dance callback had winnowed the field, a smaller group of hopefuls had been instructed to work up specific songs. Karen had been assigned “All That Jazz,” “Funny Honey.” Caroline's specified numbers were “Roxie,” and “I Can't Do It Alone.” And they'd both made the cut to the third – final? - callback, at the restored 1920s theatre in which “Chicago” would be performed.

Come prepared to work. All the numbers they'd sung combined, “Nowadays.” Dance clothes; they'd be working with the choreographer. There were other train-riders identifiable as actors. One or two girls who might be competition. A couple of older women (contenders for “Mama” Morton, presumably), several men.

There was a van at the Montclair station, waiting to ferry the actors to the theatre, which was downtown, a mile and a half from the train. “An unusual courtesy,” Caroline murmured. And a very welcome one. Karen shivered in the chill wind.

The theatre was gorgeous – it reminded Karen of Boston, and “Bombshell.” Some sweetness, a lot of bitter in her memories. Caroline breathed in sharply, breathed out a soft “Oh, my,” her face quick with happy excitement.

They'd had lunch, or tea, quite a few times these long weeks. Caroline never had hang-out time, though, even less than Karen. Always rushing off to some audition. How did she find so many?

“Oh, I don't just try out for musicals. I can't – I need to be versatile.”

“Why? You're an amazing dancer, and you must be a really good singer, you got a callback on “All That Jazz” - and you said yourself that was a no-no.”

Caroline flashed her bright smile. “Mezzo-contralto. Almost every lead there is is for soprano, I just don't have those top notes, and it isn't fashionable to transpose anymore. Even if they would for someone, they won't for me – not yet, anyway.

“And I don't want to just do musicals. I want to do Shakespeare, I want to play one of the sisters in “Arsenic and Old Lace,” I want to play some horrid little boy, I want to do everything!”

Why would you want to spread yourself thin? You should focus on what you did best. Karen didn't understand Caroline at all.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

The theatre was cold; bare-armed dancers turned faintly blue before the heat, and the body-heat, warmed them.

Karen, Caroline, only one other girl, apparently – and this other, Melanie Something, only working on “Roxie” and “Funny Honey.” Melanie Something had a good, strong voice, learned the choreography well – less quickly than Caroline, but a little quicker than Karen, who had improved her pick-up skills a bit since her “Marilyn – The Musical” auditions. But Karen thought she herself would not cast Melanie – the voice wasn't anywhere near Karen's mellifluous instrument. Or Caroline's rich vibrancy. Karen would not say so, ever, but she was hugely relieved Caroline wasn't a soprano.

Roxie was in her range, though, as Velma was within Karen's. It would be funny if Caroline got Roxie, and she got Velma.

Singing “Nowadays” with Caroline was fun, even when the director told them to switch characters, even though Caroline had rudiments of both characterizations readier than she did.

It was over. The production team – mostly around Karen's age, it was indeed a “young” company, largely drawn from graduates of the excellent theatre program at Montclair State – had promised a decision soon, thanking everyone for coming so far.

Back to waiting.

Chapter Text

Ivy had slept little, dreamt a kaleidoscope. She arose early, leaving Derek in his own unquiet sleep.

Such a night, it had been. Over coffee, Ivy ran over last night's performance, found a couple of moments to tweak. Thought of her “Good nights;” she had kissed Jimmy when she thanked him. Meant it with all her heart. Could not have given the performance she had without him, his work, his unvoiced, unflagging support. His love. She knew Jimmy loved her; not erotically, like a little brother, like a colleague, like a friend. Ivy loved him back. So young. Trying so seriously, like a little boy, diligently washing behind the ears. Jimmy had scrubbed himself raw, getting deep-clean, it touched Ivy to the quick. She'd been there, or a nearby address.

Porter Mallory had kissed both her hands, as he had done that first day, at his audition. “Dearest Ivy, my one regret is having no opportunity of working closely with you. I do hope we may do that sometime soon, if you are not unwilling.” Unwilling? To work – to sing – with Porter Mallory? It would be an actress-singer's heaven. They'd woven a tapestry with “Some Enchanted Evening.” Eileen had hinted at post-Gatsby plans (the Broadway transfer was an all-but-done-deal), but no specifics . . .

Ivy and Sam, no words needed – they knew each other too well. Beyond proud of her friend – pride seemed presumptuous, in the face of Sam's performance. He had aced it. With such presence, with so strong a delicacy.

Derek. Ivy knew the enormity of Derek having said – acknowledged - what he had. She had seen change in his work, and his working, yes. Had had no idea the change had been so profound, so deep. Had had no idea she was at all responsible. Responsible. Responsibility. It was disquieting, a little. To have caused profound change of outlook in so formed an individual as Derek Wills.

She'd done it twice. The first time – when she was in early pregnancy – had not troubled her – not much, anyway. Ivy had been stunned, at first, to see Derek doing the right thing, in public and on purpose. Too much so, to wonder why. When she had realized, knew what she said to him had impact, she was glad – she counted it a good turn, to someone she loved, human to human. Basically.

To have changed his work, though – that was different. He was Derek Wills. He was the best – she knew it, he knew it. Would change make a stronger, more fruitful tree? In the long run? Or something mis-grafted? How could they know? They couldn't. Time would tell.

But it would be a self-lie to to deny that, deep-under, she was gratified. Validated. Vindicated. Which vied with something not guilt, but akin. Rusty blood-roses of feeling.

Ivy went very still. She didn't know these flowers. New hybrid. Ivy rippled, quivered. Heart thudding, eyes shut. Held the roses. Breathed, floated in the scent. Something sweet, clingy, like lilyflower, something sharp, clear, bright – fall morning-y. Something dark, acrid, cold - ashen.

Reached for her script. Flipped. The climactic New York scene. Jay Gatsby confronting Tom Buchanan. Daisy avowing love for Jay. Refusing to deny she had loved Tom. Here. Yes. The sweet, for Jay, bring the ash under sweet - Pammy. The sharp bright – oh, for getting it right, at last. Telling the truth. Ash under sharp – for Tom. Pure ash – foreshadow - how fatal that truth.

Click . . . click . . . click . . . click . . . and click. Into place. The magic cave opened. She'd mix metaphors if she wanted to. It suited, anyway. You did your work, you cracked the safe - open, sesame - and found the magic. Theatre's gift. Even if you were never. Never, ever. The “magical” one. You hugged the magic in secret.

Chapter Text

Montclair was silence. No demos, not today, not yesterday, not tomorrow. No offers for 12 days. Her shift hours – long hours – away.

Karen switched the television on. Distraction, even if she couldn't focus.

Jimmy had gone out; had not said where. Karen had given him the sweetest smile she could rummage, and not asked. His kiss had missed her mouth.

Trying. She was trying. He was too, she thought. She hoped. What she knew was that Jimmy was unhappy with her, and neither of them knew how to fix things. A matter of time, she had to figure, before it was all over. It would serve her right.

It would break her heart – she loved Jimmy. Truly loved him. She'd never known how much. For the first time in years, Karen thought of Dev. She had dumped him – it had served him right. Had it broken his heart? Dev had loved her, she knew that.

Rat, in a maze of questions she couldn't navigate. And the maze had an end she didn't want to reach. Karen grabbed her ringing phone like a lifeline, muting the TV with her free hand.

“Karen?!?” Caroline, almost squealing with excitement. “Did you get the call? I got Velma – oh, my God, oh my GOD!!! I'm playing Velma Kelly in “Chicago,” I can't believe it!”

Karen's heart plopped into her stomach like a lump of rotten meat. “No,” she said quietly, swallowing hard, “I haven't heard anything. Congratulations, that's great. I'm really glad for you.” She even was, a very little, under crashing nausea-waves. Her one hope. Crushed out like a cigarette. Squashed like a bug.

Another call signaled; she cut off Caroline's “Oh, Karen. I'm so -” sharply,

“I'll call you back.”

“Karen? Price Davis, Montclair Rep.” The director himself. Her hands shook, she could barely keep the phone to her ear with both of them. “We'd like to offer you Roxie, if you're interested.”

If she were interested????? Karen tried to accept with nonchalance. At least a semblance. Wasn't sure she pulled it off. But - she had Roxie. Squashed bug waved feebly triumphant legs in the air.

They'd email her the rehearsal schedule. Price Davis rang off; Karen still so shaky it was minutes before she could call Caroline back. Caroline was thrilled for Karen; they made a date to compare rehearsal schedules, make plans.

Inside, she still shook. Karen couldn't feel happy, not yet. Mercifully, tears came, gasping sobs leached toxins. She almost had to feel her way to the sofa. Stared blindly at the soundless screen. Empty of everything but relief.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Karen printed, perused the schedule; winced. The rehearsals would be grueling. Add the hours of travel time – she'd never make her shifts. She had refused to live wholly off Jimmy when things were fine between them. When they'd pretended things were fine. Would absolutely not reverse that now. As they fell apart. She'd have to figure something out.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Why had she suggested The Vine? The little restaurant was tiled; noisy – and crowded. Caroline perched – birdlike – on the wire-backed chair opposite.

“A couple of days, maybe, I mean - sure, if you need to while you find something,” vividly uncomfortable, blushing hard, long-fingered hands twisting together, “but not longer, I just can't – my place is – it's an un-glorified closet. I have to move everything to get the Murphy bed down. Usually I just sleep on the couch, but it doesn't open. And it has to be upended to open the bed.”

It was something. And she didn't need it - yet.

Their rehearsal schedules had a lot of overlap. Looking at Caroline's, Karen thought her own schedule had been arranged with less care. More dead space in the day. Caroline's was tighter. Maybe it had to do with others' availability. Maybe. Caroline said Geraint Rhys would be playing Billy Flynn; she'd heard he was shooting an indie film. (Karen hadn't asked who else had been cast; Caroline had all the names.)

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

No shift today. At loose ends, after she and Caroline parted. On impulse, Karen turned into the PATH station, rather than the subway. The PATH was a lot cleaner than the New York trains, there was that. At Hoboken, she scanned the board's departures. In luck. There'd be a train to Montclair in less than half an hour. Bought a ticket, bought Variety, found her gate.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

It was a hike to downtown, and cold. It wasn't snowing. Karen walked the drags. Restaurants. Signs, “Help Wanted.” Off the drag, when she ventured, apartments for rent. She walked.

Coffee shops. Antique stores. Vintage and consignment shops. Second hand books. College town stuff. Karen remembered, felt . . . alien. Not young.

But she knew how to wait tables. Before she called the number of the taxi company (card pinned to a bulletin board), Karen had turned in applications (applications! to waitress) at three restaurants. And written down telephone numbers for five apartments.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Karen rode the racketing train toward her next transport. Felt empty. Numb. But she had a plan.

Chapter Text

Eileen Rand snarled soundlessly at the receiver, slammed it into its cradle. Looked ahead at nothing, as her lips formed a string of precisely pronounced curses.

This was what coasting happily got her. Never again. “South Pacific” was not available. Taken. Another production in development; they'd scooped the rights. Damn, blast. Fuck. Of course, productions in development were not guaranteed to open. Quite often they did not. But – it could be years before they let go the rights.

What to do, now? What to plan? The “Gatsby” transfer was set, no more to be done until the MTW run concluded. Of course, there would be more than enough to engage her, then. For a little while. But after that . . .

Eileen thought briefly of voodoo dolls. It would be satisfying to stick pins into Matthew Johnston's (the producer's, her rival's) head, by proxy.

She would not, not give up on her Ivy Lynn-Porter Mallory pairing. That cried out to Eileen – it was imperative - it must happen. But “South Pacific” would have been perfect. Absent that, what? Not a new show, it was long since Eileen had staked claim to revival territory, time to remind them. Of everything she could magick.

Oh. Oh, oh, oh. Oh, my, oh, yes! Her lips curled up. Perhaps even better than “South Pacific.” Which could be done at a later date, given bad luck to Matt Johnston. This - right in Derek's wheelhouse. In-your-face against-type casting, for Porter. How nice. And Ivy – Eileen could have chortled at the thought of what Ivy would do with that role. High time lovely Ivy did something untragic.

DO-NOT-WAIT. Not one minute. A call secured her option.

Now for the fun. Eileen dialed another number.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Not for everyone, it occurred to Eileen as the cab dropped her at Le Bernardin, would she have reserved a table and shown up for lunch on spec, having left an invitation on voice mail. It was, in fact, a first. But her excitement demanded action, movement.

Porter Mallory was already seated, he rose at her approach.

“Eileen – my deepest apologies! My phone seems to have decided it needed a holiday from functioning. I am only profoundly relieved and delighted I was able to retrieve your message. How very kind of you – but you must lunch with me. It must be my treat, please.”

Eileen demurred – her invitation, her treat.

“Oh, but my dear Eileen. Let a gay man enjoy the rare traditional manly pleasure of taking a beautiful woman to lunch. Please – you won't deny me?”

How could she say no? “Porter, I do love hearing you talk. You are so old fashioned you make me feel young.”

He inclined his head, palms up in tribute. “Eileen, be young a thousand years.”

They made “Gatsby,” and history, small talk as they studied menus, ordered food and drink, nibbled oysters and razor clams, scallops and crab-stuffed calamari, sipped wine. Almost twenty years, since Eileen Rand had cast an ugly-attractive young man with a huge voice and a riveting presence in a small character role.

Eileen spun the small talk out. Enjoying her own impatience, her anticipation. Porter's unspoken, but certain, curiosity.

The final course placed before them. Lobster for both; it looked too pretty to eat – almost. Porter folded his hands, untouched plate waiting; smiled at her.

“Dear Eileen. You are bursting to say something to me. And I am bursting to hear it. May I?”

She beamed at him. But, first, “Porter, what are your plans, after “Gatsby?” Even the Broadway run will only be six months. What, then?”

“Home, I think, for a little while. I must see to my house, and I will need a bit of a break. I think we all will – we actors. “Gatsby” is a magnificent show, and I am grateful beyond words to be a small part of it. But – I, at least, will need some recreative time. Not long, I trust. Beyond that, nothing particular. Something will come up, it always does.”

Yes, for Porter Mallory, there were always offers. He had had a charmed career. Perhaps because he was so very firmly a character actor, not a romantic lead. Eileen would change that.

“How would you feel about tackling Fred Graham, “Kiss Me, Kate?”

Porter Mallory blinked rapidly, turned his head a little. Turned faintly pink, murmured, “Eileen. And it isn't even my birthday.”

Oh, this was too lovely. Never, never had Eileen seen Porter Mallory nonplussed. He gathered himself immediately. But she would cherish this moment forever.

“You cannot be unaware that I am, let us say, not an obvious choice for the role.”

“And you cannot be unaware,” she mocked him gently, with affection, “that you would sing – and act, the hell out of that part. I know you can bring the sex – George Wilson is pure testosterone. Nicely done, by the way, unmistakable, but unobtrusive. And I've been thinking – you can use the difference – make it funny.”

“Part and parcel of his overweening ego? I like that, it might work. It might work quite well. The answer is yes, of course. And your Lili?”

“Don't be cute, Porter. You know I want to put you and Ivy together onstage. Also, she's perfect for Lili – she has the voice, the acting skill – and the comedy.”

“Dear Ivy. She is rather like the milkmaid who's just discovered she was a princess all along. Handling it well, don't you think? She fascinates me. Almost as much as you do, and always have, my very dear Eileen.”

They savored every cold bite of lobster in silence, in harmony.

Chapter Text

“Hey. Can I buy you a drink?” A voice soft in his ear; a cheek, soft, sensed, near his hair. Two small hands, anchoring his shoulders to the part of now that was known, that was safety. His friend. Something twisted, sharp, in Jimmy's heart. He took Ivy's hand as he turned to her. Smiled true as he spoke around the lump in his throat.

“How about I buy you one?”

Derek had left the bar a while back; Ivy had hovered. Jimmy had not been – what? Himself? That wasn't right. And his performance was granite. But – something had been – off – a little. For over a week.

They moved from the large table, gradually emptying now, to a two-top. Jimmy fetched Ivy's wine, a beer for himself. Both, silently, recalled another drink - months, a lifetime, back. Ivy reached the few inches, covered Jimmy's hand with hers.

“OK. Do you want to tell me about it?”

He couldn't pretend. Not to her. But -

“I do, yeah. But I can't.”

Why? “You can. Anything. I won't judge, I promise.” Ivy smiled, rueful, “Like Mae West said, “I've seen places, and I've been things.”

Jimmy's sharp exhale, with a smile, was the closest he could come to a laugh. “I know. And I love you, Ivy,” the words he had never said – well, wasn't it time to say the love he meant? “But you can't help me with this.”

Her hand squeezed his. “Try me. You never know. And – you do know I love you, Jimmy.”

Jimmy shook his head. Not stubbornness, she thought. What, then, could it be? Unless -

“Is there something about your – your past, your – brother? If it's a legal thing, Derek knows lawyers, if they aren't right, I bet Nick Felder can recommend one.”

A real laugh, at that. “Nothing like that. Don't worry, that past is past. But – what it is, you can't help me, because I can't bring it to you. You, especially. It'd be – unforgivable.”

Unforgivable. What could warrant that word? Then – it came to her. He saw it in her face.

“See? I've said too much already. Now you know.”

Yes. Now Ivy knew. What Jimmy could not bring to her. And knowing what, she understood why. He was right.

But - “Is there anyone? It's eating you up. You should talk to someone.”

Jimmy scanned the near-empty table the cast had filled after tonight's performance; Ivy followed his gaze, their minds peopled the seats.
He shook his head, not in negation. “I don't know – everybody knows - too much – too much history, it's too weird, I don't want to put anyone - in - that position, you know?”

But, as Jimmy spoke, he realized – maybe one person didn't. Know too much. Was outside that history. Ivy read his face.

“Maybe?”

“Yeah. Maybe. Ivy. Thanks. Am I always thanking you? You're – the best.” He turned his hand, still beneath hers, clasped. “Best friend I've had since,” say the name, say the fact, “since Kyle. Since he died.”

“I should go – subways are a bitch this time of night.” Ages ago, she had taken leave first.

Ivy watched him go. A strange feeling – almost like loss. Why would that be, when they had, for the first time, put their friendship into words? It punched up into her solar plexus – whatever was going on with Karen, Jimmy had put in place a final piece of growing up. Her little brother was a man.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Jimmy rode his subway home, thinking. Karen. Two weeks, and a little, since she'd packed for Montclair. Her reasons had made sense. The commute was impossible, she'd found restaurant work and a sublet close to the theatre.

It was, it was supposed to be, temporary. She hadn't broken up with him. And he hadn't had the balls to do it himself. She came “home” weekends – getting in late-late Friday, gone by mid-morning Sunday. But – he liked her being gone. He could not deny it, and, try as he might, Jimmy couldn't hate himself for it. Karen hadn't said a word, until her arrangements were all in place.

Maybe Karen could kid herself. Jimmy would not. There was no place for him in her life. And he wanted back the space she had in his. But – some vestige, some remnant of love, forced him away from making the break. Not yet. Not until she had her show, too, not until “Chicago” opened.

Ivy was right, he thought. He did. Need to talk. Porter Mallory – he had no history with Karen. He and Jimmy had not become close, though Jimmy knew Porter had taken pains to cultivate Ana Vargas, had taken her to dinner, to concerts, clubs. Simon, too, and Sam.

No reason, Jimmy thought, not to take the first step himself. At worst, Porter wouldn't want to listen, and what would that change?

He had nothing to lose. It was a good feeling.

Chapter Text

Porter Mallory did not fidgit, but his body, which should have been at ease in Bouley's cushioned chair, wanted to. His guest was not late, it lacked several minutes still of the hour. He himself had been quite early, to ensure all was arranged as he had specified. Not that he need have worried. Porter Mallory was a frequent patron of the luxurious TriBeCa restaurant; his preferences were known, his wishes catered to. Yet, he was nervous – only slightly so, but still. Not in many years had he experienced nerves of this sort. He sipped at his tiny glass of fine, dry sherry, glanced at the half-bottle of brut champagne, icing in silver.

Ivy Lynn's arrival, unsurprisingly, caused a tiny commotion – all heads turned, all courses interrupted for the moment. A uniformed minion hastened to take her wrap – golden sable (Derek's gift to his wife upon the birth of their daughter), usher her to her seat. Porter rose, breathed. Watched his guest's approach. Ivy wore a dress of dark green silk jersey. It looked, and was not, Porter knew, a simple frock. The quiet rich cloth pleated and draped about her curves, suggestive rather than explicit. Ivy could wear any color, but green was especially becoming to her.

“My dear Ivy, I am overjoyed. You are entrancing – your dress is divine – a beautiful green leaf to set off an incomparable golden rose.”

Every dimple evident, “Porter, you are an indecent flatterer.” Looking around her, “this is just beautiful – I've never eaten here. What a treat! Thank you so much!” Unaffected delight. As Porter had anticipated, the room was a lovely setting for Ivy – the soft warm ivory of walls and columns a background for her vividness; the gold leaf of the mutiple-arched ceiling and the leaping firelights glowed and flickered in her hair.

Waiters presented amuses bouches and menus, popped and poured champagne.

“Eileen has spoken to you, I take it?”

Ivy nodded, “she called this morning. I'm not allowed to tell Derek, yet – she said she'd tell him tonight – they're having dinner, too.” It had been hard – impossible without conscious will – to keep the smile off her face since that call. “I'm thrilled to pieces, Porter. How about you?”

“The same, of course. Beyond words. But – in all honesty, a bit nervous, as well.”

“Pull the other one, Porter. I can't even imagine seeing you nervous.”

“You see me so now. Truly. Ivy, musical theatre has been the great love of my life, almost as far back as I can remember. Yet,” he broke off as sea urchins arrived, paired wine attending; kept silence for the savoring.

“Oh, my God, that was delicious,” Ivy murmured. “Seriously, though, Porter, you of all people don't need to be nervous – you're wonderful, and you know it.”

“You are very kind. And – without false modesty, I know I – we – will be very good indeed. But – very good isn't what I want. Not even close. I want to be – and I want us to be – splendid, magnificent.

"And I have never, in my life, played a romantic lead. There are aspects to this I am wholly unfamiliar with. I must learn them, understand them, master them. Will you help me?”

Ivy looked at Porter, considering. “Never? Not even in school? Actually, I didn't play a lot of leads, either. Not until “Bombshell,” and Marilyn isn't exactly a traditional romantic lead. Daisy, either, for that matter. I mean, of course, I'll help any way I can, but I'm not sure I know myself what it is you want to master. If that makes sense.” She grinned. “But I'm down for us being splendid and magnificent. Anything toward that, I'm in.”

Mushrooms with toro, in garlic-coconut broth, new glasses, wine. Bites taken, a coo from Ivy.

Porter smiled. “No, not even in school. And our cases are different. I have always known I was not, as they say, leading man material. You cannot have had the same knowledge – since you are, quite unmistakably now, an absolute peach of a leading lady, and must have known yourself such, even in the making, in your heart.

"Part of how I work, Ivy, is to spend time with the actors who play characters with whom my own character has relationships. Getting to know the feel of them, the tenors of their personae. It helps me create the feel of the life of the man, for myself. The unseen fabric. I don't explain this well, and I apologize. It isn't something I talk about, but I knew I must with you, for this.”

She nodded, frowning slightly. “I think I get that. You took Ana out a lot, didn't you? And Simon some, and Sam a little. But not me, not Jimmy. Because there aren't relationships there.”

“Just so. And, on a side note, I ought to have made this invitation earlier, Ivy – I have wanted to know you better for quite some time. And I ought, also, to make an overture to Jimmy – it is rather shameful of me to have left it this long.”

“Would you? Porter, I'd really appreciate your reaching out to Jimmy. He might even beat you to it. I don't want to say anything specific,” she answered the quizzical look, “I don't really know anything specific, but he needs someone to talk to – someone he doesn't have a lot of history with, and I think he thinks you might be it.”

“I will most certainly do so, then. Jimmy is more than welcome to my ear any time, and my counsel - if he wants it. That it would gratify you is lagniappe.”

Foie gras with quince and sherry produced sighs of pleasure on both sides of the table.

“Back to us, though – and “Kiss Me, Kate,” and Fred and Lili,” Porter's heart skipped – he had not before spoken the name of show or character aloud – he had made this real, concrete. “If you are very kind, Ivy, you will let me court you a little – ever so harmlessly. That, too, toward a beautiful, talented woman, is something I've no experience with – and Fred certainly does. May I, dear Ivy?”

Ivy considered her host. “Porter, does anyone, ever, say “no” to you?”

He laughed. “Rarely. Very rarely. But, then, I am rather particular about what I ask, and of whom.”

“I won't start a trend, then. Not too many dinners like this, though, I'll turn into a blimp and Eileen'll fire me.” As veal with sweet corn in lemon verbena appeared.

“You would be surprised, Ivy – the dishes here are, in fact, made with much more an eye toward health than you would imagine from the taste. The chef is a marvel. However, we need not dine always – there are art exhibits, museums, films, concerts, and we will, I trust, sing a bit together – I've a small, but good upright at home, and I can play serviceably.

"And, too, if you care to, I would adore to have you – and Derek, of course, and darling Miranda, and your nanny – I am sorry, I don't recall her name – spend a weekend at my home in New Orleans. We might even manage it between closing the MTW run and Broadway, if the timing is favorable.”

Apricot, rosemary granite, apple-ginger sorbet. Ivy could maybe persuade herself this symphony of flavors was a healthful dish. And the wine was poured sparingly each time, just enough to match the tasting portions.

“Can I think about that? Traveling so far with Miranda – she's never flown, I don't know how she'd react. I'd love to see New Orleans, some time, though. I never have . . .”

“We must make it happen, then. Think as much, as long, as you wish – the offer is open. If you prefer to come on your own – if that would be easier to arrange – nothing would please me more. Whatever works for you – and your family – will be my pleasure to accommodate.”

“Oh, my God. What is this?” Something chocolate, under chocolate sauce. And ice cream.

“This, my dear, is the famous "chocolate frivolous." It is a souffle, with coffee gelato. Now, with both “chocolate” and “frivolous” in its name, how can you resist?”

“Oh, I'm not resisting. But I'll be taking extra dance class and doing double workouts for a week.” Ivy grinned. “I'm not complaining – this evening is worth it. Totally. I've never eaten anything like this. Derek – he doesn't care about food much – he just eats what's there, he rarely even notices what it is.”

“Bring him to New Orleans. Food-love is in the very air – perhaps we can liberate him. And, Ivy, one point – a pound of boiled crawfish has 50 calories. I'll bet you can't eat five pounds.”

“You, Porter Mallory, are a tempter.”

As they rose to leave, Porter draping sable over her shoulders, she looked up at him - “You won't forget – about Jimmy?”

She was genuinely anxious, he saw, and was touched. He had not realized how much Ivy cared for young Jimmy Collins. Sororal, not romance. “No,” he promised, “I won't forget.”

Chapter Text

It was late. She'd had a few drinks with a couple of people from her shift. Karen hit the light switch, blinked as the grimy overheads flickered on. Kept her coat buttoned, as she started the ancient gas heater. Almost open flames – behind a grid of wires spaced so wide two guinea pigs could go through, side by side.

A big room; a small bathroom opened off. Semi-shoddy, low-but-not-lowest-end kitchenette fittings, not new. Chipped Formica and peeling chrome table, “matching” chairs with tears in the leatherette. Her bed was a fold-out couch. Opened, the 2” mattress lumped and smelled musty. Even through sheets. Closed, the nubbly acrylic cushions lumped and were abrasive. Even through sheets. After trying both, Karen opened the couch, breathed through her mouth, and showered extra minutes mornings.

Three reasons to take this big, shabby half-basement “efficiency.” It was the cheapest. It was four blocks from the theater, three from the coffee shop where Karen waitressed. And it was big, and open, and reminded her of Jimmy's loft. And Jimmy.

Still wearing her coat, Karen drew hot water (at least the water pressure was good, and the hot water hot) into her dishpan, added a big pour of Epson salts. Removed shoes and socks; allowed herself a sigh as she eased aching arches into the bath. Punished at rehearsals, punished at work, poor feet.

Grey. Montclair was grey to her. And she was greyed in spirit. It had started so well, so hopefully. But, after three weeks' rehearsal, half-way through, Karen felt adrift, and Price Davis' early excitement at working with her seemed to have dimmed; she didn't know why, and couldn't ask. The music director loved her; there was that. And as far as she could tell, the choreographer had no issues – she was working her ass off to get the choreography, changing almost daily, right.

The cast was – almost all of them – so young. The smaller roles, the ensemble, were filled by recent local theatre grads; surrounded by them, playing off Caroline, who would turn 24 in a couple of weeks, Karen felt old. Her next birthday was a long way off, but would be her 30^th. She had been the “new” girl, fresh, wide-eyed, for so long. It had been her stock in trade, if she were honest. But the calendar didn't lie, and neither did the mirror. A few tiny lines at the corners of her eyes. Karen knew she was pretty, maybe even beautiful. But 22, 23, 25 even, she was not.

The non-baby actors were older – Giselle Freeman, who belted “Mama” Morton with such fierce gusto, was mid-40s, at a guess. Geraint Rhys, whose feet tapped fast as raindrops, or machine-gunfire, late 30s. Working professionals, they were businesslike toward Karen. Not unfriendly, but no attempts at real friendship.

And Marcus Bendict, playing Mary Sunshine. His acting wasn't the problem, his dyspeptic worldview was. A former star counter-tenor, bitter that his voice had weakened with age, he high-hatted the youngsters and sneered at everyone else. The past few days, though, he seemed to be softening, ever so slightly, toward – not Karen, but Caroline.

Which was just and right. Because Caroline was killing it. Her dancing was – it was witty; Karen hadn't known that could be a thing. Caroline tended to improvise a little on the choreography; Kevin Greer would rebuke her, but Karen began to notice him putting in, at different points, the little variations he'd made Caroline take out. Her Velma was sexy, funny, and a little crazy-dangerous; “All That Jazz” took Karen's breath away, and it was really hard to keep a straight face through “I Can't Do it Alone.”

Karen's Roxie was less well-defined. She couldn't find enough clues in the script to get the picture she wanted. She'd never seen the musical performed live, only the movie, and was dismayed at how hard it was to make Roxie likeable. Of course, she was an opportunist and a murderess, but, surely, the female lead in a musical should be more appealing? Karen couldn't figure out how to make her so, and Price Davis was maddeningly unconcerned by this. Very concerned, though, with tiny nuances in Velma.

Today, she'd worked mostly on “Funny Honey” and “Roxie.” Her best numbers, and Karen knew “Funny Honey” was going to be good; she felt anchored, grounded when she sang it, and she made the cast laugh.

And she'd watched a run-through of “All That Jazz,” again. And as she watched, Marcus Benedict had flowed up to her, and murmured, “Don't worry too much – Velma is supposed to be better than Roxie.”

Karen had wanted to punch his face. Cry. Throw up. Did none of those things. Walked away.

She dried her feet, emptied and rinsed the dishpan. Hung her coat up, the heater had by now warmed the room a little.

Went to brush her teeth and wash. The bathroom light socket was faulty, the bulb always flickered a minute. Karen looked at her reflection in the flickers; “Flash back to a girl . . .” Flashback. New York. “Bombshell.” “Hit List.” Jimmy. Some song she'd heard had a line, didn't it? “Like a corkscrew to my heart, ever since we've been apart.”

Missing Jimmy was the worst part of all. Because, whether “Chicago” went well for her or not, she and Jimmy were over. All but the official pronouncement. She clung to their weekend ritual, but they'd made love only once since she'd started her New Jersey jobs. A Saturday night; she'd gone to “Gatsby” - she made an effort, he made an effort. That was what it had been. He was sad, she knew. So was she. But they were smashed, and nothing would put them back together. Humpty and Dumpty. Every bit of it her own fault.

Karen cried herself to sleep.

Chapter Text

Cinching his dressing gown, Porter Mallory opened the door. Upon Jimmy Collins, hand upraised. To knock, it took Porter a second to realize. The awkwardness beyond what either had expected.

“My dear Jimmy, what serendipity! I was going to seek you. Please, come in.” Porter Mallory's manners were harder to ruffle than he was.

Jimmy took the chair offered; Simon excused himself to the shower, leaving the shared dressing room to Porter and Jimmy.

Stick with the program. “Porter, can I take you for dinner, or something? Actually, I'd kind of like to talk to you. I just. You don't have the same baggage about it. Sort of.” It was harder than Jimmy'd expected. “So, could we grab a burger? Or whatever you want. And I could bend your ear some? Someplace not too. I mean, I'd like us not to deal with a lot of – well, fans, you know?”

“First, Jimmy, thank you, and yes. Second, it would be difficult to guarantee anonymity anywhere, just now, especially in Manhattan; however, there are a couple of pubs I know we might try- let me test the waters – I know the managers and bartenders at both.”

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Porter's water-testing had led to his cooking them dinner, Jimmy assisting, at Jimmy's loft. Sunday, after the matinee. Jimmy had been a little apprehensive, but Porter was cooking nothing more daunting than steak and potatoes and salad. Jimmy had bought the principal food components; Porter had brought several bottles, small jars, exotic-looking to Jimmy. And wine, which he had opened deftly, and was breathing.

“Such a fine performance you're giving, Jimmy – the distance you've traveled since I saw 'Hit List' is nothing short of stunning. You took some coaching, I think?” Porter sprinkled ribeyes with salt and pepper, set them gently on a rack.

“Thanks.” Praise from Porter Mallory. Jimmy found himself abashed, like a squirmy schoolkid. “Well. Some classes. With John Paul – he coaches Ivy, sometimes, and I think she maybe put in a word. They helped, yeah. Mostly, it was, I don't know, just getting things in perspective. And some – technique, Ivy called it – just, how to get places. I guess.”

Porter kept the smile in his mind. “Good instinct, going to Ivy for advice of that nature. Marvelous, isn't she? And aren't you the lucky one, playing opposite her in such an iconic role? But she, too, is fortunate in having you to play against.”

“I don't know about that, but thanks. And yeah, believe me, I know how lucky I am. Ivy's the best. She's – she's – special. Not just onstage. She's the real deal, as a person, you know?”

“Yes, I do. You know she and I will be doing “Kiss Me, Kate” for Eileen, after the Broadway run and a little break to breathe?”

“Ivy told me, yeah. So you'll be the next lucky guy. You even get to spank her onstage, right?” Jimmy grinned. “Don't hit her hard, OK?”

Porter laughed outright. “I won't.” He set the microwave timer. “When that sounds, we'll put on the potatoes.” Porter busied himself slicing radishes, cucumbers.

Jimmy breathed. Shot a glance at Porter, who didn't raise his eyes from the vegetables. That might make this easier.

“Porter. I've got this – situation. And I can't seem to get comfortable with it, or out of it, either. I just.” He didn't know how to say what he wanted to.

“It's about Miss Cartwright, yes? Your relationship with her?”

Jimmy was floored. “Yeah, it is, but how'd you know?”

“I didn't, not really. A guess, Jimmy, because you bring it to me. Nearly everyone else in our little show-family has history with one or both of you. I've none. And your natural delicacy inhibits you, admirably, from discussing Miss Cartwright with them, but not with me.”

“Jeez. No-one's ever accused me of being delicate, Porter, you've got that way wrong. But the rest of it. Yeah.”

Porter wasn't wrong. But let it go. “I understand your young lady is working in New Jersey, somewhere? 'Chicago,' isn't it? How is that working out?”

“'Chicago,' yeah, Karen's playing Roxie. She had to get closer, the commute would be bad even from Manhattan, but here? And she didn't want to stop waitressing, I don't know why – she knew I'd cover her.”

Porter said nothing; glanced briefly at Jimmy, and mixed his undressed salad.

“So, she comes back here Fridays, she's got a shift at some restaurant after rehearsal, gets in real late. And she's gone again Sunday morning for a lunch shift. To tell the truth, we haven't seen that much of each other for months. With the extra rehearsals we had, and then tech, and she was auditioning and waitressing a lot.” He stopped.

“I seem to recall there was a little dust-up for a bit?”

“Oh. Yeah.” Jimmy had forgotten – there are no secrets in a show-family. “She – we – well, there was a misunderstanding.” (Was there? Porter wondered.) “We worked that out.” (Did you, really?)

OK, Jimmy Collins, just say it. “Here's the thing. I've just – got over Karen, somehow. It isn't right, it isn't fair, but – well, there it is. She's trying her best, and I did try to get things back where they were. But it's no good. She's here, but she's not here, you know?” In a rush, “It's, it's selfish, but, bottom line, I want my life back. But I can't bring myself to even get to a space where I can see breaking up. And – and – I think things aren't real happy for her in New Jersey. She says it's fine, but – I don't know, I just don't believe her. I get the feeling she's pinned a lot on this show. Maybe too much. I feel, well, like I should take care of her, and I don't want to anymore. OK, tell me I'm a terrible person.”

Both men jumped as the microwave beeped. Porter silently cursed it. “I'll tell you no such thing, Jimmy. People fall in love, and out of it, we come together, we break up. Relationships begin, and some do end, you know. More, perhaps, in our lives, we in the theatre, than in some others. Occasionally, with no fault on either part.” He did not speak of how moving he found Jimmy's deep, ongoing concern for the woman he wanted to leave.

“But, Jimmy, Miss Cartwright is a grown woman – I think she is a year or so your senior, yes?” Jimmy nodded. “Her life is not your responsibility. Nor her choices. You've been her very stalwart support for some time, I know, but she might be best served by standing on her own – and her recent actions indicate she may have an inkling of that, at least subconsciously, don't you think?”

Jimmy gaped. Shut his mouth and frowned. Porter Mallory ran water into a pot, added salt, and set it to boil. Looked up to a smile he'd never seen on Jimmy's face. No, he had. But not offstage.

“I never thought of it that way. But you might be right.”

“I think perhaps I may be on the right track. Jimmy, there is no moral onus upon you to remain with someone you don't want to be with. None – you are not married, there are no children. If, in your generosity, you want to leave the formalities of a final break until a certain point – when Miss Cartwright's show opens, or closes, or wherever that point is, that is your choice. But I would not leave it too long, it isn't true kindness, though I know it comes from a most kindly impulse.”

Frowning, Jimmy nodded slowly. “I guess you're right. And I guess that's what I needed to hear – thanks, Porter.” He'd been right about who to talk to, for sure.

“You are more than welcome. Any time. Truly. Let's get those potatoes on, the steaks are almost ready to cook.

“May I ask a side question?” As Jimmy poured little washed potatoes into the pot, Porter set a cast iron skillet over a high flame.

“Sure, what've you got?”

“What I have is curiosity, and you may tell me to go roll a hoop, without offense. But – I am curious, ravenously so – tell me, you've played opposite Miss Cartwright and Ivy, both – how do the experiences compare?”

Jimmy's face darkened. Deeply troubled. “I can't. Even think about that. It's not fair. 'Hit List,' I was high or drunk, or both, a lot. Not right to even think I could be a fair judge. I've been clean, drug-wise, for almost three years, and I don't drink nearly as much. And I know more – a little, anyway. I'm not the same, so the experience isn't. That's all – at least that's where I am, now.”

And Jimmy thought he lacked delicacy. “Fair enough. I won't press further.” Porter wiggled two of the little bottles he'd brought. “These, Jimmy, make the most delicious vinaigrette. And did you remember to get plenty of butter? The potatoes take a lot of it – my recipe is based on Chef Robuchon's.”

Tension dispersed, Jimmy poured a glass of wine for Porter, got himself a beer. Breathed the smell of good beef searing.

Yeah, he'd made the right choice.

Chapter Text

An observer, had there been one, might have found the scene comical. That the two lurching figures were female, young, comely and lissome, might have, depending on the temperament of the observer, either diminished or heightened the risiblity factor. Certainly, knowing that the young females were dancers, professionally, would have added irony.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Before she moved into her Montclair digs, Karen had visited Caroline's Bleeker Street apartment. Caroline had not exaggerated its tininess – her studio made the flat Ivy Lynn had had in Hell's Kitchen, that Ana Vargas had now, roomy, expansive even, by comparison.

Caroline had been left the condominium by a great-aunt, who'd been in publishing, and had encouraged Caroline to pursue her aspirations in New York.

“Before that, I lived in a women's residence – they're a pretty good deal, really, just you can't cook or have guests. But you can meet people and hang out anywhere, so it's not that big a deal.”

“You've never told me what you do for work. Do you waitress down around here? You should think about Clinton, or Hell's Kitchen, or whatever – it helps keep you in at least some sort of loop.”

Caroline looked down, mumbled, “I don't waitress.”

“Well, what? Come on, you can tell me.”

Caroline squirmed, blushed, twisted her hands. “I – interpret. At jail - I mean, at court lock-up. People get arrested, and sometimes they don't speak English. So . . . interpreter. I told you, I'm good with languages. My Dad was in the diplomatic service, we moved a lot, I picked up the speech, and when he saw I had an ability, he got me extra tutoring. All the Latins, some German, Russian, a little Polish, Czech. They love you if you can do night shifts.”

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

She'd signed out, though, unavailable for tech week, and performance days. Caroline had approached Karen, diffidently, asking whether she might room with Karen, for that week and two-performance days. She'd be happy to share the rent.

Karen could have vomited with relief at the prospect a companion – poultice for her aching solitude.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

“Oh, my God, what space, what air, what luxury!” Caroline, flinging her arms wide, head uplifted, face beaming. She’d brought a bottle of wine, and a corkscrew - “I know some of these sublets are light on kitchen stuff.” Karen had, in fact, had to purchase one.

Karen rarely bothered to fold the couch, and had not. Caroline wrinkled her elegant nose.

“It always smelled like that,” Karen muttered defensively.

“Well, we can fix it. Where's the nearest supermarket?”

Karen, knowing the neighborhood and store aisles, was sent out with a list (and money). Returned to find Caroline contemplating a stripped mattress.

A right turn in the hall took one immediately to a communal laundry room. (The dryer tumbled all hours; one reason the rent was cheap.)

If one went a few steps further, one came to a door, opening onto a concrete courtyard.

So it came about that the two girls, ineptly, wrestled the mattress down the hall, through the now-propped door, into the courtyard and onto the sheet Caroline had spread. Caroline sprayed all sides and edges of the stuffy mattress with bleach; Karen holding and tilting as bidden.

“We should let it sit, a little.” Caroline draped a second sheet over the top of the mattress; they leaned it, carefully, against the courtyard wall.

Back inside, Karen and Caroline looked at each other. Spoke together:

“Where’s that corkscrew?”

“Can we open the wine? I'll get glasses out.”

They giggled. Caroline opened, Karen poured; they sat on the edge of the mattress-less bed, sipped, silent, comfortable in spirit if not in body. When glasses were down two-thirds, Caroline sighed.

“Stage two, I guess,” and they undraped the mattress, the spraying process repeated with fabric deodorizer. Finished the wine in their glasses as it dried out. Wrestled the thing back inside, back on its frame. Bundled sheets in to launder.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ 

After they’d taken quick showers, changed, the girls strolled along Bloomfield Avenue to The Beggar’s Purse for dinner. Karen hadn’t waitressed there, but she knew some of the staff from after-shift bar time, and the menu offered decent food with healthy choices, at reasonable prices.

Karen’s favorite was chicken salad with cranberry mustard over greens, served with a multi-grain walnut bread she’d grown addicted to. The restaurant boasted a small retail bakery, she’d taken home uncounted loaves.

Caroline sparkled over the menu. Sparkled. How did she do that, after a day of wrestling around with a smelly mattress in a shabby basement? Karen felt dispirited, was trying not to let it show. She really was glad Caroline was there, wanted her to know it.

Asian beef salad for Caroline. Lime-chili vinaigrette, lots of herbs, spicy greens. “I’m such a carnivore!” she giggled. Looked up at Karen, reached a tentative hand toward the wine list.

“Should we? My treat.”

Karen considered. Probably they shouldn’t. They had the opened bottle waiting for them; they’d undoubtedly finish it. And tech started Monday.

But today was Saturday; they were off Sunday. And she wanted, oh she wanted, to feel festive.

“Sure, why not? Thanks.”

Caroline ordered a Tavel rose – Karen wasn’t sure, she liked white wine best, but Caroline’s “it will go with both salads, it’s good, you’ll see,” was persuasive enough. Especially since Caroline was buying.

They ate, sipped, talked tech. “You’ve been through it before – and much bigger productions than this, I know,” Caroline offered. “But I’ve never had a principal role in anything like this before. Forget butterflies, I’ve got pterodactyls swooping around.” They didn’t seem to have had an effect on her appetite. Caroline was plowing through her salad with gusto, and had only a morsel left of the steamed scallion bun it had come with.

Karen shrugged. “Tech’s awful. You know that. Whether it’s ‘little’ awful or ‘bigger’ awful, it’s as much awful as you can take – count on that.”

“Oh, I know. But it’s exciting, too. You know what a huge break this is for me – and Montclair Rep’s last two productions got some New York reviews, and they get listed online for New York area productions. I’m terrified, of course I am, but at the same time – I can’t wait til we open.”

“I know.” Karen smiled. “I felt exactly that way when we worked on ‘Hit List.’”

“This is small stuff for you, I know. But – I mean, you’re going to knock them dead with your numbers – you know you are – aren’t you just a little excited?”

Karen looked at her friend. Made a decision. “If you want the truth, I’m not, not so much. I’m scared. I feel like I don’t know what I’m doing when I’m not singing. And Price isn’t any help at all, I can’t talk to him, he just says it’s all fine. But it’s not fine.”

Caroline started to speak, checked herself. Started again. “Are you so sure it’s not? Price thinks you’re going to click big-time with the audience – he said so. And our scenes are good, aren’t they?”

“Yeah, our scenes are working, I think. I just – I used to feel so sure. I don’t, now, and I miss feeling that. I miss it so much.”

Caroline reached her hand to cover Karen’s. “I’ll bet you’re in a growth stage, in your talent. That always changes things, it sometimes hurts, too. You’ll see – the certainty will come back when you’re ready for it, I’m sure it will.”

Suddenly, and not because she believed Caroline, a cloud lifted. And Karen laughed. “I guess it will or it won’t. I’ll just say, ‘from your mouth to God’s ear,’ and get on with the work.”

Caroline poured wine into their glasses, touched hers to Karen’s. “To the work!”

That was the spirit. “To the work!”

Chapter Text

As the run winds down, artistic joints loose. Crave, itch for, expansion, new angles of motion. And make antic hay.

It was inevitable, Derek knew. About a week and a half before the MTW run closed, it bit down on his cast. The antic atavism. The urge to close what circles something in the actors felt still open. The urge to fling wide doors felt still maddeningly just ajar. The urge to throw a wrench into the works, to see what happens. That, too.

He called them early before each show. Stern notes. Containment, so far as possible. But the phenomenon was common to every show, every production.

And there were, amidst the flash and noise, real lights switched on. Dennis’ stage-muttered ad lib of “even the soot is sweating,” during “Heat, Dust, (We Need) Ice.” That was right on, that was. He’d keep that in.

Some suffused moments between Daisy and Jay Gatsy, connection and conflict clashing like swords. Immediately sheathed, heads turning away, nothing solved. Ivy’s and Jimmy’s work, and his own, Derek reminded himself, had produced an astonishingly complex, compelling relation between Daisy Buchanan and Jay Gatsby. So much hope and so much pain, on both sides. Such incompatible flaws and unhealthy needs, finally. Eating the natural, wholesome connection, its simple extance. Could you, in art, or in life, keep an uncontaminated awareness of that connection? Derek wondered. He hoped so.

He was trying, with Ivy. Miranda helped – there was no question she cemented them. A new layer of cement, anyway; other things, certainly, bound Derek with Ivy. Derek knew he had no better shot at combining a full commitment to his work with a – well, a decent basic human life. As an active husband and father. To a wonderful wife and a wonderful little girl. Derek was aware, sometimes not comfortably, that it had not actually hurt his work, his family life. The contrary. He’d confessed part to Ivy – the part that was just hers. The rest – God, let him get used to having been wrong, at all, in the first place.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Eileen stood midway down centre aisle in the empty theatre. Remembered the call, the voice, creaking with age, never cracking.

“Eileen. I’ve seen your new show. Quite good. A bit outlandish, for an old lady like me, but quite good, on the whole.”

“Margery. So good to hear from you. I’m so glad you liked “Gatsby.” We’re pleased.”

What did she want? Margery Thayer, ninety-one years old, was the last scion of a once-mighty theatre family empire. The Thayers had once owned a dozen Broadway theatres; Margery Thayer’s single remaining venue, the Maud Adams, was a tiny house, grandfathered with fewer than 350 seats and at the north end (54th Street) of the “Broadway” area; it had been closed for renovations for more than two years.

“I hear you’re bringing your little piece to Broadway. Maud’s done with her beauty treatments; she’ll be back in circulation ahead of schedule. I thought she might suit you.”

“Oh, Margery, thank you. You’re so kind, but Maud’s tiny. I was thinking of a larger scale, and it happens a few shows have closed earlier than expected. We’re only going to be a six month run, so we can sandwich in quite easily in any one of them.”

The steps had to be danced. Eileen knew, of course, that the intimacy of the MTC main stage, 280 seats when they brought out the folding chairs (which they could not do for “Gatsby,” the musicians taking up that space), facilitated the emotional immediacy of the production’s impact. Whether a large Broadway venue would dissipate it had been a worry. The beautiful Maud Adams stage, its jewel-box fittings, its small size, could, perhaps, up-scale “Gatsby” without distorting it. Margery Thayer, theatre elder, would surmise this, of course. But the steps must be danced.

And here, now, she stood, looking at the stage, so lovely of proportion, on which “Gatsby” would dance, in some ten weeks. They would open just in time for Tony consideration.

Power snaked in her. Eileen breathed. Smiled.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Jimmy felt restless; oddly bereft. Monday-loose-end blues were an occupational hazard for a working stage actor, but bereft had no good reason. The written notice of non-renewal he’d received from his first-story tenant had been a shock, but should not have been; the one-time club had been closed since before Jimmy and Kyle had moved in as tenants.

The rent loss would hurt, but the space, code-compliant and ready for commercial lease, according to the inspector, could easily be rented for more than the lease payments had amounted to. But, Jimmy realized, he had liked the space being empty. He had no clue why.

He had a different clue, suddenly. Very different.

Jimmy rummaged in a drawer, pulled out an array of keys. Went downstairs, unlocked the former club-space. Big. Open, Very dusty. Decent corner stage for a band. He’d need a piano.

Jimmy pulled out his phone; pushed a contact. Ended the call before it connected. Hit a different number.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Could you get PTSD from a bad experience in theatre? Was it a despicable self-indulgence to even wonder?

Ana, tears slipping down her cheeks, stared, shaking, into her mirror. Broadway transfer. Everyone on “Gatsby” said how good she was. She thought she was good. But everyone involved in “Hit List” had said the same thing about her – and she’d known she was good. But she’d been fired, replaced. No matter, Derek’s efforts later, to ameliorate the damage he’d done, Daisy Parker had got the Tony, not Ana. The Hollywood contract. Daisy Parker’s new sitcom was getting rave reviews and high ratings. And Ana Vargas shivered and wept, for an unreasoning fear her Myrtle Wilson was finished.

Snatched up her phone as it rang, waited two additional rings, breathing, to ensure her jaunty “Hello!” betrayed – nothing.

Chapter Text

Ana sneezed. “Wow, dust of ages, for real.” Jimmy realized, though she had not mentioned the cold of the place, that Ana was shivering. And would probably start coughing, too, any minute, the place really was inch-thick dusty. Awful for her voice. His too.

“Yeah. I’m sorry, I wasn’t thinking, just – I sort of wanted to know what you thought. About something I thought of. Jesus, that sounds stupid. I – I didn’t take time to think, I just – called.”

Miraculously, she smiled at him. “I’m glad you did. So, what did you just think, that you wanted to know what I thought about? Or should I say, what I thought about it? I never know.” Stop babbling, Ana! She shrugged, spread her hands, said no more.

He’d been so quick to call her, even if he’d punched Ivy’s number first. It was Ana’s take he wanted first. For this. He couldn’t figure out why, and now he just felt stupid, Here she was, cold, sneezing, and about to start coughing too, most likely, and he didn’t even know how to put what he saw into words. Jimmy took a breath, tried to focus. Or something. First. “We can talk upstairs. Want some coffee?”

The loft was warm. Not dusty. Jimmy added a little bourbon to their coffee.

Ana cupped her mug in still-cold hands. “So, what’s this famous thought you had?”

Jimmy wanted a curbstone to kick at. “I thought – I thought, just – that space, it could be, I don’t – I don’t know, a club – yeah, I know it was a club, but, sort of a – a signature club . . .” It sounded even stupider.

“For you? To sing in?” Ana’s eyes sparkled. “Please, please tell me you’re writing again!”

“N-no. Not since, you know. But I feel like, like maybe I might? I had an idea for a song. Not anything like I’ve done before, it’s a little scary. Probably I won’t, it might be dumb. But, maybe some song . . . I’ve been thinking I should, for a while.”

She leaned as far across the table as she could. Spoke right at him. “Yes! And the club idea isn’t stupid, it’s smart. At least, I like it. You could even showcase other singer-songwriters, when you’re busy acting.”

Jimmy rocked a little, restlessly, in his chair. “That’s another thing. I don’t know about acting. Long-term, I mean. It was great doing “Hit List,” it was my show, mine and Kyle’s, it was amazing to have it really happen, and the awards and all. And “Gatsby” is, it’s been . . . it’s blown my mind. But, I don’t know, it doesn’t seem like . . . well . . . like me, somehow. Not really me.”

“But, why?” It burst out of her. “You’re so good, Jimmy, I don’t think you know how good you really are.” Her head tilted as she contemplated him. “You’ve never really given yourself much credit, have you? All that cockiness, that was just cover. Don’t lie.

“Anyway, what about “Kiss Me, Kate?” If Eileen hasn’t offered you Bill yet, she will. She’s too smart not to - you’ll kill that part.” Ana had hopes, too. She could manage Lois’ contralto range. Assuming she was sill a persona grata, that she would keep playing Myrtle when they transferred.

Jimmy shrugged. “I don’t know, not my style, really. And I wouldn’t be working with Ivy much, it wouldn’t be the same.”

“Well, of course it wouldn’t, silly. It’s a different show. But you might find you liked working with – whoever they get for Lois. And you’d still be working with Derek.” She broke off, looking at Jimmy’s face.

“Eileen did make the offer. Didn’t she?”

“Derek mentioned it. Not an offer, just would I want to, if they wanted me. I said I needed to think about it.”

Lucky guy. Or dumb. But at least they were asking him. Ana didn’t feel particularly lucky. She wasn’t as lucky as Jimmy, anyway. In this.

Jimmy wondered why she looked sad. And neither of them said anything for a while.

“You want some more coffee? Or something?”

She shook her head. “Thanks, I’m good.”

Yes, you are, he thought. Didn’t say it, he felt funny.

“How’s Karen, these days?”

“She’s OK. They’re in tech, now, open on Friday. Crazy schedule – just on weekends, like amateur stuff. Four a week, for a month. I hope to God it works out for her.” Because then I’m free.

Ana looked wistful. She couldn’t be envying Karen, playing for a month in New Jersey – Ana was Broadway-bound; Jimmy bet she’d get at least a nomination for – everything, Obie, Outer Critics, Tony. She should. He hoped she’d win them, too. All of them. He saw her, arms full of awards, grabbing to keep them from falling.

Smiled at her. “I thought I might get working on that club. Want to sing, when I open it?”

Laughed as Ana gaped. Happier, lighter, than he’d felt in a long time.

“Um, yeah. Yeah, of course I do! But – won’t that bother Karen?” Make her furious, more like it.

“That’s not going to be a problem. Promise.”

They shook hands on it. And hugged.

Jimmy saw Ana to her subway. Noted, as he headed home, the little Ukranian cafe Kyle had loved. Cheese blintzes, sweetened with honey. He wondered if Ana liked blintzes. Why hadn’t he taken her there for some food? Jesus, he was dumb.

A note or two floated through his head. A few more danced out of reach - barely. Went quiet,

They’d be back.

Chapter Text

Karen lay awake. Caroline had drifted off, at last, perhaps half an hour earlier. Karen had learned better than to try to force sleep when she was stressed, but she needed conscious effort to remember, and keep her muscles lax. Float, don’t wait, just float. Catch any drifting current you find.

The longest day. They’d wrapped up tech, which hadn’t been as bad as “Hit List,” or even “Bombshell” in Boston. After a break, long enough for the cast and crew to eat, breathe, and recoup energy, a full-on runthrough for an invited audience, tickets handed out to Montclair State theatre program students.

The overture had been fine. Caroline and the ensemble had blazed through “All That Jazz,” the “policemen” had rushed down the center aisle, whistles blowing. Karen (Roxie) had shot Fred as scripted; “Funny Honey” got her a warming round of applause. Then, Giselle Freeman’s costume snagged on a flat and ripped during “When You’re Good to Mama.” Jenny Kim flubbed her timing slightly in “Cell Block Tango,” skewing the pattern, sending dancers scurrying to get back in step.

Geraint Rhys’s Billy Flynn made no visible errors, but his legs trembled so badly Karen found keeping steady on his lap for “They Both Reached For The Gun” a challenge – and a distraction. She was slow - just a hair - on her uptake, once.

Most of the “wrongness” was like that – little things, a flatted note, a slight fumble, things the audience wouldn’t notice, but too many of them – they glared and shouted at the cast. Karen had noted everything, had performed as mindfully as she could, and had made no more than a few, tiny hiccups – as any performer might, any day. Caroline was even sharper – Karen had not heard one off note, one substituted word. Couldn’t be sure about her steps, Caroline did still improvise in her solos, a very little, here and there. Kevin Greer had all but given up correcting her, though Karen couldn’t say if he thought it a hopeless effort, or liked Caroline’s changes.

The cast had huddled, subdued, at The Light House (why? Montclair was nowhere near the ocean). Bucking each other up with endless variations upon the theme “bad dress, good show.” And a few shots. Breaking up early, for sleep.

Karen and Caroline had rehashed the glitches; Karen trying for “philosophical,” which she vaguely equated to not feeling terrified. Caroline was optimistic – they were just shaking out the errors buzzing around the ether. Now, the errors had been made, and “Chicago’s” opening could be written on a fresh, clean page.

Who’d come to the opening? So many of the cast was local, the house was sold out for the weekend, and into next, with family and friends. Local, and local-ish reviewers (three) were to be in attendance tomorrow – no, tonight. Not Jimmy, of course, “Gatsby” was in performance still, closing Saturday. He’d come next weekend. Karen wondered if any of the other cast members would show up. Probably not, and she hoped they wouldn’t. Once, she thought, Derek would have come to see her (wouldn’t he?). Was it only her running off to Hollywood which had soured things between them?

Or had it started that night – when they’d almost ended in bed? That was a memory Karen didn’t like visiting. She had pressed him. Karen never pressed men. He’d been hesitant, asking her over and over if she really wanted to. His mouth had felt lukewarm, tasted of ash. And the final humiliation – Derek was – “unresponsive” would be the euphemism. Karen had blamed the liquor. Told herself she’d kept faithful to Jimmy. And longed for his hot, sweet kiss. Now, as then.

Karen conjured sense memory of her first night with Jimmy. Her skin remembered every touch. She floated in a cloud of recollected pleasure until, at last, sleep covered her.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Applause, applause. Giddy with relief, Karen let go Caroline’s hand, stepped forward and took her final solo bow. It had gone (and gone over) well!

No missed cues, no missed steps, no torn costumes. Just “Chicago,” and a warm, receptive audience.

The cast, eager for food and alcohol, hurried to remove costume and wig, stage cosmetics, to shower.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The production team had arranged catering for cast and crew at The Light House; “Chicago” took de facto possession, other patrons trickling out, outnumbered and outvoiced.

Some had “dressed,” some sported jeans. Drinks were grabbed first; the food was quickly reduced to scraps.

Karen had trotted out what she was starting to think of as her theatre-event go-to dress, the 20s-style frock she’d worn for “Bombshell’s” opening, and the “Gatsby” benefit.

Caroline wore a burgundy silk velvet dress, dating from the 1930s. High neck, tiny puffed sleeves, bodice tight over her little breasts. The velvet nap, Karen noticed, was threadbare in places. Caroline had not re-braided her long hair; taken down from under-wig pincurls, it flowed down her back in ginger waves.

Cast-friends threaded through the partyers. People checked emails; there would be no reviews printed yet; newspapers in the area were weeklies, which lessened tensions, or at least kept them in abeyance. Karen had scanned the audience for New York critics, seen none she recognized.

“Hey, Karen, good job!” Steve Whitman, Roxie’s “Funny Honey. “Did you see Joe Marcus in the audience?” Karen had not, but she knew the name – a writer of brief blurb reviews for one of the theatre blogs. It would be read. By people who counted. Flocks of butteflies.

Steve had turned to Caroline, “You were fantastic! You’re totally Broadway-ready. They need you!”

Caroline blushed, murmured thanks, which were interrupted by Price Davis.

“Caroline! My amazing girl. Why didn’t you tell me Wednesday was your birthday?”

“Oh, I didn’t want anyone making a big deal – we were in tech! How did you find out, anyway?”

“Karen told me – oh, Karen, good job. “Roxie” was even better than usual.”

That was the theme, tonight. Good job, Karen. Amazing/fantastic/marvelous performance, Caroline. Over and over.

Ruthie Chase, the stage manager, was wheeling out a cart with a cake on it. Price was apologizing to Caroline for the cake, which read “Happy Birthday, Carolyn.” Caroline, provided with a large knife, cut into the misinscribed icing.

Eyes wide and glowing, hair curling down, slim and lovely in her shabby dress, Caroline looked new, shiny. Karen felt tired and tarnished.

Was glad when the party wound down; she and Caroline, somewhat unsteady, walked back to Karen’s place, and tumbled into bed.

“Karen? You were really good tonight. I don’t think Price got what you were going for – but I like making Roxie’s desperation your keynote. I bet at least some of the reviewers will get it, though. Sleep well.”

Karen thanked Caroline, complimented her in turn, and wondered. That had not been her focus. Well, if it worked, it worked.

Go to sleep.

Chapter Text

From stage-left wings, Ivy watched the dancers spin and fall; the curtain dropped. Jimmy sprang from his platform, dashed off right. Would they, she wondered, re-stage the bows? She hoped not.

The curtain rose, Sam on the platform behind the ensemble, orchestrating them forward. They bowed and stepped back; Sam beckoned right, and Martin Mickleson, whose Meyer Wolfsheim had only the two bar scenes (he sang a brief march-tempo reprise of “No Tomorrow” in each; menacing first, then, after Gatsby’s murder, with amused resignation), ran on, bowed, stepped back into line with the dancers.

Sam gestured with both arms; Jessica came in right, Simon, left, squeezing Ivy’s arm and winking at her as he passed. Another gesture from Sam for Porter and Ana, to a noticeable upsurge in applause. Sam moved downstage, bowed. Volume up further. Stretched arms again – Ivy and Jimmy met him center stage, the three joined hands, bowed. Sam joined Ivy’s hand to Jimmy’s, stepped back as they bowed together. Jimmy guided Ivy forward, took his own bow in turn. Into line for the final ensemble bow.

More curtain calls – Ana, Porter, Sam, Ivy and Jimmy again and again. Finally, Manhattan Theatre Workshop’s mainstage curtain descended on “The Great Gatsby” for the last time.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ 

Gatsby’s wrap party - same venue as opening night, different feel. Happiness subdued. Faint melancholy. Eileen Rand, eyes on Broadway, every synapse eager for her work, was baffled.

None of the cast was. Ivy suspected, correctly, that they felt akin – something special was over. Broadway would be different. Maybe better, objectively, but not this - the specific, tiny jewel they’d cut and faceted so painstakingly. Almost, she felt protective of what had been, suspicious of what would come, that it might eclipse what they’d done at MTW.

Eileen, rehashing what could (for the umpteenth time) be rehashed with Derek in advance of their possession of the Maud Adams stage, pricked with impatience. Shake them up. She had a surprise for her cast and team.

Tinkled a fork against her empty glass – gestured to a waiter for another martini as heads turned.

“Many of us have worked with Karen Cartwright; all of you’ve at least met her through Jimmy. She opened in a Montclair revival of “Chicago” last night; I thought we’d make a show of support. I’ve a block of tickets for all of us next Saturday; limos will take us from MTW.” Eileen had, in fact, planned weeks ago; had made sure the grapevine whispered just enough to keep everyone’s evening open. She’d confided in Porter Mallory alone; he would not be denied in contributing in-limousine refreshments.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Three black limousines, SUV-style, glided through the dark, over the twinkling bridge. Ivy, in the vanguard, wished herself one car back, with Jimmy and Porter – who had declined Eileen’s invitation to join them so charmingly she could take no slight. Ivy had not felt it possible to counter urgings from both Eileen and Derek. Felt, physically, the separation from her fellow actors, even as she spoke warmly with Tom and Julia, nibbled delicacies, sipped excellent champagne.

What on earth would she say, what would she be able to say, to Karen Cartwright? They’d met, of course, in recent months, but if Ivy knew Eileen Rand at all, they’d be expected to descend on Karen backstage en masse, post-performance. Had Eileen even let Karen know they were coming? Oh, God, if she hadn’t - ! It might be just the thing Eileen would seize upon – to surprise the chosen recipient with her largesse. From on high. Which might – reasonably, Ivy thought reluctantly – rankle. And felt, not for the first time, a secret sympathy for Karen Cartwright. In her place, this parade was the last thing Ivy would want. Support? More like rubbing Karen’s nose in her fall. Oh, Eileen. Road to hell, and all.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

“Chicago’s” backstage buzzed loud and happy. All but one of the local reviews had printed and posted. Joe Marcus’ blog brief had been up since Monday, beefing ticket sales. Not a pan to be read – praise for Price Davis’ work, with a couple of cavils on over-influence from the film. Good mentions, each time, for Giselle Freeman, Geraint Rhys, Steve Whitman. Special kudos for Marcus Benedict. Approbation for Karen – which boiled down to “good job,” basically. All the reviews singled out her singing, though. Before heaping tons of praise on Caroline. “Breathtaking talent!” “Astonishing presence!” “Breakout star!” And, “Why have we not heard of her before this?”

Karen had come to terms with it. She knew Caroline was better, here, than she was – she hadn’t needed Marcus Benedict to come out baldly with it. And a good job was just that – a good job. No shame in doing a good job. Was there?

Hair in pincurls, under stocking cap, she made up carefully. Caroline likewise, in their shared dressing room. Giselle Freeman had her own, but it was closet-sized. They two had more individual space, if less privacy.

A furious knock, Steve Whitman burst in without waiting for an invite. “Holy cow! Guess who’s in the audience! Eileen Fucking Rand!!! With Derek Wills, and Levitt and Houston. And Ivy Lynn! OMFG, guys, what gives?”

Caroline, quick, “Karen, that’s you! Why didn’t you tell us? What a compliment!”

Karen never knew what inanities she uttered. Fuck. This was the very last thing in the whole wide world she needed. FuckfuckfuckfuckFUCKFUCKFUCK!!!!! Until she tumbled through the barrier. Smack into FUCK IT. Fuck it all. Fuck her, fuck them. She was doing a good job. Everyone said so. Fuck them. Fuck them all.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Curtain down, house lights up. Gatsby’s cast and production team immobile in their seats. Stunned. They’d applauded dutifully. But. Jimmy’s eyes met Eileen Rand’s; each recognized in the other the self-same consternation. Derek met no-one’s eyes. Seeing Karen so, though in undeniably lovely voice, shamed him in his own estimation. What had he projected on this paper doll? What had they all?

Ivy Lynn, alone, sat serene and radiant. Vindicated, provided with everything she needed.

Since no-one else moved, “Shouldn’t we go backstage? Say hi?”

Thus prompted, the party gathered itself, followed Ivy’s composed trajectory.

Chapter Text

They’d be coming backstage. No question. Karen plopped her wig onto its stand, swiftly creamed off her makeup. Caroline wiped Albolene sheen, combed out pincurls with her long fingers. Karen thanked God Caroline had suggested they both keep a frock or two in the dressing room, “just in case, you know.” “In case” of something – like this.

Almost ready, still in kimonos, when the knock came. Caroline flashed a slightly shaky smile at Karen, who, resignedly, called “Come in.”

Eileen Rand came first (when didn’t she?). “Karen. A pleasure to see you. How are you, these days?” Karen murmured something, whatever, a few exchanges, and Eileen ceded place – to Ivy Lynn. Karen set her jaw.

“Karen! I am absolutely pea green – the acoustics in this place are amazing! You sounded gorgeous. And you absolutely nailed “Roxie,” I don’t think I’ve heard it sung better.”

Karen, with superhuman effort, kept herself from gaping at her – rival? Not anymore. Ivy had won – queen of the New York season. Again. And so what? She looked at Ivy, hard. Saw nothing, nothing, but a friendly face. Well, why not? Karen’s resentments were as dead as “Bombshell’s” Boston run. And if hers were . . .

“Thanks, Ivy. Coming from you – I really appreciate it.” A funny thought struck her. “We’re both doing 20s shows, aren’t we?”

Ivy nodded, dimpled mischievously. “Someone should tell Richard Francis.” Suddenly, both were consumed with silent laughter. Shaking with it.

Derek, “Karen. Glad to see you working. What’s so damned funny, you two?” Still quivering with laughter, they spoke.

“Private joke, darling.”

“Just sort of a private joke,” Karen realized she was echoing Ivy’s words, met her eyes, and off they went again.

Ivy took a deep breath. “I mustn’t monopolize you. Everyone wants to say hi.” And turned to her next beat – Karen’s co-star.

Spoke quietly to the slim girl staring at them with saucer-wide eyes. Whole constellations in them.

“Great show – Caroline, isn’t it?”

“Yes, Miss Lynn – thank you so much - this is such an honor! I can’t believe I’m actually meeting you – I took the bus to New York to see “Bombshell” when you were in it. Standing room. And I saw “The Great Gatsby” - can I say you’re my idol?”

Ivy smiled at the eager, babbling kid. Who probably had at least half a dozen “idols.” So she should.

“Call me Ivy. You’re very kind. And very good. You need New York work, visibility. Who’s your agent?”

Caroline blushed - “I don’t actually have one, yet. They all tell me I’m great and they don’t know what to do with me. Probably they say that to everyone they don’t want.”

“They do. Doesn’t mean it’s not true.” Ivy rummaged in her bag, sorted through a handful of cards. Handed Caroline one.

“Call the main number - give it a week. You won’t get Annabel (Ivy’s representative, whose card it was), but I’ll make sure she gets you to someone decent.”

Caroline started at the card as if it had magical runes on it. “Oh, wow. Thanks – Ivy. Thank you. I’m sorry, that sounds so – I mean . . .”

Ivy cut her off. “No thanks needed. You’re too good. I expect I’ll be seeing you.”

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Like running a gauntlet, receiving each of them in turn. Awkward, even Jimmy. Especially Jimmy. Karen heaved a sigh when the dressing room door closed behind her erstwhile colleagues. The ordeal wasn’t over – Eileen had extracted the name and location of the cast hang-out, would treat them all to drinks. Gee, thanks.

Something nagged at her. The compliments. They’d praised her singing, every one of them from Ivy on. Not a word about her acting. Not. One. Word. If you can’t say anything nice . . . From judgments she trusted more than junior reviewers in boondocks. Who had patted her head. Sort of.

Porter Mallory had taken her hand with solicitude, offered intelligent praise on her songs, met her gaze with meaning; Karen had needed no translator to understand.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

The party at The Light House was sedate, subdued, strained. Everyone on best behavior. The Gatsby party was, if not exactly overdressed, clearly an outside group; “Chicago” was awkward. Eileen’s assumption of the host role stripped the “locals” of their place; Karen and Ivy did not confide in each other the conclusion they both reached.

Karen thanked God she had had an alternative to her steel-bead dress; that had been seen at least once too often. Her burgundy satin was over-dressy for Montclair, but not for an Eileen Rand Event (TM). Caroline sported another worn, 30s velvet, midnight blue, rhinestone clasp on her velvet belt.

Ivy had dressed down-ish, deliberately. Green silk tunic belted over black leggings, green boots. Steal no thunder.

Found her eyes, and Karen’s, meeting often. Karen was being gracious, certainly, but Ivy’s sensitive antennae picked up vibes. She wound through the crowd.

“Karen. I hope this mob isn’t too unwelcome. You know how Eileen is. She meant well.”

Karen shrugged. “It’s OK. I appreciate the thought, anyway.” Trying to make words reality.

“Interesting choices, I thought. I never saw Roxie’s desperation emphasized quite that way.”

“Thanks.” What else could she say? She couldn’t tell Ivy Lynn it was no choice of hers.

“How’s the transfer going?” Turn the tables.

“Oh, my God. I don’t really know, we only just closed. We don’t get the new theatre for another two weeks, so for now it’s just Eileen brainstorming with Derek, and Tom and Julia, and casting more dancers.”

“Doing anything fun in the meantime?”

“Fun? I have a couple of little singing gigs. A week on “SVU,” maybe, it’s in discussion. I might not do it - “Gatsby’s” been a little draining, frankly. I want a breather. Oh, and Porter Mallory’s invited Derek and me down to New Orleans for a few days. I’m lobbying for it – I’ve never seen New Orleans, and I’d love to, especially with Porter to show me around. You do know Porter, don’t you? Didn’t Jimmy say something about that?”

“Yeah, he took me to tea once, at the Plaza. After the benefit you had for that guy with the sick wife – we met there. He’s nice.” Karen wondered how it felt to be able to turn down work if you wanted to.

“He is. Very.” What had prompted Porter Mallory to take Karen Cartwright to tea? Ivy made a mental note to ask him.

Porter Mallory was very nice. Ivy and Karen were being very nice. So was everyone. Karen was exhausted by the niceness. And no way out, except through more niceness. She caught Caroline’s attention, waved her over.

Caroline joined them, hesitant as a new kitten, a tentative smile.

Ivy spouted praise, including Karen so far as carefully tactful honesty permitted. Caroline glowed, and Ivy noted satisfaction on Karen’s face – for her praise of Karen, or of Caroline? Surprised, she thought it was the latter.

Eileen announced their imminent departure; wrapped up in the warmth of her happy gesture, she did not appreciate the tsunami of silent relief.

Karen found a second with Porter Mallory.

“Thank you for coming see us. It was kind of Eileen to think of it.” Less kind to actually do it, perhaps.

“Speaking for myself, Miss Cartwright, I would not have missed it. It is always a great pleasure to hear you sing.”

“Well, I’m happy to hear that.” Casually, she hoped, “Are you still at the same number?”

“Certainly! Please do call me anytime you are so inclined.”

Karen nodded.

Goodbyes were said, nicely.

Gatsby went back to New York; Chicago stayed for a few more rounds, now they could let their hair down in earnest.

And went home to bed.

Chapter Text

“Christ, she was awful.” Derek had kept silent during the ride home; once their door shut, it burst out of him before his coat was off.

Ivy hung up her fur, turned to him. “Yes. But she’s actually doing something, she’s trying. She never did before.”

“That was the point, that was her charm. She was effortless.”

“But effortless because she wasn’t really acting. She stood up there, and you could project what you wanted onto her. Now you can’t, because she’s acting. Badly, but she’s doing it. It’s a start.”

Derek twitched, irritated. “She’s ruined herself. She had something special, now she’s nothing but a voice.”

“Bullshit, Derek. She’s acting. When she’s not singing. She’s accessing real emotions. I don’t know if she even knows what she’s doing – she looked at me sort of funny when I mentioned choices. And obviously she isn’t in control of it, yet. But it’s a huge step.”

Derek mumbled a non-response. Unconvinced. They tabled the subject of Karen’s performance, and went to bed.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Karen had lain awake for hours. Mind tumbling. She’d done her level best to avoid Jimmy at Eileen’s “party,” and he’d let her. There would, she thought, be talk. In New York. Of the “Chicago” contingent, only Caroline knew enough to question – and wouldn’t.

The truth was, she was afraid of any confrontation with Jimmy. If she kept away, a little part of her could pretend they could fix things between them. But she was terrified any direct contact might be the end.

Which was why she hadn’t returned to Brooklyn, after “Chicago” opened. Caroline had extended her leave from interpreting for arrested foreigners, and the two spent their time and their savings together. Emotional haven, if a temporary one. After the Sunday matinee, they’d be half-through “Chicago’s” brief run. Eventually, she would have to face Jimmy. But not today.

It was dawn before she slept.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

When she woke, Karen was alone. Brewed coffee, splashed lots of cold water on herself. Remained foggy nonetheless.

Was on her third cup when she heard the key turn.

“Oh, thank God you’re up. I was starving, and thought I’d let you sleep in. But we need to be at the theatre in two hours.”

Was it that late? It was. Karen toasted a slightly stale bagel, wolfed it without voice-clogging cream cheese. Showered, dressed.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

The green room was full of actors when she and Caroline arrived. Gathered over sheets of newsprint, they looked up strangely at Karen. Furtive, almost. Some solicitous concern, on a few faces. Marcus Benedict’s face wore a look Karen had never seen – could it really be sympathy?

She moved toward the paper, picked it up as her colleagues cleared space for her. The final local review. In the college paper, but written by Carl Jennings, who’d critiqued for The New York Times until his retirement a few years back.

Neutral header, “Montclair Rep’s “Chicago.””

Karen skimmed. Too much film-influence – that had been said by others. Overall a decent production. Jennings spent a paragraph on Marcus Benedict, the history of the Mary Sunshine role and those who’d played “her.”

“They’ve struck gold with newcomer Caroline McMahon, whose Velma Kelly is an original and delightful creation. Ms. McMahon is a true triple threat, singing, acting, and dancing up a storm of beauty; I look forward to hearing much more of her, and quite soon.”

Good for Caroline. Karen was pleased for her friend. Read on, to

“Karen Cartwright’s Roxie Hart, unfortunately, is another species entirely. To be quite frank, this reviewer found her Broadway debut overrated, in the (also overrated) “Hit List” a few years ago, and the interval seems to have taught her little.

“Ms. Cartwright is unquestionably a singer of no mean accomplishment, and each song is presented beautifully – a gem, in fact. She dances quite passably. But of through-line, of cohesively constructed characterization, there is no hint. We do feel desperation, certainly, but is it Roxie Hart’s, or Karen Cartwright’s?”

He went on. Karen didn’t. Raised her head, met gazes, impassive. And laughed. Metallic, mirthless.

Caroline snatched the paper, read. “Oh, Karen, that’s so unfair! How awful! How could he?”

She’d pulled a cork, and similar, if less warmly partisan, comments bubbled out. Marcus Benedict was silent, but looked actually pained for Karen. Which was more shocking than the words she’d read. Much more so; Karen realized, with another shock, that she had been holding her breath, waiting for this shoe to drop. And here it was. The reeking old sneaker. Thud.

Karen twisted her mouth into a parody of smile, said nothing, and went to her dressing room.

She had a bad performance to give.