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Maddie gives me a fierce hug. “You’ve got this!” She pats me on the butt, like a football player, and hurries around the curtains.
The stage fills one end of the festplatz. Long metal frames holding black curtains stretch out on either side, providing “wings” to house the costume rooms, props, and backdrops. The stage is a wooden platform about four feet high, and it’s used for polka bands and other performances during the rest of the year. A framework of wood and metal soars over the stage. For the show, the set crew has rigged a curtain, and lights hang from the structure. The convent backdrop is in place, and the women playing nuns have lined up behind in the wings, stage right. I take my place on the other side as the orchestra launches into the opening music.
I spot Matt lurking in the shadows on the far side of the stage. His entrance is midway through the third scene from that side. He looks so handsome in the short trachten jacket and fitted slacks. His eyes meet mine, and he nods, as if we’re casual acquaintances. My heart stutters and my breath catches—could he be over me already?
Then Eva appears beside him, and they exchange a hug. She steps back and flashes a double thumbs-up from behind his back. The icy grip on my lungs relaxes a fraction—she knows her dad better than I do. If she says we’re still good to go, I have to believe her.
I bring my mind back to the show. I need to get my head in the game. This may be Locals’ Night, but thanks to my social media campaign, we’ve got some out-of-towners who arrived early, including my nemesis, Louis Boitano. If making my grand gesture embarrasses the town, this could backfire completely.
But that’s the thing about grand gestures—they have to be high-stakes, or they’re not very grand.
I take a deep breath and center myself. I’m a professional and the show must go on. Rolling my shoulders, I run through my pre-show routine. Although most of my work is film for the small screen, I still follow a ritual I learned from my dad. He may be a flighty father and a terrible husband, but in the acting world, he’s one of the greats.
The lights go down as the nuns glide off stage. Set crews roll the trees into place, and I take my mark beside the biggest one. One more cleansing breath, and the music swells. The lights snap on, and I sing.
Thunderous applause greets the end of the title song. I pause as the lights go down again, then hurry off stage, weaving expertly between the crew members as I pull the thin black skirt over my head, revealing the more fitted dark blue one beneath. Pauline, the recently maligned costume mistress, yanks the dress from my fingers and shoves a jacket at me. I slide my arms into the sleeves, cram the hat on top of my blonde wig, and follow Franz onto the stage.
I’ve always thought the meeting between Maria and the captain in the stage version of the show is less dramatic and more in character than the one in the film. Rather than catching her poking around the house, he finds her praying in the living room. Franz exits, and I drop to my knees on the cushion hidden behind a sofa that’s supposed to be vintage 1940s but looks more like a reject from the 1960s. The lime upholstery clashes with my olive boiled wool coat. I fold my hands on the couch back and bow my head.
The lights come up. From the corner of my eye, I catch Matt’s entrance. The audience applauds loudly when he appears, as if he’s a famous actor. I guess in Rotheberg, he is. He slows his approach to delay his first line until the applause stops, and my partners in crime go into action.
Way too early.
The lights dim, and the spots go black. From behind me, Dame Edith’s furious whisper hisses. A low voice answers her, but I don’t catch the words. Rechargeable camp lanterns splutter on in the space between the stage and the audience, the LED lamps blue against the glow from the orchestra “pit” on the right. My collaborators, seated in the front row, raise a banner between us and the spectators.
Or they try to raise it. Muffled curse words filter up to the stage, and I hope Matt doesn’t recognize Eva’s voice when she pokes the cat sprawled across the white fabric. “Alf! Move your fuzzy—” The calico stands, stretches dramatically, and with a glare that’s clearly meant to indicate he’s only moving because he decided to move, stalks away.
“What’s going on?” someone hisses from the wings.
The banner finally rises and hundreds of sticky notes flutter to the ground. Instead of spelling out “I’m sorry” on one side and “Can we try again?” on the other, it looks more like “In sony” and “Con ve tiy agair?”
This was supposed to happen in the second act, when the captain and Maria confess their love for each other. I bite my lip and turn to look at Matt. He’s frozen halfway across the stage and is clearly trying to read the signs without facing the audience. His eyes roll so far to the right, he almost falls over.
I bite back a giggle and jump to my feet, hurrying across the stage to him. “Just look at the darn things, will you?”
“What is happening to my show?” Edith wails as Matt gives up and turns toward the audience.
He reads the banners, glances at me, then reads them again. “Does this mean what I think it means? You’re willing to give us another try? Or do you want to tie again? I’m not really into that kinky stuff.”
I smack his arm lightly. “I guess we shouldn’t have reused the stickies from Eva’s room.” As I speak, another handful of fluttering squares drops. “And I am sony.” I move a few steps closer. “Con ve tie again?”
“Kiss her already!” someone hollers from behind the banners. Then others take up the chant. “Kiss her! Kiss her!”
Matt’s eyes close for a second, as if he can’t believe the situation. I can’t really, either, and I helped engineer it. I don’t wait for him to make up his mind—I just fling myself at him and pull his head down to mine. “I’m sorry.” Our lips meet, and fireworks flash.
Actually, it’s the spots coming back on. They blind me, even with my eyes closed. Catcalls ring out, and the audience hoots and whistles.
Dame Edith appears beside us, her eyes blazing. Her voice is low and furious. “I realize you think we’re just some hick town festival—not as important as your made-for-TV dramas—” Venom drips from her voice. “But this is serious business in Rotheberg, and I won’t have you—”
“Edie!” A male voice calls from the front row. “Relax. It’s Locals’ Night. This is what they’re here for.” A short, round man strides forward, stopping directly in front of us.
“That’s Lorne Lockheart. My boss.” Matt’s voice is kind of strangled. His wide eyes meet mine. “Was he in on this?”
I look away, trying to feign innocence, but it’s a lost cause, so I shrug. “He might have been informed of the project. Blake convinced him to let you off work.”
“Why?” He turns back to me.
Dame Edith makes jerky motions, urging her husband to the steps at the side where she lectures him in a stage whisper, arms flailing. The audience begins chatting, and the spotlights fade to black. We are too boring, I guess.
