Not that she didn’t have people who knew her in New York. She did. Maybe too many of them. At least two or three times a month, she’d get contacted from someone in the business on either coast about doing a show or taking an audition or performing somewhere. As she no longer had an agent—she didn’t need or want one—Vivien fielded all of those contacts with a simple but firm “No thank you, I don’t perform anymore.”
Still, her name and reputation had helped build her marketing and PR business in the Broadway world, and it was partly because of that that Vivien was right where she was now: walking down the main street in the town she’d only lived in for five years—but it felt like the only home she’d ever had.
In a way, it was.
Vivien always thought George Wicks (who, in her mind, would have been Henry Higgins inMy Fair Lady) must have been the optimistic sort, naming the two main roads that intersected in the center of the village after his daughters—and giving them lofty names like Pamela Boulevard and Faith Avenue. Neither could be considered hardly more than a street, let alone a boulevard or avenue, and when there were cars parked on either side, like there would be by noon today, there was barely enough space for two vehicles to pass each other.
But that was part of what made Wicks Hollow so charming—its quiet, tidy streets studded by urns spilling with bright geraniums, gerberas, and lush, dangling vines.
There were shops and establishments—very limited compared to what she’d passed every day in New York, but Vivien certainly didn’t miss the alleys smelling of urine, the constant blare of sirens and horns, the throngs of people everywhere all the time, and the perpetual odor of rotting garbage (every day was trash daysomewherein the city).
Vivien paused outside the window of the small florist to admire a springy, airy fern that she coveted for the kitchen in her tiny rental. But she’d probably kill it like she did the tomato plant she’d had on her windowsill one summer, and so she continued on down Pamela, heading toward Elizabeth Street—better known as B&B Row.
Vivien could have returned to the café and finished her scone (and paid her bill), but during the conversation with her banker, she’d automatically walked three blocks. Now she realized she’d almost arrived at the office of her realtor, whom she’d known a hundred years ago in high school. Though she was early, she decided to go inside in hopes of getting the keys sooner.
Twenty minutes later (hurray for a canceled appointment that had left her realtor free), Vivien was on her way to the theater—hertheater.
She could finally go inside, knowing it was hers. She had seen it twice during the buying process, which had taken over five months, because although she was determined, she wasn’t foolish enough to waste the money Gran had left her, and she’d negotiated the crap out of the deal.
But she’d always been with someone when inside. Never alone.
Never just her…and Liv.
The Wicks Hollow Stage had struggled with a few short-lived seasons in the late 1980s into 1990 before being shuttered permanently. Prior to that, it had been quite successful in turns as a vaudeville theater, a venue for silent films with an orchestra pit for live music accompaniment, and then the talkies that came out in the 1930s. But eventually, the old building had been abandoned sometime during the Second World War.
Whoever reopened it in the eighties had done a stellar job of updating and restoring the place, so fortunately for Vivien, she mainly had to clean it up and fix a few damaged areas, as well as update the lighting system and install new seats in the house. Her loan (she squealed happily inside) would more than cover those improvements, and she wouldn’t have to dip into her savings…which meant she might even be able to buy a house next year.
It was a short drive to the six-hundred-seat theater she intended to make a tourist destination during every season—not just the summer. She suspected part of the reason it hadn’t been successful in the past was because it wasn’t in the downtown area, nor was it near Lake Michigan—both locations being the main draws for tourists. Instead, it was on a residential side street that ended in a cul-de-sac just off the two-lane state route that angled led outside of Wicks Hollow to Wicks Lake.
The location didn’t worry her; it was only two miles from town, and tourists drove to and from activities in the area all the time. And Vivien didn’t have a solid track record in publicity and advertising for nothing. The bank agreed: Wicks Hollow needed a live entertainment venue other than the small outdoor music stage and a movie theater ten miles away.
And now, Vivien thought as she pulled into the side parking lot of the Olivia Dee Theater, she was going to make it happen.
The original red velvet seats had long decayed and been removed, but Vivien would replace the rows of folding wooden seats from three decades ago with something like the original. The interior was dusty, dark, and very dingy, but there wasn’t any indication of leaks or mold. The stage itself remained solid, and the catwalk above was stable and would be usable, with little need for repair.
However, the traditional red velvet curtains were a tattered mess (and would be the first thing Vivien would tear away once she got inside), and the dressing rooms and costume wardrobes needed a lot of work. She’d already ordered two fifty-yard Dumpsters to be placed in the parking lot, and they should arrive tomorrow. She’d have her work cut out for her, filling them up.
Vivien let herself in through the front door, the main entrance the theatergoers would be using hopefully six weeks from now, whenArsenic and Old Laceopened.
It was important for her to envision what it would be like when the place was illuminated and filled with chattering people milling about and filing down the aisles to their seats. She wanted to picture what the audience would see when they first walked in to the new, clean, renovated theater. Six weeks was an aggressive schedule, but Vivien had planned everything out and was optimistic it would work. She’d already had measurements taken for the new curtains, and had priced out audience seats and was ready to place the order. She would open the weekend after Labor Day.
She flipped on a row of light switches—flick, flick, flick—and a few stubborn bulbs sizzled to life, casting an uneven ochre glow in the small, gallerylike lobby. The place smelled of age, and dust motes glittered in the yellow light. Something moved in the corner, and Vivien turned just as she heard the rustle of old papers.
“I’d better get a cat,” she said. “We can’t have mice disturbing our show.”
Not that she thought Maxine Took or Juanita Acerita would be the least bit put off if a mouse ran across the stage during rehearsal. She suspected neither of them would bat an eyelash. Hell, Maxine would probably adopt the rodent as her good-luck charm. Or familiar.
Vivien pushed through the double doors that opened into the house. With no windows, it was even darker in here, and only a smattering of light bulbs worked when she flipped the switches. The main aisle projected like a shadowy ribbon straight in front of her, dipping on a gentle incline and ending at the great, dark maw of the stage.
The stage. The empty, open expanse standing proudly and expectantly in a shadowy building that had been abandoned to dust, cases of deteriorating playbills, sagging, creaking seats, and a small cache of rodents.
But the memories—the witty dialogue, the heartbreaking songs, the dramatic soliloquies, the energetic dances—all reverberated in the vast, dark space. For a moment, Vivien fancied she could hear them…
“The hills are alive…”
“To be or not to be…”
“I’m hopelessly devoted…to you…”
