Maggie goes into the back, and she comes out with a woman who looks so much like her—same wild hair, same pretty face, same anxious, delighted expression. “This is my mom, Joy.”
“Ah,” says Uncle Timmy. “Joy Bombs Joy. From the ferry!”
“Joy Bombs Joy from the ferry!” the woman repeats, enchanted. Everybody wants to play it cool in the midst of fame, thinks Sam, but almost nobody can. “I can’t believe you actually came in. I can’t believe it!”
“It’s not even my first time. I’ve become fond of the coffee.”
“It’snot?”says Joy. And, “Youhave?” To her daughter she says, “Maggie! Get him another. What are you drinking? It’s on the house.”
“It’s an Americano.” Timothy holds up a hand. “But please, no need. I’m at my limit.” He smiles his charming smile, and Sam thinks about how ridiculous it is that people want to give free stuff to celebrities all the time when really it’s the celebrities who can afford it and the unknown, regular people who couldprobably use the free stuff.The world is topsy-turvy, as her mom used to say.
The conversation with Joy Bombs Joy goes on for about ninety seconds, and Sam knows that ninety seconds is the right amount of time for a person like her uncle to talk to a civilian, so when time is up she says, “Don’t we have to go meet with that guy now?” and her uncle looks at her gratefully, and they say their goodbyes and scoop up their coffees from the table. Sam has her hand on the door handle, about to pull it open, when Maggie comes up behind her and says, “Sam?”
Oh, no, thinks Sam. You seemed pretty cool, Maggie. Don’t make me regret anything about our conversation. I saidno selfies. She turns, ready to squiggle away with a gesture of apology or even one of annoyance, but Maggie isn’t holding her phone. She’s just standing there, looking wholesome and sweet and very, very young, and she says, “Just so you know. I think it’s awful, what Evil Alice did.”
Unexpectedly tears spring to Sam’s eyes. She glances at her uncle; he’s looking at his phone and doesn’t appear to have heard. “Thanks,” Sam says. “Thanks a lot.” Then she swings open the door, and her uncle holds it for her like the old-fashioned gentleman that he is, and together they venture off into the bright summer morning.
Timothy
The only main role not yet cast is Hero, so one morning, just after eleven, Timothy, Sam, and Gertie sit in the living room.
Timothy’s laptop is open on the low coffee table so they can all watch together the tape from the three leading contenders, culled from auditions held at the New York City casting office. The morning started off overcast, but now the sun is starting to push its way through the clouds, and they can see a little slice of ocean through the wraparound windows.
“Should Mom be here?” asks Sam. “Or should we Zoom her in?”
“I asked her,” says Timothy. “Casting isn’t in her purview for this job, but I asked her anyway. She said to go ahead. She’s tying up some loose ends at home, and she’ll be on the island tomorrow. Are we ready to do this?”
Sam and Gertie nod. Timothy leans forward and presses theplaybutton, and the first Hero appears. She’s standing in front of a dark screen, wearing all black. Her long dark hair, stick straight, is pulled back from her face in a half-up, half-down style. Timothy glances at the audition log. Twenty-two, a recent graduate of Yale Drama School. Each actor is reading the same section: Act 3, scene 1, Hero, Margaret, and Ursula in Leonato’s garden. A person off camera reads the lines of Margaret and Ursula—and Beatrice, when she enters the scene.
“If it prove so,” concludes Hero, “then loving goes by haps; some Cupid kills with arrows, some with traps.”
“What do we think?” Timothy asks, pressing thepausebutton.
“Hmm,” says Sam.
“Well...” says Gertie.
“There’s something about her that’s not quite right,” says Timothy. “But I can’t put my finger on it.”
“It’s a hint of masculinity in her voice,” says Sam. “Her voice isn’t light enough for Hero.”
Timothy turns to her: his niece is a wonder! “That’s exactly it, Sam. Thank you.”
“Well done, Sam,” says Gertie merrily. “Next!” Timothy presses a key to play the next audition, and they all watch the candidate carefully.
“Body language,” says Timothy.
“Hesitation in the delivery,” says Gertie.
“Light vocal fry,” says Sam. “Pass.”
There’s something not quite right about the third one too. When she finishes reading, Timothy closes his laptop and sighs.
“They all sound too old,” says Sam. “I’m not saying theyaretoo old—mid-twenties should be fine for Hero. I’m just saying that whatever their ages they don’tseemyouthful enough. None of these three seems carefree and trusting, the way Hero needs to be.” (Timothy had caught Sam perusing the script the other day.) “These three deliver the lines, sure, but they seem sort of...imperturbable.”
“I think your inner casting director is trying to claw her way out of your midsection, Sammy,” says Gertie. “You’re exactly right.”
Sam smiles wryly and looks down at her hands—but she does seem pleased. She looks up again and adds, “I think Hero needs to have the innocence of a teenager. Not that teenagers are innocent, but you know what I mean. Someone who hasn’t been knocked down a lot yet.”
