More likemishandled,Amy silently corrects her, thinking of Gertie shacking up with Timothy and Sam because her housing fell through, but of course she doesn’t say that. Instead she says, “That’s great. I wish I knew about you the other day; I was trying to find a barn to rent for rehearsals. It’s all sorted out now though.”
“Did you go through Joanne? I bet you went through Joanne.”
Amy nods. “I did, I went through Joanne.”
Holly sighs. “Everyone calls Joanne first.” She shrugs as if to shake off that reality. “That’s okay though. It is what it is. Joanne’s been doing it longer. Is there anything else you need? Local people for jobs? I don’t know the first thing about how a play works. But I do know pretty much everyone on this island, due to my former capacity with the chamber, and, of course, my present work in the real estate market.” Amy has to keep herself from laughing at the realization that little Holly Lewis, who once laughed so hard at something Tootie said on theFacts of Lifethat soda shot out of her nose, is now using phrases likemy former capacity with the chamber.(In 1986 soda was an acceptable evening beverage for a nine-year-old: oh, those were different times indeed!)
Is there anything else she needs? There’s alotshe needs. An electrician and a plumber to look over the theater. A curtain builder! (Is that a thing?) Potentially an exterminator. Someone to print the programs, and, later, ushers to distribute them and seat the audience members. But the most important thing, of course, is to make sure that there are audience members to seat, and even with a name like Gertie Sanger that’s not a guarantee. It’s hard to get people’s attention these days. “I don’t suppose you’re hiding an experienced Broadway publicist in one of your properties,” she says. “That’s a stretch, I bet, right?”
“Hmm,” says Holly. “Broadway publicist... huh, yeah, that might be a stretch—” She taps her nails on the table and looks to the ceiling, closing her eyes and granting Amy a good view of the stunning eyelashes. Then she opens her eyes and snaps her fingers. “But wait. Hold on. Does it have to be atheaterpublicist?”
“Well. I mean. We are putting on a play, so... preferably, yes.”
“I think you should meet this woman I found a summer rental for on Corn Neck Road. Her name is Shelly Salazar. She definitely came from New York. And yes, shewasa publicist, for books. The reason I know that is because she kept dropping names of authors I’d never heard of, because I don’t read.” She says this proudly, in the way that English teachers, and, Amy guesses, book publicists, don’t care for. “I’m so busy, you know,” Holly adds, indicating her realty card. We’re all busy, thinks Amy. “The only name she dropped that I knew was Anthony Puckett, because he lives with my best friend, Joy, who owns this place! Since he’s known Joy he’s literally been working on the same unfinished book about his dad, while Joy runs herself raggedhere.”She rolls her eyes in solidarity with the unseen Joy, and Amy appreciates this. Score one for the Sisterhood. “But my point is, I bet she’s worth meeting. Maybe she knows someone.”
“Can you send me her info?” asks Amy. She pulls out her phone and she and little Holly Lewis exchange numbers, thenHolly shares the contact with her. It arrives on Amy’s phone’s screen with a satisfying zing.
“She’s definitely a big fish on a small island,” says Holly. “You’ll know what I mean, if you meet her.”
Amy leaves Shelly Salazar a voice mail right away, and by noon she’s received a call back. At three o’clock they meet, at Shelly’s request, for a drink at Poor People’s Pub. Shelly is there first, and there’s no mistaking who she is: among the sunburned tourists and the families eating a late lunch or early dinner before the ferry back to the mainland, she is wearing a spaghetti strap dress that Amy is sure comes from a designer she herself is not aware of, unless they sell it at the T.J. Maxx in North Kingston. Shelly’s face is fully made-up, her nails are painted, her hair is long and blown-out, with a subtle blue streak in the back. Big fish, small island is right, thinks Amy. All this, for Poor People’s Pub. What does this woman look like when she goes out in the evening in New York City?
Shelly orders a tequila on the rocks with soda water and a lime, then looks at Amy expectantly. Oh, what the hell, thinks Amy. She’s getting on the ferry after this. She’ll have plenty of time to sober up before driving home. She orders the same.
When they have their drinks Amy goes over her conversation with Holly, her need for a publicist for the play, the duties the job would require. She asks about Shelly’s background.
“Oh, I know lots of people,” says Shelly. “Lots. I worked in books, yes, but I dated this older man who donated a lot of money to the Public.” Shelly’s face grows sober. “I went through the biggest heartbreak of my life because of that man this past winter,” she says. “I thought I was in it for the sex and the dinners out at the expensive restaurants, but when he left me it turned out I was in it for him.”
“I’m sorry,” says Amy.
“He started dating a twenty-three-year-old,” says Shelly.
“Ew.”
“Right?” Shelly smiles appreciatively. “He was addicted to younger women. And I was addicted to him. And then I turned thirty...” The sentence trails off briefly and then Shelly’s eyes flick to Amy’s, and she says, “Well. Anyway. I had made really good money as a publicist. My dad helped me figure out how to go out on my own when I was twenty-four, and I did well. I worked really hard. I saved a lot. The man I was with always picked up the check, and maybe that’s not very feminist or enlightened of me, but it was fiscally fortunate. So I put a blue streak in my hair and I decided to take the summer off.”
“Sounds lovely,” says Amy.
“It was,” says Shelly. “I mean, itis. Obviously. It’s beautiful and relaxing. But I’msobored. I’m. So. Bored. I’ve been working since I was fourteen years old. My first job was bagging groceries at Roundy’s in Wisconsin. This is the longest I’ve gone without working or going to school—or both—since then. Please give me something to do, Amy Trevino.” She puts her hands flat on the bar of Poor People’s Pub and casts a pleading look in Amy’s direction. “I signed a lease through Labor Day, and I’m subletting my apartment in New York so I can’t go back. I’ve been over this island with a fine-tooth comb, and there’s nothing else for me to do here. Please.Please.”
“It does sound like you have the right kind of connections—” Amy begins.
“I’ll do it,” says Shelly. “I need a couple of days to get myself together, and I could start... next Tuesday?” She offers her hand, and Amy shakes, and it’s only after she’s back on the ferry that she realizes she never officially offered Shelly the job before Shelly accepted it. But you know what? It’s one more thing off the list.
Timothy
The first official production meeting takes place in the barn that Amy has procured on the last Wednesday in June. When Timothy gets there Amy is taking a Shop-Vac to the far corners, dragging around behind her an industrial-size black trash bag into which she is depositing random pieces of trash too big for the Shop-Vac to inhale.
“I like what you’ve done with the place,” says Timothy, when she turns off the Shop-Vac. Amy snorts. She winds up the cord and sits at a small card table with three folding chairs around it.
“We’re going to need something bigger than this for the read-through,” says Timothy, indicating the table.
“It’s on the list,” Amy tells him. “I’m on it.”
There’s a comical dark smudge along the side of Amy’s face, and with her hair tied back she looks a little like Lucille Ball in the “Men are Messy” episode. Timothy weighs his options and decides Amy will be more irked if he mentions the smudge than if he doesn’t. If she notices it later in the mirror, he won’t be there.
“And what are we doing about bathrooms?”
“Bathroom trailer coming tomorrow,” says Amy.
