Timothy glances over at her. She’s wearing a hat Timothy hasn’t seen before—navy blue, with an outline of the island in white, and she pulls the brim down and slouches in the passenger seat. “Nah,” he says. “You’re headed for Joy Bombs. Am I right in guessing you could use a coffee, and maybe some sugar and some fat?”
“All of the above,” says Sam.
“How’s Gertie?” he asks. “Any proof of life from her?”
Sam shakes her head. “Not a peep. I think she’s still sleeping.”
“Okay, good. She needs to sleep at least fourteen hours after taking that medicine, and then she should be her lovely self once again.”
“I remember,” says Sam softly. Of course, thinks Timothy. Sam lived with them for a year. She’s experienced Gertie’s migraines.
“Anyway, besides getting you some sugar and some fat, there’s something I want to talk to you about.”
A sigh escapes from Sam; Timothy gives her credit for the fact that it’s barely audible, but she loses points for sighing in the first place. “Is it the party?” she says. “I really am sorry. I messed up. It got out of control, but I never should have okayed it in the first place. I don’t know how to make it up to you—but I’m sorry.”
“It’s not about the party. The party’s over. I got mad; you apologized. There’s not much else we can do about something that’s in the past. Do I wish you hadn’t done it? Of course I do. Am I glad nothing happened that I would have been liable for, or, worse, thatFloydwould have been liable for? Yes. I am immeasurably glad about that. So let’s move on, shall we?”
“We shall,” says Sam. “We most definitely shall.”
Timothy parks the jeep near Joy Bombs and says, “Good.”
“So...” she says a few minutes later, when they have their coffees and whoopie pies and their seats too. “If we’re not here to talk about the party, what are we here for?”
He clears his throat. He’s so nervous! “Amelia Rees has left the production,” he says.
“What?”
“She got a Hulu show. She’s gone. She’s off the island already, on her way to California.” He takes a sip of his coffee—his second cup of the day. He’s almost starting to feel normal. Well,normalis a strong word. He’s starting to feel better. “And I want you to consider taking over her role.”
“No, thank you,” says Sam immediately, almost primly.
Timothy takes a beat and tells himself not to react too quickly. “Nothank you? I’m not offering you a scone, Sam. I’m giving you an opportunity, and I’m asking you to help out.” He’s trying not to let all of his feelings jump out at once—but this is important. If Sam doesn’t say yes, he doesn’t have a backup plan.
“I’m not the right person. You should get someone who auditioned and didn’t get the part. I didn’t even try out.”
“The thing is, Sam.” He tries to keep his voice steady. “Thething is, you’re exactly the right person. I can’t get someone else. Opening night is just over two weeks away, Sam. Nobody else knows the part.”
“Someone can learn a part in two weeks. It just takes concentration.” Sam is suddenly very busy with her napkin. She folds it into little squares, then unfolds it, and considers it. She starts to fold it again.
Timothy puts his hand over Sam’s, partly to quiet the movement and partly to get her attention. Sam looks at him, startled. “There’s nobody else on this island right now who could do it, so even if we found someone elsewhere we’d have to get them over here, find a place to put them up, and get them to learn a boatload of Shakespeare before beginning rehearsals. You’re here already. You know the part. You offered Amelia some very cogent notes.”
Sam makes a face. “It’s just because I’m a quick study. I memorize things automatically. I didn’t do it on purpose.”
“Sam. You have a real feel for the part. You know the lines, yes, but you also know the emotion behind the lines.”
Sam looks at him levelly. “I have a feel for Hero when I’m offering notes. When there’s no risk involved. Trust me, I’m not the right person to do it.”
“But you are! You are exactly the right person.”
Sam sighs, irritated, crosses her arms and says, “Are you making me do it?”
“Jesus. Of course not, Sam. I would nevermakeyou do something like this. I couldn’t even if I wanted to. You’re an adult. I’m simply asking. That’s all I’m doing. You know how talented I think you are. When we had our... conversation Friday night...”
“Argument,” she says.
He tips his head toward her. “Fine. Argument. I was starting to tell you that, but we got onto the subject of why and when you left L.A. When you’re dealing with real material, real art, you’ve got such a knack—”
He can tell instantly by her expression that he’s said the wrong thing, again.
