“Just through Labor Day. I’ve got a rental after that.”
She explains it all, as quickly as she can (they do have a ferry to catch).
Earlier that week Sam talked to Vinny St. James about thepossibility of developing a real season at the Empire the following summer. He was interested, but he has no connections beyond the island; he didn’t really know what a summer season would entail. Sam does. She’s been thinking about it. She’d made some calls. She’s been figuring how to use her influence for good, the way Timothy had wanted her to.
They’ll need financial backing, of course, but Sam has enough in her bank account to get started. They’ll need access to playwrights and casting directors and people who understand the murky world of equity contracts. They’ll need new plays! Sam told Vinny that she isn’t interested in an entire summer of revivals. One revival is wonderful, even necessary; many theatergoers like to anchor themselves in the familiar, no maritime pun intended. But Sam wants emerging voices too, and underrepresented voices, and loud, angry voices. The more she talked about it, the more excited Vinny St. James became, and the more excited Vinny St. James became the more excited Sam became too.
Once she had approval from Vinny to use the theater she arranged a call with Blake Allard. He was in an excellent mood becauseMuch Adohad been received so well, and because his rum business had enjoyed a particularly strong season. Rum was becoming the new bourbon, which was just what Blake had predicted. Sam explained to Blake what she and Vinny had talked about; she described her vision for the following summer. A mini Williamstown, an island-size Ogunquit.
“I don’t have the capacity to make that happen,” said Blake. “The mental capacity, the connections.”
“But you have the money.”
“Sure. I have money coming out of most of my orifices.”
Gross, thought Sam. But she held her tongue, because she knew she had what Blake Allard didn’t have: time, and energy, and youth, and enough connections to get started.
“That sounds exactly like something Blake Allard would say,” says Gertie now, as Sam relays the conversation. “The thing with the orifices. But you know what? It’s mostly true.” She pushes her sunglasses to the top of her head, and her green eyes are shining. “I think it’sfabulous,Sam. If you can arrange for two house seats for me on opening night of the first play of next summer’s season, I’ll be there, with bells on.”
Uncle Timmy looks a little more skeptical. “You’re going to stay here all year?”
“Yes,” says Sam. “I’m going to use the second bedroom in the condo I’m renting as an office.” She’ll keep theseas the daypillow, but she’ll move in a desk and a chair. “When I need to, I’ll go to New York. But I’m pretty sure I can do a lot from here.”
“The winters on this island areverylong,” says Uncle Timmy. “Like, they can bring you to an Arctic Circle level of madness.”
“I know,” says Sam. “I mean, I don’t know. But I can imagine. I’m prepared. If I get lonely, Narragansett is just a ferry ride away. I don’t think my mom is going to let me descend to an Arctic Circle level of madness.”
“That’s true,” says Timothy. “Have you told your mom yet?”
“Not yet,” says Sam. “She’s next, after you guys get on the ferry.”
“She’ll be over the moon, to have you so close. Both of your parents will. Although she might be infuriated that you’re this close but not living at home.”
“I think she’ll be okay with it,” says Sam. “And also, I can always go visit Henry and Ava in Middlebury.”
From the driveway, two quick beeps of the car horn. It’s Alexa, summoning them.
“We’d better go,” says Gertie.
“I’lldrop you off,” says Sam. “Now that you know the plan. Then Alexa won’t have to come back.”
It’s a tight fit, the four of them plus the luggage, but they makeit work. Gertie takes the passenger seat, Sam drives, and Alexa and Timothy balance in the back with the bags.
“I’m going to miss it here,” says Gertie. She gazes out the window as the car rises and falls along Mohegan Trail. Little glimpses of the ocean reach them as the road twists. Far offshore, the turning of the wind turbines looks lazy, lackadaisical, but Sam knows that the turbines are actually working very hard. “I really, really am.”
“Oh, but the Algarve,” says Timothy. “That’s just gorgeous.That, you’re really going to love.” He sounds wistful as he says that, and Sam glances in the rearview mirror, but his expression is impossible to read, because he has put on his own sunglasses, maybe to hide the outside world from him, maybe to hide himself from the outside world. Probably a little bit of both.
They pass the Southeast Lighthouse, and then Mohegan Trail turns into Spring Street, and on the left they can see the Spring House Hotel, and then the 1611 Inn, then down the hill they go, and Sam maneuvers around the little traffic circle near the theater.
“Bye, theater,” says Gertie.
“Bye, theater,” echoes Timothy.
“I’ve been meaning to ask this all summer,” says Gertie. “Who is that? The statue in the middle of the circle?”
“That’s Rebecca,” says Timothy. “She was put there by the Women’s Christian Temperance Union in the late eighteen hundreds, to curb alcohol consumption on the island.”
“Girl,” says Sam. “I don’t think you’re really killing it.”
