The Summer Set Read online

  She liked to watch the transformation that swept her young audience over the course of that hour and fifty-three minutes. (In addition to its myriad detriments, the film was, in Charlie’s estimation, a solid twenty-three minutes longer than it had any right to be.) She just wished she hadn’t stayed last night. She had forgotten that, at some point, the sleeping pill would, presumably, do what it had been advertised to do. And that she could do something like drive into the river.

  “Can’t see this stuff everywhere.” Miles crossed the lobby to unlock the doors.

  Back in her office, Charlie’s fingers hovered over her laptop keyboard. Changing her mind, she patted at the floor for the smooth stationery with that neat penmanship. It had been a while since she had received a letter like that: formal, kind, thoughtful. Slouched in her chair, injured leg propped on her desk, she read it again. And again. Always coming back to the closing.

  ...Without prying, with only reverence and respect, could I ask: Why did you stop doing something you’re so good at? And more important: When will you come back? You are missed.

  2

  I MISSED YOU TOO

  Charlie studied herself in her bathroom mirror. In just a week her bruised eye had faded to the dull gray of rancid meat, now easily disguised by concealer. She flat-ironed her raven hair, securing it in a sleek, low ponytail, then rummaged the closet for her most professional-looking getup: that slim black suit, pale pink silk blouse with the bow at the neck and the stilettos she only wore when she felt compelled to impress. Her wardrobe from that perfume ad a decade earlier but timeless nonetheless, just like the moniker that had been etched in script on the curved bottle of the fragrance.

  Outside, Boston did its best impersonation of her supposed hometown, London. (Though she had lived away from there enough during childhood to have eluded the accent.) The dreary May rain made her think of her mom: the estimable Dame Sarah Rose Kingsbury. News of Charlie’s incident had warranted mentions in a few celebrity weeklies and, unfortunately, made the hop across the pond. Her mother had called, texted and finally, after no response, emailed: Charlie, Did you receive my voice mail and text? I trust you’re alright. Another of your stunts? Please respond. Love, Mum. Her mom’s correspondence always scanned like a telegram, full of stops and full stops—much like their relationship itself. Charlie, reveling in being briefly unreachable and not in the mood to answer questions, hadn’t yet bothered to replace her phone and had indeed missed the call but wrote back assuring her mom that she was fine, though the accident had not, in fact, been performance art.

  By the time Charlie reached the foreboding Suffolk County Courthouse, her lawyer/friend Sam—who had shepherded her through the theater purchase (while questioning her sanity)—was already there pacing, barking into her phone.

  “This should be easy,” Sam told her, hanging up, hugging her while scrolling her inbox. Sam wore suits and radiated responsibility, two things Charlie found comforting in a lawyer. “Be contrite and it should be open-and-shut for community service.”

  The sterile courtroom’s pin-drop silence made Charlie shiver. Next to her, Sam tucked her phone in her bag and rose to her feet, gesturing for Charlie to stand as the judge materialized at the bench. Charlie found it oddly reassuring that the judge was the kind of woman who wore pearls and a frilly collar outside her robe.

  “You were okay with my email, right?” Sam whispered, as they sat again.

  “What email?” she whispered back.

  “My email. An hour ago? You have got to get a new phone,” Sam scolded.

  “I know, I know—”

  “There was this arrangement, last minute, I hope you’ll be amenable to but—”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Charlie pleaded.

  The judge had begun speaking, so Sam hushed her. Too late.

  “Ms. Savoy, this is the part where I get to talk.” The judge looked up from the paper she had been reading aloud. “Maybe it was different in your episodes of Law & Order?”

  “No, ma’am, I mean, Your Honor, sir, ma’am, no,” Charlie stumbled. She had been wrong about the judge. The woman continued on about the damage Charlie caused and the significant hours of service required like Charlie was the honoree at one of those Comedy Central roasts, albeit one that could end with her in a jail cell.

  Until finally, the judge cut to the chase: “...an assignment has presented itself,” she said slowly. “Which will make fine use of Ms. Savoy’s expertise...” Charlie caught Sam’s side-eye. “So Charlotte Savoy shall be required to complete sixty days with the Chamberlain Summer Theater in—”

  “NO!” Charlie expelled the word, an anaphylactic response. The judge scowled as though jail might still be an option. “Sorry, Your Honor, I just mean—can I object?” Sam shot her a lethal glare. “It’s just that, well—” Charlie tried again as a door at the back of the courtroom creaked open, footsteps echoing. She turned to discover the equivalent of a ghost.

  Nick Blunt—director, ex, first love, disappointment, invertebrate—heading her way.

  “Mr. Blunt, thank you for joining us,” the judge said, unimpressed.

  Charlie’s posture straightened, heartbeat ticking faster than seemed medically sound. She felt betrayed by her own being, muscles, nerves, ashamed of this reaction.

  “Sorry, Your Honor,” he said in that deep rasp.

  Charlie wished she hated that voice. And it seemed an abomination that he could still be attractive—physically at least.

  Rugged with an athletic build, he wore black jeans, a blazer and aviator sunglasses, which he pulled off as he walked (pure affectation since, to her knowledge, it was still raining outside), tucking them into the V of his slim sweater.

  He took his place beside Charlie, flashing that smile he deployed when he aimed to be his most charming.

  “Hi there,” he said, as though surprised to be meeting this way.

  “Shouldn’t you be wearing a cape?” Charlie rolled her eyes, focused on the judge reading again, and returned her body to its proper slouch, recalibrating her expression between boredom and disgust.

  “I missed you too, Charlie,” he whispered back.

  From the corner of her eye, Charlie spotted the sharp beak of that tattoo—the meadowlark—curving around from the back of his neck. It was still there, which gave her a pang of affection, a flare-up she forced herself to snuff out. She imagined how they might look to those few people sitting in the rows behind them. Nick and her with these identical birds inked onto the backs of their necks, midflight and gazing at each other anytime he stood on her right side, as he did now. Mirror images, bookends, the birds’ once-vibrant golden hue as faded as the memory of the hot, sticky night she and Nick had stolen away from campus to get them together.

  Over the years, she had considered having hers removed or morphed into some other design, but why should she? She liked it. At face value. Charlie sighed again, more loudly than intended, as her mind sped to how this summer would now be.

  “Ms. Savoy, is there a problem?” the judge asked, irked.

  “Your Honor, I just wondered—is there a littered park or something? Instead?”

  “We’re fine, Your Honor.” Sam patted Charlie’s arm in warning.

  “Ms. Savoy will report to service June 1.” The judge slammed the gavel, which, to Charlie, sounded like a nail being hammered into a coffin.

  “I had a client last week who’s cleaning restrooms at South Station this summer,” Sam said apologetically as they walked out.

  Charlie just charged ahead down the hall, an urgent need to escape, her mind struggling to process it all.

  “So, craziest thing happened,” Nick launched in, catching up to them at the elevator. “I was reading the news and saw about your little mishap—” He sounded truly concerned for a moment.

  “Don’t pretend like you don’t have a Google alert on me,�
�� Charlie cut him off, stabbing the down button too many times.

  “You always were a terrible driver—”

  “That river came outta nowhere—”

  “But a stellar swimmer—”

  She nodded once. She couldn’t argue with that.

  He went on, “So I made a few calls and—”

  “Don’t be fooled by...that.” She waved her hand back toward the courtroom. “You need me more than I need you.”

  The elevator opened.

  “We’ll see about that.” He let them on first. Charlie hit the button again-again-again to close the doors, but he made it in. “How long has it been, anyway?”

  “You know how long it’s been,” she said as the doors closed so she was now looking at their reflection. It had been six years, three months, two weeks and two days since they last saw each other. At the long-awaited premiere for Midnight Daydream—which should’ve been a thrilling night since a series of snags had pushed the film’s release date back two years after filming. But instead of celebratory toasts, it had ended with a glass of the party’s signature cocktail—a messy blackberry-infused bourbon concoction the shade of the night sky—being thrown. In retrospect, she thought, there’d been so many signs the movie was cursed.

  “You’re just mad your self-imposed exile is over.” He smirked.

  “Always with the probing psychoanalysis.” She watched the floor numbers descend, doors finally opening.

  Sam scurried out ahead of them. “My work here is done. I’m sure you two have a lot of catching up to do.” She gave Charlie an air-kiss before striding off.

  “Wait, no, I just need to—” Charlie tried to stop her, but Sam had already hopped in a cab.

  “So, I have an office not too far, off Newbury Street, off-season headquarters for Chamberlain—” Nick started.

  “Luckily you’re usually phoning it in, so I haven’t had the privilege of running into you around town.” She walked ahead in the cool, pelting rain.

  He stayed where he was. “I’d invite you out for a drink—”

  “It’s, like, 10 a.m. That’s too early. Even for you—” She glanced back.

  “Summer is gorgeous in the Berkshires, as you may recall,” he shouted, sunglasses back on, absurdly, and that smile again. “Welcome back to Chamberlain, Charlie.”

  3

  WELCOME TO CHAMBERLAIN

  According to Sierra’s official “Chamberlain Summer Shakespeare Theater Apprentice Program” electronic welcome packet, which she had committed to memory, the dorms opened on Monday, May 31 at 10 a.m., just a few moments ago. She had boarded the first bus from Boston to make it. Yet as she now reached the third floor of Trinity Hall, the gothic fortress that would be her summer home, she felt she had arrived to a show already in progress.

  Spirited chatter filled the hallways, that buzzy electricity of new beginnings that always made her queasy. The door of every room propped open, unpacking and instantaneous bonding underway. Her fellow apprentices greeted each other with hugs, comparing notes on where they’d come from. “NYU!”

  “Columbia!”

  “Vassar!”

  “Yale!”

  “Boston—BU!”

  “Boston—BC!”

  And where they were (eventually) going.

  “NYC!”

  “New York!”

  “Off-off-off Broadway!”

  “Hollywood, baby!”

  At the very end of the narrow corridor, she found her room. Sierra pulled her dark hair from her messy ponytail, deep breath—Let me be the first one here—and peeked inside: a leggy blonde lay on one of the twin beds, talking on FaceTime. One half of the room was fully decorated: pictures, theater programs and show posters from NYU productions tacked to the walls; fluffy floor pillows set out; books on the shelves.

  Sierra knocked and the blonde looked up from her screen. “Oh, I think my roommate might be here.” She eyed Sierra up and down as a girl’s voice on the other end signed off.

  Sierra smiled cautiously, remained still, like in airport security lines when they pull you aside to wave that metal-detecting wand over you.

  “Talk later, love ya,” the blonde gushed at the screen, clicking off. She grinned now, as though assessing Sierra’s threat level to be low: “Ohmagod, I’ve been dying to get off that call, thank you.” She tossed her phone on her fuchsia comforter. “You must be Serena!” She bounced off the bed, slipped on strappy sandals. She wore jean shorts and a tank top.

  “Right, sort of, it’s Sierra, hi.” She smiled, set her bag on the unclaimed bed.

  “Sierra, totally, hi.” The blonde shook her head, then surprised Sierra by embracing her. “Harlow. Hunter.” She said her name like it should already mean something. “C’mon.” She took Sierra’s hand. “Let’s go check out the competition.”

  * * *

  “Welcome to Chamberlain.” Nicholas Blunt, himself, stood at the center of the bare stage. Sierra sat beside Harlow, who had insisted on the front row, though it felt exceedingly close. “You are this summer’s acting apprentices. Congrats. You are—” he glanced at the papers in his hand “—thirty, yes, thirty of the finest collegiate thespians from across the country.” He rolled up the pages, folded muscular arms, looked out. “Listen, this summer is going to move—so fast it’ll give you whiplash, every day is a work day here...”

  “Nicholas is kind of hot for an older guy, right?” Harlow whispered, proposing it in the manner of a scientific hypothesis. “Like a hot dad on a CW show?”

  “I think he’s hotter than that,” Sierra offered in the same hushed tone, watching him. He was probably mid-to-late forties, since he’d been just twenty-nine when he’d made The Tempest, but he seemed younger. “He’s like a sexy HBO prestige drama, midlife-crisis-type of a guy.” They returned their attention to his words.

  “The professional company has three productions from late June through just after Labor Day on this main stage.” He stomped the last words for emphasis, and Sierra sat straight up. “Name them. Alex—” He called on a boy a handful of seats down from them in the center of the front row.

  “Romeo and Juliet opens at the end of June. Midsummer Night’s Dream—July. The Tempest—August.” Alex’s crystal voice projected across the vast space.

  Nicholas walked along the stage, stopping in front of them. “...and our four accomplished company members this summer. Name them—” He scanned their row as Sierra’s stomach dropped, her throat too dry to produce words. This man had been nominated for an Oscar—how was she going to make it through the summer if she felt this nervous? “You—” He pointed at Harlow.

  “Chase Embers, Matteo Denali, Danica Rainier and Charlie Savoy,” Harlow answered, proud, fearless, with a gleaming smile.

  Nodding in approval, Nicholas Blunt moved on. “Romeo opens here in three weeks,” he said like a drill sergeant. “This year there’s no break. The shows run back-to-back-to-back, which means rehearsing one show while performing another.” A collective gasp broke out in the audience. “I know,” he answered. “This will only affect most of you in terms of the backstage work. Mornings you’re in drama workshop with Professor Bradford. Afternoons you’re in your backstage concentration—set construction, lighting, costumes, props...”

  “I’m props, you?” Harlow asked softly while Nicholas continued.

  “Costumes.” Sierra had grossly exaggerated how much she had helped her mom’s alterations business at the family resort during off-season.

  “I heard that’s a lot of extra work,” Harlow said, dismissive.

  Sierra just smiled, refocused her attention on the director.

  “...so you’ll also be called on for everything from picking up trash after shows to delivering food to actors at late-night rehearsals,” Nicholas went on. “Assorted odd jobs.”

  “I’ll deliver myself to Chase Em
bers’s place for an odd job,” Harlow whispered, which was something Sierra—and half of the room—might be thinking but would never say within earshot of Nicholas Blunt.

  “I know we don’t have to talk about professionalism,” Nicholas said, as though he might’ve heard. Sierra froze, felt her eyes bulge. “Late afternoons and evenings are for rehearsals.” He paused, giving everyone time to absorb that and to ascribe the full weight of their loftiest dreams onto him. “A select few of you may earn roles on the main stage with the professionals. But everyone’s got a chance to get noticed. August 20. The culmination of your summer. This could be the most important date in your career.”

  August 20. Black Box Showcase. Auditions tomorrow. Sierra had the date burned in her cerebral cortex.

  “Talent scouts, casting directors, New York theater, Boston theater are invited to the Black Box Showcase. This is the show put on entirely by you, the apprentices. The directing and writing apprentices will be at your auditions tomorrow. They’re staging it. Three one-acts, interspersed with monologues. Every one of you will have a part. So, make us notice you tomorrow, be unforgettable.” Nicholas nodded, as though this would be a breeze. “Someone in here might get an agent from it,” Nicholas said gravely. “Or get cast in a professional show or be asked to audition for a film that will change your life—”

  For a beat, Sierra forgot that this summer would be an artistic cage match and that she sat in a room of to-the-death competitors. Instead, she chose to feel hopeful. The key to stratospheric success lay here, in this building, somewhere. She just had to figure out how to seize it. She watched Nicholas Blunt, like he might telepathically impart these secrets to her.

  “And, if that’s not inspiring enough, we’re taking a trip to New York to see Abby’s Road on Broadway later this summer.” Cheers erupted.