The Summer Set Page 5

  Always a lacing of guilt to any exchange with her mom. She couldn’t exactly hop on a flight anytime soon.

  I’ll send more photos and let you know how—

  “Charlie Savoy,” a woman’s voice interrupted her text.

  Charlie jumped, turned to find a familiar figure at the side entrance. “Danica Rainier,” Charlie greeted her.

  “Haven’t seen you in years,” Danica said with no particular warmth. She leaned against the doorframe, long blond hair and maxidress blowing in the breeze, gauzy scarf at her neck. Perfect minimal makeup. She had always been otherworldly beautiful, like the kind of doll psychologists urged young girls not to play with because it would stealthily destroy their self-esteem. Even now, when she had to be fifty or close to it, she still safely qualified as an ethereal goddess. She had enjoyed a brief tenure as America’s Sweetheart thanks to two highly successful rom-coms in the early ’90s, which still showed somewhere on basic cable nearly every weekend, and that old series enjoying a streaming renaissance thanks to millennials. “I was beginning to wonder whatever happened to you,” Danica said in monotone, taking a slow sip from the mug of hot tea in her hands. “I thought you died.”

  “Glad to be back, from the dead, or wherever,” Charlie said, hopping up the steps to the side door, and breezing past Danica into the house. “Not bad here.”

  Inside, the grand winding staircase was still there, but the hardwood flooring had been redone in a rich chocolate. Walls had been knocked out, opening up the kitchen, dining area and living room. Down the hall, she found the ground-floor bedroom claimed.

  “That’s Matteo’s,” Danica reported. “He likes to be near the kitchen—he pretends the entire first floor is his and we’re his guests.”

  “Sounds like him,” Charlie said, comforted to know her old friend would be there. She made her way up the steps lined with framed programs of past shows.

  “Your room is the next floor up. I’m on top!” Danica shouted. “Top floor is me!”

  Charlie sighed. “Got it!” she called down.

  Beside a cluster of vintage Chamberlain posters, she found her floormate’s room: bay window, king-size bed, fluffy comforter. Everything immaculate and in place. Very Chase.

  She found her own room across from Chase’s. She unzipped her duffel, opened the deep top dresser drawer and emptied her bag, pulling out a handful of books and tossing them on the bed, that letter shoved into one like a dagger.

  The smallest room in the house, the space had been further cramped by the addition of a spiral staircase leading to a hatch in the ceiling. She pulled out her phone—intending to dash off a snarky text to Nick, comparing this to the dorm she had vacated—but noticed something on one of the steps: a leather-bound copy of Romeo and Juliet.

  Nick’s stationery, clipped to the cover, read: “Before I hear any complaints, you’ve got a balcony, Juliet.” Signed simply “—Nicholas.”

  Only a few words, but such relief. So she was going to be Juliet. She wished it didn’t matter, but it did. It meant something that a role like that could still be hers after all this time. She had been hedging her bets in Nick’s office, trying to appear like she didn’t care. She hoped she had fooled him, hoped he’d read her attitude as confidence.

  Climbing the metal coil now, she pushed open the hatch and poked her head up into the late-afternoon sun. The crow’s nest, wide enough to fit two people max, offered a perfect view of bustling Warwickshire Way. This escape made it worth having the small room. She felt in line with the mountains surrounding the town, even though they were still much higher. Her body eased, she closed her eyes, let the sun warm her. Then, renewed, she decided to make an effort.

  The balcony is a game changer. You’re lucky, she texted Nick.

  The response came immediately: Is that actually a thank you?

  Before Charlie could debate whether to write back, a familiar bass voice rang from below: “Hi, honey, I’m hooome!”

  10

  EVERYONE WHO’S ANYONE WAITED TABLES

  “Wait, do you live here too?” Ethan joked as soon as Sierra opened the door to her room. Even though she had unpacked, it still resembled a shrine to Harlow.

  “I like to keep a low profile.” She rolled her eyes.

  “Hang on.” He leaned down to study the framed photo on the desk of her surrounded by the kids she taught in her theater program and then grabbed the picture beside it. “I found evidence of your existence.” He was quiet for a moment. “So that’s home?”

  She looked over his shoulder at the shot of her standing on the open-air top floor of the grandest tree house at her family’s resort. Four stories, winding staircases, twinkling lights and a swinging bridge connecting it to a smaller guesthouse. “Not home home, just the resort my family owns.” She laughed. “We live in, like, a normal house. But I’ve heard every Swiss Family Robinson analogy,” she said, taking her Romeo copy from her desk, holding it up. “Okay, who’s first?”

  They had declared each other scene partners (almost by default since Harlow and Alex had paired off) after spending the afternoon in the set workshop (him) and the costume shop (her). But now, surveying the artifacts of Harlow’s stage prowess, she knew this wasn’t going to work.

  “Wanna—” she started. He looked up from his book.

  “Get outta here?” he finished.

  They found a shady spot on the Quad instead. Bradford had tasked each pair with switching audition monologues, coaching each other and performing them the next day. Midway through Mercutio’s speech, she caught Ethan peeking at his watch.

  “I know what you’re thinking—you don’t. Want. This. To. End. It’s that good,” she kidded, secretly embarrassed that she couldn’t hold his attention.

  “No, it’s not you, it really is me—” He threw his arms up, in apology. “I have work in fourteen minutes.”

  “Oh.” Relieved, she sat beside him. “Well, that’s plenty of time for me to die and you to...live,” she said, referring to their soliloquies.

  “Is this really living though?”

  “Is this still about the play or philosophically speaking?”

  “I want to be in the moment, doing what I want to do.”

  “Okay...” She tried to follow. “You can go first—”

  “But everything is a thousand times harder because I’m not doing what my family wants, not working for them.” He patted the tattoo on his arm, which she could see now was a mechanical bull. “So I’m cut off, even though I created this merchandising offshoot that actually became profitable for them—”

  “I’m getting the business-major vibes now,” she said, nodding.

  “So in between classes and auditions and set construction and rehearsals, I have to be at Poets & Pints,” he sighed, ruffling the back of his hair, frustrated. “Sorry.” He watched a group playing soccer across the way. “A long way of saying your thesis is looking pretty good to me right now.” He picked a blade of grass and tossed it away.

  “Sure, my thesis may seem sexy,” she joked, and he suppressed a smile. “But you’re the one who really has the right idea: everyone who’s anyone waited tables, right? That’s a well-paved path to success in the acting field.” He shook his head, almost laughing. “And, by the way, you were pretty revelatory in your audition, so there’s that too.”

  “This place is kind of intense, already, right?” he asked, like it was something not to be admitted out loud.

  “Um, yeah. Have you met our roommates?” She checked her phone. “Not to be a downer, but we’ve got a solid nine minutes. Put me to shame as Romeo and then get out of here.” He smiled, appreciative. She didn’t mind tackling Mercutio on her own. She’d need more than a few minutes to stage her redemption, anyway.

  11

  IT MIGHT BE A MONTAGUE-CAPULET-LEVEL SHOWDOWN

  Charlie heard the bickering before she re
ached the kitchen, and it made her smile.

  “...and even the market is more robust this year,” the honey-smooth voice said. “Check out these tomatoes!”

  “Matteo, do not make that lasagna,” Danica scolded. “I’m not eating that, I told you. Every summer you do this to me.”

  “Dan, honey, if it wasn’t for me you would never have any fun.”

  “Or any carbs.”

  Matteo Denali—summertime personified in his straw hat, rolled-up khakis and crisp short-sleeve linen button-down—unpacked overflowing burlap grocery bags as Charlie poked her head into the doorway.

  “One more for dinner?” she asked.

  “Charlie Savoy!” he bellowed as though announcing a winning game show contestant, lighting up with a wide grin. “Get over here, you!”

  “If I’d known you were gonna be here, I wouldn’t’ve needed a judge to send me,” she said as he gave the kind of crushing hug that always made everything alright. She had forgotten that.

  “Nick said you were moving in but, you know...” He didn’t finish, just swatted the air, as though not wanting to bring him up so soon. Danica skulked off like a third wheel.

  “Has it really been since—?” Charlie started.

  “The year of The Tempest,” he said, confirming. “Too long.” They hadn’t seen each other since he had starred as the sorcerer Prospero in the film and together they had been nominated for just about every award. He as lead, her as supporting. They drank champagne for months, that heady awards season buzz felt never-ending, and then went off in opposite directions, something you didn’t think was ever going to happen while in the thick of all that celebration. “Chop these while you tell me what you’ve been up to.” He tossed two tomatoes and she caught them.

  “I don’t sous-chef for just anyone,” she laughed, recalling days of helping him in this very kitchen all those years ago, her first summer here. When she’d met him he was a soap opera heartthrob. He had to be, what, fifty...four now? But his presence felt as youthful as ever; he seemed not to age. Same boundless energy, same smooth skin, same shining eyes, same kindness and same devotion to the place that had helped him get his start. He still returned to the Chamberlain nearly every summer, despite having his own theater out west and a film career.

  “We need you here,” he said, slapping her shoulder. “And not just for your knife skills.”

  * * *

  When Chase returned, the four of them gathered around the marble dining table—their spirit as lively as a chain restaurant commercial—feasting on Matteo’s signature lasagna as Charlie’s three housemates gave monologues on their recent credits and degrees of separation from each other. (“Charlie and I battled demons back in the day,” Chase explained to Danica, referring to their teen movie. To which Danica replied, “Wait, are we talking about real life?”)

  Charlie felt her defenses rise up, waiting for inevitable questions about her accident, how she had been drafted into coming here, but to her housemates’ credit, those questions never came. By the time they cleared the table, Danica (who had indeed sampled the lasagna) following Chase into the kitchen, Charlie had begun to feel at ease.

  Matteo watched them go and then whispered, “So you and Nick? Things are cool now? Or cool enough?”

  Charlie didn’t mind this from him. Matteo occupied almost a paternal place in her heart. Maybe it had something to do with Matteo playing a young Miles Davis in one of his first films and Charlie’s own estranged father, a jazz trumpet player, being hailed as the next Miles Davis when he began his career. That had been enough for her to always consider Matteo family.

  She wanted to tell him that being back felt like crashing through the atmosphere of a distant, potentially hostile planet. But Danica returned before Charlie could answer, so instead she said lightly, “It might be a Montague-Capulet-level showdown, but we’ll try to keep the bloodshed to a minimum.”

  12

  SEE, I TOLD YOU: REVELATORY!

  Wandering over from the cafeteria after breakfast the following morning with her fellow apprentices at nine o’clock SHARP—when the list was to be posted—Sierra couldn’t take the charade of it all, knowing that within minutes of crowding around that terrible sheet of paper taped to the theater doors, they would no longer be equals.

  She’d scored some solid roles at Wellesley, launched that theater workshop for at-risk kids in Boston, accomplishments she was proud of. But she still felt her most successful acting jobs were often just acting like she was okay with her many rejections.

  By the time she made her way to the front of that buzzing, jostling pack, she was almost entirely unsurprised by what she saw. Beneath the heading, “Apprentices Selected for Romeo and Juliet,” three names she knew—Harlow Hunter, Ethan Summit, Alexander Xing—and four additional apprentices, none of whom was her.

  Sierra knew the drill: recover from the sting of public humiliation in a flash; reset; appear joyous for everyone else.

  She hugged a squealing Harlow, or, actually, Harlow hugged her and everyone in her general vicinity, preemptively accepting congratulatory wishes. But Sierra was most anxious to find Ethan—he had skipped breakfast, texted that he had closed the pub last night and needed the sleep. She pulled out her phone, snapped a shot of the list, genuinely excited for him. So much so that it took a beat before she thought to worry: What if he got sucked into this new crowd?

  On her way to seek out that other list, the one guaranteed to include her name—along with the other twenty-two apprentices left out of Romeo and Juliet—she texted: See, I told you: revelatory! and added a happy face emoji, theater masks and clapping hands and clapping hands and clapping hands again.

  Just around the corner, through the doors to the backstage area, was the cast list for the Black Box productions. The Chamberlain’s experimental, no-frills theater resembled, as advertised, the inside of a black box, with folding chairs for seats and a stage raised just a foot off the ground. Sierra Suarez was listed alongside someone named Tripp in something called The Bachelorettes of Shakespeare: A (Sort-Of) Revival directed by an apprentice named Fiona. Sierra wanted to be excited, feel a burning passion to give it her all and make everyone sorry they hadn’t put her on the main stage. But she felt deflated.

  “What the fuck is Bachelorettes of Shakespeare?” a voice behind her said, with mild disgust. She turned to find a tall, trim, excessively pretty boy—skinny seersucker pants, fitted T-shirt—the type who could be cast on a Bravo reality show where everyone’s gorgeous and spends their time doting on tiny pets, planning elaborate birthday parties and getting in fights about nothing.

  “I’m Sierra. Are you—?”

  “Tripp, hi.” He shook her hand. “And yes, it’s Tripp as in triple roman numerals.” He rolled his eyes self-deprecatingly. “But I’m not like that Blueblood bullshit. I’m a heart-of-gold type, you know? Fled the East Coast prep world for Oberlin even though my family is nearly disowning me for it. This Bachelorettes business has got to get me some cred or an agent or at least a boyfriend. Nice to meet you.” He exhaled as though that was all something he needed to get off his chest.

  “At least it’s a two-hander,” she said, attempting optimism. There was a small victory in their play being just the two of them.

  “But look at these lucky bitches.” Tripp pointed to the bottom of the list: under the category “Monologues” were the same seven apprentices who had been cast in Romeo and Juliet. He stormed off toward the rehearsal studio for their drama workshop.

  “That’s actually a good thing,” she said, following. “Then they aren’t taking Black Box roles from—”

  “From those of us who may never get on the main stage all summer?” Tripp finished her thought.

  “‘No small parts, only small actors’...?” She quoted the famous line.

  He sighed as she held open the studio door for him. He halted a moment, looked at h
er. “I swear I’m not always this moody. I already feel a total old Hollywood Rock Hudson/Doris Day vibe with you, which is my highest compliment.” He walked in ahead of her and she felt like this might actually be okay.

  * * *

  Nick was in one of his vortexes, second-guessing every little thing. Phone to his ear as another potential investor droned on, Nick studied the table on the empty stage. Under the hot lights, he wiped his perspiring forehead with his shirtsleeve.

  “Well, I would respectfully disagree,” he said into the phone. “I’d argue this is exactly the time to take that chance. We sold out the run when Chase Embers alone signed on. Then we added Charlie Savoy and we added shows to the schedule. It’s unprecedented.” He squinted; maybe they didn’t need the lights for this rehearsal. “Well, if only we could run the theater on ticket sales alone, but it requires more than that to provide this level of entertainment.” He reordered the scripts, setting them at different spots on the long table. He was sick of listening to his own sales pitch. And also slightly terrified that the season wouldn’t live up to it.

  The past six seasons—since he had taken over—had grown more lackluster each year, if he was being honest. He knew the common denominator was him. He hadn’t even shown up last summer, leaving the directing apprentices, Bradford and an adjunct Chamberlain professor to stage the entire season. At the time, he honestly had felt like he wouldn’t have done any better than they did. He had begun writing yet another screenplay, in hopes that it would mark his return to film at last. But the road back had been so long—and riddled with so many dead ends, cliffs and pits of quicksand. He felt like roadkill.

  “Yes, we have some incredible corporations about to sign on as top-tier patrons. I just can’t share that information until the ink is dry—” he lied. Though he was trying, no one was even close to signing. “Yes, The Tempest will cap the season, and I couldn’t be more thrilled to reimagine it for the stage so many years after my film. In some ways it’s a reunion. We’ll have Matteo Denali... And Charlie Savoy? Well, I’m sure—” That was another lie; Charlie’s sixty days would be up by then. “Oh, Sarah Rose Kingsbury, well, that would also be fantastic, wouldn’t it? You’ll be the first to know,” he said, anxious to stop the flood of untruths. “Let me know as soon as you can.” He hung up, shuffled the scripts again, trying to distract himself from the fact that the theater would actually run out of money before The Tempest, the most highly anticipated show of the season. If a high-rolling donor didn’t come through in time, they had only enough in the reserves to make it through the first two plays. He had exhausted every other scenario beyond sacks of cash dropping from the sky.