The Saddle Creek Series 5-Book Bundle. Shelley Peterson

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СКАЧАТЬ “Yes, wasn’t it? Timely, too. Any later and you wouldn’t have had any rehearsal time. Hardly enough as it is.”

      “Ambrose, do I get the feeling you might have had something to do with her fall?”

      “How could you even suggest such a thing!” He paused dramatically. “I had everything to do with her fall!”

      “Ambrose!” exclaimed Abby.

      “Later, my dear, we’ve got company.”

      It was seven o’clock. The cast was arriving.

      Everyone was nervous. Laughter was high-pitched, chatter was constant. People fretted over last-minute costume alterations, hairpieces, masks. Makeup was borrowed and powder was spilled. Squeals went up as actors opened first-night gifts and cards, followed by hugs and kisses, and in rare cases, tears.

      No one dared mention any line from Macbeth, called “the Scottish play” in lieu of saying the title aloud. It was bad luck. But you couldn’t talk about good luck either. “Merde” or “break a leg” wouldn’t tempt the gods of the theatre the way “good luck” would. A person couldn’t whistle without having to leave the room, turn around three times, then knock on the door and beg forgiveness.

      Abby enjoyed every second.

      There were fifteen minutes left before the show would begin. Because she was dressed and ready, Abby went up to the stage. She wanted to be alone, to get away from all the frantic energy in the dressing room.

      It was dark behind the curtain. Little guide-lights lit the offstage steps, and the set was marked with glow-tape to avoid stumbles during scene changes. Abby breathed in the backstage air with all its tension and paint and wood and dust. Pure delight filled her body. It feels like home, Abby thought. I belong here.

      Abby stretched her arms over her head, then bent over and touched her fingers to the floor. She shook the tension out of her hands and rotated her shoulders. She shook out her legs and stretched her feet. She put her hands on her hips and twisted her body at her waist, back and forth. Then she stood, legs slightly apart, eyes closed, and felt the floor under her feet. She let the solidness of it steady her and give her the comfort of her own gravity. She took deep breaths from her diaphragm and felt the calmness seep throughout her body.

      Abby was ready. She smiled, all alone behind the curtain. There was one more thing she wanted to do, and that was to see the audience come in. She’d been told that a peephole existed somewhere in the heavy new purple curtain on stage right.

      Searching fruitlessly through yards of velvet fabric, Abby thought the peephole might be another actors’ tale. Then she found it.

      She peeked through. The theatre was filling up. The ushers read ticket stubs, pointed down aisles, and handed people programs. The orchestra was warming up, which gave a strange sort of musical background to the proceedings, almost like a pre–Act 1. Row after row became seated as she watched.

      Pete Pierson looked handsome in his suit and tie, and Laura was flushed with excitement. She loved the theatre, and she’d had her hair done for the occasion. She wore a delightful confection of yellow, and Abby thought she’d never looked so lovely.

      Many of Abby’s neighbours were there, as were friends and family of the other actors. It was a cheerful crowd. They looked ready to be entertained, which seemed like a good sign.

      Abby spotted her parents walking down the stage-right aisle. Liam and Fiona Malone’s seats were very close to the front. Abby vowed not to let their anxious faces distract her.

      She began to feel nervous again. She’d only been at four rehearsals. Five if you counted the one from which Margaret had banished her. That wasn’t nearly enough. And all these people would be watching.

      “Get a grip,” she murmured softly, scolding herself. “Don’t get all crazy and freeze like you did at the Invitational. Dancer’s not here to save your bacon.” She wondered if she was already crazy, talking to herself like she was another person.

      She knew her lines, which thankfully were few. She knew her cues.

      Abby closed her eyes, crossed her fingers and toes, and made a wish. “Please let the show be a howling success. For Mr. Wick, whose dream should come true, and for Mrs. Featherstone, who is among the great people on this earth. And for me, because it’s my wish.” Just in case, she knocked on wood, reaching down and rapping on the hardwood floor.

      The house lights began to dim.

      “Holy!” muttered Abby, hiking up her blue crinoline and overskirts. She hurried downstairs just as the stage manager began her speech.

      Cody found a good watching place behind the building, and waited. From here the small coyote could see every movement around the old barn. His instincts were sparking. Something was about to happen, and he would be prepared. His Abby was inside. Cody would keep her safe. That was his job.

      After the stage manager’s speech, Robert Wick spoke. “Just a word,” he said with dignity. “You are terrific, every one of you. You’ll make me very proud tonight. It’s just like the old days. Thank you, all.” Emotionally, Robert stepped aside and indicated with a nod that Joy Featherstone would speak next.

      “Go out there and have fun,” Joy said with a bright smile. “The work is done. It’s time to play.” Her eyes quickly scanned her notes. “Just give it lots of energy in the first scene. The rest will follow. Go! Now! Places please! This is for you!” Joy clapped her hands and laughed. All the actors clapped, too, eyes bright and faces eager. Joy’s words had hit them. They were going to go out on stage and have a good time.

      At the stroke of eight that evening, the massive purple curtain rose on the humble shop where Geppetto was carving a wooden puppet. Abby watched from the wing, stage right. Mr. Farrow’s hands were shaking as he carved the last details, but his voice was strong as he told his dog Trooper about his desire to have a little boy of his own. Trooper, played by Leslie, scratched her ear with her hind leg and cocked her head attentively.

      Abby covered her mouth with her hand and smiled. It was working. The play was coming alive. Geppetto, not Mr. Farrow, was speaking in a moderated Italian accent. Trooper, not Leslie, was loyally listening to her master. The sets were convincing, the lighting subtle.

      It was magic.

      Abby made her entrance as the Blue-Winged Fairy. She had no lines in this scene, but her appearance must convey kindness, goodwill, and authority. When she raised her wand to give life to the inanimate puppet, Abby felt the power, the goodness, the righteousness of the act. She was in the moment, in a way that felt so right she had no doubt that it had been perfect.

      Moment over, she wafted off the stage.

      “Lovely, lovely, lovely, Abby. Keep in the groove.” It was Ambrose, and Abby knew she wasn’t to reply. There were others around.

      Cody watched closely as Samuel Owens parked his car behind the theatre. He had backed into exactly the same position as before.

      Owens got out and lifted a heavy sack from the back seat. Cody’s nose quivered. Food! Fresh red meat! Owens crept around the theatre, silently placing chunks of irresistible raw flesh in a circle, about a hundred feet out.

      When he was back at his car, Cody crept closer to sniff one. He drooled with a great desire to gobble it СКАЧАТЬ