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I stepped outside, breathed in the nippy night air, and looked upward at a dark sky with a smattering of white specks. Not bad for north Jersey. Of course, it couldn't compare to the wide expanse of the night over the ocean. I was still getting used to the idea that I lived inland.

I took the long way home as I drove slowly through Etonville; it was one of my favorite times of day. People were off the streets, a certain quiet had descended, and I felt as if the town were all mine. Population 3,284. Home to a park, an art gallery, an antique shop, one bank, two churches, a post office, and a Saturday farmer's market, Etonville was a placid, close-knit place, small enough to feel cozy but large enough to need its own police department. Etonville had its own personality.

I passed Snippets, the Etonville Public Library, and my personal favorite hangout, Coffee Heaven—five booths, a soda fountain, a counter that seated eight, and a stack of local and national newspapers by the door, free for the reading. The Etonville literary society met in its back room once a month. Its only concession to modern times was the addition of a few fancy drink options to the standard menu. Caramel macchiato was my obsession.

As I turned into my driveway, it occurred to me that I would have loved to curl up with a good man instead of a good book tonight. But that ship had sailed for me. Literally. The month before Hurricane Sandy struck, I broke up with my boyfriend of three years. Or, more accurately, we agreed to put things on hiatus. Jackson owned a charter fishing boat and had experienced great years and not-so-great years. When he received an offer to join his brother selling farm equipment, he decided to chuck the boat business and head back to Iowa. He wanted me to come with him. But I couldn't leave the shore. At least that was the excuse I'd given Jackson. When Hurricane Sandy gave me the perfect opportunity to bail on New Jersey and join him, I opted to head north instead of west and held my breath as I crossed over the Driscoll Bridge, uncertain about a new life away from the sun and sand and saltwater taffy. North Jersey felt different from the shore: it knew where it was going and had only a short time to get there.

I suppose I was admitting the truth about Jackson and me. He had been the longest, most serious relationship of my life, not counting a high school crush that lasted on and off through college days. I had begun to think that we might settle down, buy a little shore cottage, open our own restaurant.... Now I knew those were pipe dreams. Despite his foray into the boat charter business, he was tied to the Midwest while I had always wanted to be within spitting distance of the shoreline. True love was like a good pair of socks. It took two, and they had to match.

I missed him for the first few months. We emailed and texted a few times, but we sort of fell out of touch. I turned the key in the lock of my front door and switched on the lights. The good book was calling me.

I
had assured Lola I would be at the auditions for
Romeo and Juliet
by six-thirty since it was Benny's night to close. Henry was in a foul mood: too much lemon in his chicken soup and the seafood supplier ran out of flounder. He had been forced to improvise, which he hated. It was a good night to vanish.

I raced home to my unfussy but comfy home, large enough for me to have a decent-sized dining room and a guest bedroom, small enough for me to keep tidy on a regular basis. I showered and flung open the closet door, tugged on a black skirt and a black V-neck sweater, and studied myself in the mirror. I was Irish on both sides of my family, and my dark red, wavy hair came straight from my maternal grandmother. The green eyes were compliments of my father. I was lucky I'd inherited his build and metabolism as well. I could usually eat just about anything, watch someone else exercise, and still maintain a decent weight and shape. Right now, I was feeling okay with my reflection.

It had been rainy throughout the day, but the sky had cleared, leaving a blanket of blue overhead. I found my usual parking space in front of the Windjammer—I deliberately avoided glancing in the front window—and strode into the theater. I was greeted with a barrage of nervous babbling in the lobby. Two dozen folding chairs lined the walls, occupied by prospective cast members—including some folks I recognized from the Windjammer—filling out audition sheets. I remembered the first time I'd seen
Romeo and Juliet
on stage. The most vivid part of the production had not been the swordplay, or the murders, or the potions, but the old, funny, gentle Nurse. When she'd held Juliet in her arms, I'd cried. She had reminded me of my grandmother. Did the ELT have someone to play the Nurse? Depended on the depth of the talent auditioning, I thought.

* * *

Penny, a pencil jammed into her short black hair, stuck her head out of the theater door and knocked a pen against her clipboard. “Lola said you might be stopping by to help out,” she said guardedly. Penny straightened up to her full five-feet-two inches. She was built like a fireplug: short and squat. When not “managing” the Etonville Little Theatre, her day job was post office clerk. Her inefficiency wasn't a problem there....

I glanced around the lobby. It was still twenty minutes before the auditions began. “She thought you might be inundated with hopefuls.” No need to intentionally offend Penny by commenting on her managerial skills. “You want to show me the ropes?”

Penny frowned, cracked her gum, and looked me over carefully. She jerked her head in the direction of the theater. “Let's go.”

Walter's office was to the right and the box office to the left; the theater was wedged between them.

A few more folks appeared in the lobby. “People are here early.”

“Walter likes everyone to be on time.”

I looked at my watch. “It's not even six-forty-five,” I said.

Penny took on a condescending let-me-explain-myself-to-you tone. “There's life time and then there's theater time. On time in theater time means fifteen minutes early.”

“Oh. So they're all early in life time but just on time in theater time. Got it.”

Penny groaned.

I followed her into the house, and she deposited me midway down the aisle before charging back out into the lobby. Walter was seated in Row H, head bent over his script—probably praying, if he had any sense—and Lola was leaning casually against the edge of the stage.

“Hi, Dodie!” She smiled with relief and ran up the aisle.

Walter did a three-sixty in his seat. “Dodie, are you auditioning?” The tinge of hope in his voice told me all I needed to know about the upcoming tryouts.

“No. I'm just here to help out.”

Walter stood up and studied me, his eyes grazing my face, chest, and hips. He looked startled, as if shocked I had legs. Come to think of it, he had probably only seen me in work clothes—black slacks and variously colored tops. “Are you sure?”

“Walter, I asked Dodie to help Penny keep us on track tonight,” Lola murmured and put an arm around my shoulders.

Walter nodded. He brushed a hand through his barely graying hair, which would no doubt be grayer by opening night. “We are taking on quite a challenge here, you know.” His shoulders slumped which made his stomach protrude. Poor guy. He'd lost his usual
joie de vivre
.

“I can see that,” I agreed a little too strongly.

Penny charged back into the house. “Walter, are we ready to start?”

“You haven't given out the sides.”

Sides?

“Uh ...” Penny hesitated. “No, but I have the list of who's—”

Walter handed her a stack of Xeroxed sheets. “Give these scenes out, and be sure to note who is reading what with whom.”

Aha. Sides were scenes. Theater lingo.

“Dodie, you can collect the audition forms,” he said.

“Right.”

Penny and I headed back to the lobby, and I waited while Penny blew a whistle—causing people to hold their ears—and yelled “Listen up.” Most of the auditionees were familiar with the ELT and knew Penny and her ways. Newcomers were alarmed at the shrill blast. While I collected forms, Penny handed out sides, using her theatrical judgment to determine who should read what by accosting every other person who walked in the door. “What part do you want to read?” she asked and invariably got “Whatever Walter thinks is right for me.” Some major sucking up going on.

Unless it was terribly obvious. A cute guy with wavy dark hair and big brown eyes strolled in.
Romeo?
I mouthed to Penny. She pretended to consider my suggestion before agreeing. It was a nobrainer.

We lined folks up, sending in twosomes and threesomes, and sometimes groups of people who were going to be considered for extras. “Walter is casting Ladies-in-Waiting, Citizens of Verona, and young guys who fight in the square,” Penny informed them.

I was trying to keep everything straight—forms collected, names checked off the list, partners assigned, actors moving in a steady stream into the theater—and not step on Penny's toes. I looked around. She was making notes on her clipboard or jawing with friends; they all assumed she was second in command to Walter. Big mistake. Penny was a catastrophe, and if I didn't keep things rolling, we'd all be here until midnight.

Halfway through the evening, Abby Henderson crept up to Penny to make sure her name was on the list. I knew Abby from the Windjammer, where she tended to sit in a corner booth and enjoy a few drinks with Jim Albright, a big loveable bear of a guy. He was a security guard at the box factory in the next town over. She was the manager of the Valley View Shooting Range and a bit past her prime. They seemed perfect for each other.

“Hi, Dodie. Are you auditioning?” Abby nervously twisted the pages of script until they were limp.

“Me? Oh no. I'm just here to keep things . . .” I saw Penny out of the corner of my eye.

“To help Penny keep things moving.”

Abby edged closer to me. “Do you think I'm right for Juliet?”

I looked into her hopeful eyes and lied. “Well, sure.” I compared my image of the virginal, teenage Juliet to Abby: late thirties, chubby, and in need of a serious makeover. “Good luck.”

Penny appeared at my elbow. “Some roles are already cast.”

“Yeah?”

“Walter is Capulet, and Lola,” Penny said dryly with a big wink, “is Lady Capulet.”

“I know.”

At that moment, Jerome walked in the door. We had gotten behind and now were auditioning the eight-thirty group at nine o'clock.

“Hi, Jerome. I've been waiting for you.”

He observed Penny yukking it up loudly with two young guys, then shushing everyone else in the lobby, and grinned. “I guess you're running things?”

“Just assisting.”

“That's a good thing.” He jammed his Cindy Collins paperback into his coat pocket and bounced up and down on his sneakers like a pogo stick. He seemed anxious.

“Is everything okay with . . . you know.”

“Dodie, forget what I said about Walter and the missing money, okay? It really doesn't matter much anymore.”

I handed him a scene with the Prince of Verona—the most logical choice for him. “You seemed pretty upset the other night.” I studied his face. Jerome was clearly elated about something.

“Things have changed.” He leaned in to me and I could smell liquor on his breath. “In fact, I wanted to tell you—”

Walter burst out the lobby door. “Penny! Where is the next Juliet?”

Everyone froze and Penny looked stricken. She glanced at her clipboard, then at me, then at Walter. “Uh . . . okay . . . uh . . . Abby?”

Walter gestured to me. “Dodie, can you stand inside the door and monitor the flow?” he asked quietly.

“Sure.” I gave Jerome a pat on the shoulder. “We can talk later if you want.”

He nodded and walked off to the other side of the lobby.

A chastened Penny handed me copies of the scene between Juliet and Lady Capulet, and I trailed Walter into the house. I leaned against the heavy wooden door and watched Abby take the stage next to Lola, who was getting quite the workout tonight. Walter offered some pointers to the two women. Lady Capulet was alerting Juliet that she would be marrying Paris on the “morrow” and she'd better stop her sniveling. It reminded me of many adolescent scenes in my own household, without the marriage.

Lola and Abby faced each other and began to read. Lola looked especially attractive this evening—hair piled on top of her head, dark crimson sweater gliding over her curvy hips. Though I'd seen her in several ELT plays, I was amazed at Lola's facility with the language. She spoke the lines naturally, peering into Abby's face to glean some reaction. Abby, unfortunately, was baffled, the verse beyond her. Her only recourse was to carry on. She screamed her displeasure with her mother and broke down in fake sobs, falling to her knees. Shakespeare was, no doubt, cringing and regretting the day he'd set pen to paper.

Walter sat stone-faced, not pleased.

“He's in trouble,” Penny said at my side.

“What are you doing in here? You're supposed to be in the lobby handing out scenes,” I said.

Penny shrugged the world-weary shrug of the stage manager at the Etonville Little Theatre. “I need those blank sign-up forms.” She grabbed my stack of papers. “He's got a few really hot Romeos, but he's sucking wind when it comes to Juliet.”

“Next Juliet, please,” Walter called out.

Abby looked distraught as she wiped her tears—real this time—and moved off the stage.

Penny scrambled to the lobby and I followed, looking for Abby's replacement.

As the next victim climbed the steps to the stage, Lola whispered encouragingly, “Just speak as honestly as you can. Try not to get too caught up in the rhythm.”

God bless Lola. If this all came off, it would be due in no small part to her talent and good sense. Walter was fortunate to have her in the ELT, in more ways than one. The next Juliet, a petite blond beauty whom I'd seen in
Dames at Sea
, started the scene with Lola, tripping over every other word. But Lola looked her in the eye and took her arm, answering as any mother would. They were having a mother-daughter argument—in poetry, of course, but the lines began to sound like real-life dialogue and I could feel Walter relax.

He might have found at least one star-crossed lover.

By 11
PM
, we had auditioned nearly sixty people, most of whom had some tie to the ELT. Walter was breathing easier since he had some options for most roles, and my feet were killing me so I collapsed on a lobby bench. Penny and I had collected discarded scenes and stacked folding chairs. She'd gotten over Walter's reprimand and was the old Penny: a little full of herself, trying to take charge while tripping over her own feet and making notes on her clipboard.

“Dodie, could you give the sign-up forms to Walter? We need to keep track of who came out tonight.” She scooted her glasses up her nose.

“Sure.” I dragged my tired body to a standing position, grabbed the forms and my bag, and walked into the theater.

Walter and Lola had their heads close together. Lola was really an assistant artistic director without the title. She'd been anointed its reigning diva whenever a play called for a statuesque blonde, which was usually every one. She sat on a rotating board of directors, which at the present time also included the mayor, the proprietress of Coffee Heaven, Walter, and JC from JC's Hardware. She even sewed a costume or two. Without Lola, the ELT might have to close up its proscenium and go home. It was Lola who had greased the wheels that made the dinner-then-theater happen. She had a way of making events materialize where the ELT was concerned.

I handed the forms to Walter.

“Oh, Dodie, thanks for coming tonight. We needed you, didn't we, Walter?” Lola gently poked him and he looked up from his script.

“Huh? Yes, right. Thanks.”

Walter would never receive a prize for courtesy and gratitude.

“Happy to help.” I hesitated. “I'm great with numbers, just in case you'd like someone to help out with the books, too.”

Walter studied me carefully. “I'm perfectly capable of managing the finances of this company. Thank you very much.”

I wondered about that. I felt sorry for Jerome, and it didn't seem as though he would have the chutzpah to confront Walter himself.

“Just a thought. I know you and Jerome have your hands full.”