Method Acting: Center Stage, #2

Chapter 1

Alicia hustled into her charge’s room, urging the girl to wake, get dressed, and greet the day. Moving rapidly around the room, she opened the curtains and chattered about the events to come. She marveled that the girl still slept.

Teenagers.

Alicia bent over and shook her—then froze, her heart thudding, nausea crawling up her throat. The young woman did not move. Did not breathe.

Angels and ministers of grace…Grace… Her mind stuttered and spun for what seemed like an age, time slowing almost to a standstill, then rushing into double time.

Screaming for help, Alicia almost ran into the girl’s mother, who was racing in to see what was wrong. Unable to do more than point at the still form of the girl on the bed, Alicia spoke barely intelligible words, tears sliding down her cheeks as the other woman gripped her in a vain attempt at understanding or comfort.

The girl’s father entered, seeming to dismiss both weeping women at the same time as he demanded why his daughter was not already at the wedding.

Useless man. Alicia didn’t bother to keep the sneer from her face, despite the fact he was her employer. What did she care, now that the child she had raised, nursed, comforted and corrected, was gone?

Pointing at the bed with a shaking hand, Alicia swiped at her tears. She's dead, deceased, she's dead. Punctuating each mention of death with a stab of her finger, her mouth crumpled as she saw the realization finally flow across his face. Alack the day, she choked out, a lump lodging in her throat.

The priest and the bridegroom entered on the heels of the father’s next flowery, pointless words.

His fault. All of it. Love and insistence on blind adherence to duty. This is what comes of it.

Colin leaned back in his chair, his brows coming together in a slight frown as he watched the play unfold in front of him.

Interesting.

Most actresses playing The Nurse broke down here, wailing and helpless at the sight of the apparently dead Juliet. This one was different.

She was angry.

Specifically, she was furious with Lord Capulet, her face contorted in a rage-filled sneer at his next lines. The actor playing Juliet’s father seemed nervous of her, as if he was afraid she would grab the sword from Paris’ hip as he entered and run the older man through.

Her dark eyes practically glittered with malice as she spat her final speech in the scene, a lament for the lost Juliet, her proclamations of the horror of the day seeming to contain more rage than grief. And when she intoned, Never was seen so black a day as this, she pointed a long, shaking finger at Capulet, threatening him, her subtext clear to Colin.

Today may be my blackest day, but yours is yet to come.

Colin was disappointed when the final act of the play didn’t bring further surprises. He half expected a new plot twist added to the old story—The Nurse murdering Lord Capulet. When the cast filed out for their curtain call, he found his eyes straying to the woman who had startled him. The position where she took her bows was at the opposite end of the stage from where he sat and he couldn’t make out her features clearly. He wondered if the actress was as interesting as the character she had created.

Her performance had been the only thing to distract him from the empty seat next to him for the entire production.

To: Alicia Johnson

From: Susan Vernon

Subject: Ugh.

Sorry about the radio silence, sweetie. Thanks for coming up to see the show. You left before you saw the real show—the cast party was completely, idiotically hijacked by Paul proposing marriage to Cath. The stupidest, most vulgar thing I’ve ever seen. He didn’t even get her a real diamond or anything. It was like that hippie-dippy ring Emma Thompson wore in The Song of Lunch. Not that I saw it closely. They were mobbed by everyone who wanted to say how incredibly happy they were for them.

Nauseating.

Anyway, you guys must be getting close to previews. Or have you already started performances? You need to tell me how everything is going! How’s DC? How’s your love life? Snagged yourself a wealthy lobbyist or something yet?

Xoxo—Susan

Alicia re-read the e-mail from Susan, one eyebrow arched in amusement. I guess I’m out of the doghouse, she mused. Where most people would be thrilled that someone traveled all the way from D.C. to Connecticut to see their show, Susan and Alicia’s friendly rivalry over the years meant the other actress saw competition instead of support. Given the rumors about that production and Susan’s behavior in it, though, her insecurity was probably understandable. Especially since the rumor mill had hinted that Alicia herself was the second choice for that role and that she’d nearly gotten a call to replace the other actress.

Standing, Alicia tucked her phone in the pocket of her full-skirted black dress. While her dressing room-mates had gotten dolled up swiftly and left, chattering in happy anticipation of free champagne, Alicia had lagged behind, trying to shake off the vestiges of emotion that lingered after the performance. Thinking of grace…or to be more truthful, Gracie, during Juliet’s death scene made worry flutter in her belly like a wounded bird. She’s eighteen now. She shoved the thought away, years of practice asserting itself, and examined her reflection in the dressing room mirror. After cleaning off the makeup that had aged her for this afternoon’s matinée, she applied subtle, glamorous eyeshadow and paired it with a deep red lip. The short hair she wore under an ugly cap for performances she finger-combed until the longer strands dropped across one eye, glinting silvery blond in the makeup mirror lights.

Buh-bye, crone. She waggled her fingers at her own reflection, regretting that she hadn’t had time to put on nail polish, and took a deep breath, straightening her spine.

Showtime, part two.

She would far rather be heading home for a long shower and an early bedtime, but the job required her to socialize, and socialize she would.

Her shiny red heels made brittle tapping sounds on the tile floor as she entered the Folger Theater’s Great Hall. The party was in full swing, waiters circulating, the rest of the cast mingling with wealthy, high-powered donors. Alicia snagged a glass of champagne from a passing waiter’s tray and sipped it, scanning the room. The back of her neck prickled as she continued to turn. A few yards away, standing in front of a display case containing an Elizabethan manuscript, a tall man observed her.

She took in his tanned skin, eyes that appeared almost black, and black hair a little long and shaggy. Dark stubble shadowed his cheeks in stark contrast to the sensuous curves of his lips. His nose was almost too large, but the strength of the rest of his features balanced the overall impression of magnetic masculinity. His shoulders appeared broad, filling out his suit jacket.

Well.

Alicia met his gaze. He didn’t look away. She lofted an eyebrow inquiringly. At this, he looked slightly abashed and walked toward her.

I apologize for staring, he said, extending a hand. Colin St. Cyr. I know it sounds terribly corny, but have we met before? A British accent tantalized Alicia’s ears, plummy and smooth. She loved accents. Loved guessing where someone had grown up, how their voice was shaped by the places they lived. Loved reproducing them in later performances, her mouth caressing the strange vowels.

Alicia Johnson, she said, accepting his hand and shaking it briefly. But if you saw the play, you just saw me in there. Alicia tilted her head toward the door of the theater.

Colin’s eyes narrowed and flicked toward the theater. You were…wait. Why don’t I remember you?

Alicia smiled. She could be reconciled to having to socialize if she could entertain herself.

One handed, he flipped open his program to the cast pages, his eyes scanning the names and the headshots. Alicia was gratified to see his large, dark eyes grow even larger, his jaw going slightly slack.

He pointed at the now-empty theater with the hand holding the champagne glass. But…you just played the old lady? Juliet’s nurse?

Alicia made the ghost of a curtsy, fingertips tugging her skirt sideways, head dipping to one side in an ironic, coquettish gesture, hair falling into her eyes.

Colin blinked a couple of times and took a long drink. You pronounce your name the British way.

I do. She’d met someone as a teenager who had a British mother and pronounced her name Ah-lyss-ee-a, and Alicia had decided on the spot that that was how she would as well.

Wow. I…I am amazed. Gobsmacked, even.

Thanks. Alicia’s voice sounded inadequate and overly American in her own ears compared to his. With those looks and that voice, he was like the love child of GQ and the BBC.

No, really. I thought I had been observing your performance very closely, but I have clearly not been paying anywhere near close enough attention. Not only a great actress but a beautiful one.

Raising her glass, Alicia tilted it at him, her expression flat. Thanks.

He squinted at her. Why do I get the feeling I somehow just said the wrong thing?

Alicia gave him a level look. Exactly how much truth do you want me to lay on you?

Colin’s eyebrows lifted at her proposed frankness. Inhaling, he looked at her glossy heels and the slightly messy, sexy shock of blond hair. Alicia’s features were fine-boned and fragile, but her eyes were challenging and steely. She wasn’t conventionally pretty. Her nose was slightly too long, her jaw too firm for mere prettiness. But she was beautiful, captivating. In fact, she looked as if she had been designed in a laboratory to misdirect Colin, befuddle him, and lead him astray.

He was still having a hard time reconciling this mercurial woman with Juliet’s rage-filled nurse.

Considering her question for a moment, he took a sip of champagne. She had already tricked him and seemed to enjoy it. And then she offered the option—apparently—to shade the truth.

Are actresses ever honest? Isn’t it your job to lie?

Alicia’s expression shuttered, her mouth going hard. She inhaled sharply. Do you accuse everyone you’ve just met of being a liar?

He blinked. "Well, you do pretend to be someone else for a living."

Yeah, but everyone knows that acting is an act. Everyone’s in on the supposed ‘lie.’

I’m not sure I take your meaning, he said, feeling uncharacteristically thickheaded.

Other professions are called upon to lie and are much sneakier about it. But they get to be respectable.

Such as?

Are you telling me lawyers who defend people they know are guilty aren’t lying in their jobs but might be honest people otherwise? Or do you reserve that sort of judgment for low-class trades like actors?

Colin closed his eyes briefly as shame washed over him, the shaft hitting far too close to home. I am so sorry, please… He reached out a hand, fingertips just brushing her bare arm as she turned away. She looked at his hand, and he removed it. I am sorry. Truly. That was glib and idiotic. I don’t usually dine out on my own feet. Can we begin again?

Her gaze lifted to his eyes, her expression sardonic. "Now that would be dishonest, don’t you think?"

He bit his lip, chagrined. True. I can only say I’m sorry. Again.

She leaned in, her voice low and confidential. Here’s a tip from someone who has been a waitress more than I like to think about: Apologize once, people remember the apology. Apologize multiple times, they remember what you had to apologize for. He waited for her to turn and walk off. After all, that would have been a perfect exit line. But she didn’t move.

Taking a deep breath, Colin nodded. Fine. I’ll stop apologizing unless—until—I say something stupid again. But please don’t go.

Alicia’s eyes roamed over his face, and she nodded, one fingertip moving her hair away from her eyes. Okay.

Before I truly took a big bite of my foot, I appeared to nibble on one of my own toes in an attempt to compliment you. Why was that?

She looked at him for a long moment, still seeming to consider whether or not she wanted to continue the conversation. Her chin came up as she apparently came to a decision. Beauty is a lot of actresses’ stock in trade. It’s pretty much everything. Until, either suddenly or gradually, it isn’t. It’s gone. It’s temporary and unearned, but something that is frequently valued over talent and work. I’m in my thirties and getting cast in ‘old lady’ roles. The Nurse probably isn’t more than forty to Juliet’s fourteen. Let’s just say that an actress’s relationship to youth and beauty is complicated.

I can see how that would be, he said. It’s too bad.

Alicia shrugged, one shoulder lifting as she took a sip of her champagne. It’s okay. I originally auditioned for the role of Lady Capulet. The Nurse may not be as glamorous, but it’s a much better part. More interesting.

He looked at her face to see if she was having him on, but her large brown eyes were guileless and clear. God forgive me if I ever thought actresses were shallow. So, you’re enjoying the role?

A real smile flooded her face, and warmth expanded in his stomach to see her glow like that. I am. It doesn’t hurt that I’m told my reviews are good too.

You haven’t read them?

She shook her head. Never. I ask other actors to give me the gist. It’s something we do for each other. Otherwise, the reviewer’s actual words get stuck in your head. Anyway, enough about me. What do you do?

Colin took a sip of champagne, delaying the inevitable, even if only for a moment. I’m a lobbyist.

Alicia stared at him for a few moments, mouth open.

Susan, you witch. I could almost believe you set this up.

I know, I know. He waved one large hand deprecatingly. I had the cheek to question your honesty based on your career. And yet. Here I am. Used to be a criminal defense barrister in London, so your comment there was spot on the mark.

Shaking her head at his misunderstanding of her shocked look, Alicia nodded. I’ll do you the favor of not making the same mistake, she said. Though I have to say, in my experience people who are suspicious about other people’s honesty tend to have honesty problems of their own.

Would you believe me if I said my automatic suspicions have more to do with living in this bloody town than anything else?

Alicia shrugged. I guess I have to believe you. I already said I wasn’t going to suspect your honesty. And I’m enjoying D.C. So far, at least. I haven’t found a lot of reason to distrust it.

It has its compensations. A hint of a warm smile lurked in his eyes.

Alicia felt a small rush of heat zing through her. Mr. St. Cyr, are you flirting with me?

He laughed outright at that. Forgive me for ever believing you were less than one hundred percent straightforward.

We already went over the apologizing once thing, she said, but she was smiling too. And you didn’t answer my question.

Forget acting—you would have made an impressive lawyer, he said. And yes. I’ve already told you I find you beautiful. It surprises you that I would try to flirt?

Alicia shrugged again. Just establishing what’s really going on here.

You have very clear boundaries, don’t you?

You have no idea. Something like that. Time to take this in a different direction. Something less personal. I take it you must be a donor if you’re here today. What led you to give your money away? Love of theater? Love of Shakespeare? A tax deduction?

My mother, he said, his dark eyes solemn.

Alicia blinked. I don’t follow.

She loved Shakespeare. She died a few years ago. My gifts have been in her memory.

Oh. I’m so sorry. She felt the inadequacy of the words, even as she spoke them. So much for taking the conversation in a less personal direction.

A brief, tight smile passed over his face. Thank you.

Sipping her drink, Alicia’s eyes roamed over the dark wood paneling of the long room, at a loss for something to say.

I don’t usually end conversations so effectively, he said.

Alicia’s ears grew hot. No, I’m sorry. I…just didn’t know what to say.

He leaned forward. Are you apologizing for a second time?

Thinking she could detect a glint of humor lurking in his eyes, Alicia relaxed a little, the awkwardness of the moment fading. No, I expressed condolences with one sorry and was apologizing for being awkward with the second. Two totally different things. Completely.

Colin nodded. For someone who claims to be awkward, you’re terrifyingly quick.

Alicia smiled, and Colin felt his own shoulders ease. He appeared to be doing a damn good job of trying to scare her away, even though that was the last thing he wanted right now. Her looks drew his eye, but her prickly intelligence held an even stronger appeal. As an added bonus, she was so different from Tressa. His mind strayed to the empty seat next to him in the theater. This was the only event that had mattered to him in what had seemed like a never-ending calendar of activities–all part of Tressa’s quest to make them Washington’s next hot power couple. Tressa would have been disappointed this evening. Only one photographer circulated among the attendees, and he probably worked for the theater. A snap of her in a Folger fundraising e-mail would never have enough social cachet for Tressa Lloyd-Hudson.

Thank God that was over.

So, Mr. St. Cyr. What or who do you lobby for, anyway?

Education. STEM. Science, Technology, Engineering—

—And Math. Nice. Her smile was the most open and genuine he had yet seen from her, and her approval washed over him in a pleasurable wave.

All right, he said, let’s shift to different ground. How did you become an actress?

Here’s where I’m supposed to say because I was driven to create great art or something, she said, brown eyes twinkling with humor.

But?

She shrugged. Truth is, I just always wanted to. I just can’t think of anything else I’d rather do, she said. Except maybe sing and dance.

And you… Colin hesitated, wondering if he would be offending her. Again. …Can’t sing and dance?

She shot him a sly, sidelong smile. Oh, no. I can. There’s just not as much call for that in most Shakespeare productions. At least not in the tragedies. The Folger apparently does a lot of classic plays with original music these days, but mostly comedies.

I’ve enjoyed those quite a bit. But I gather I’ve never seen you in one.

No. I’m based in New York.

Multitalented, he said, unable to keep from smiling at her. And do you keep your hand—or your voice—in while you’re here?

Well, I would normally be singing at Club Zanzibar on a Sunday night, but…duty called. She angled the champagne glass, indicating the long, paneled hall and the well-dressed crowd. Her eyes roamed over the barrel ceiling with its plaster ornamentation and returned to him. Which, all things being equal, not a bad trade.

Colin wondered if she was talking about the event, the room, or him. Perhaps all three. He was surprised to realize he hoped she was talking about him, as little as he believed she