It takes a few minutes, but finally I spot Mrs. Rosemont when she turns to glance up at the balcony. She’s sitting with an older man who I’m guessing is her husband. They have seats right up front. Not quite as glamorous as the box seats, but definitely expensive.
Sutton gives me a curious look but lets me lead us down the row toward them. Maybe he thinks I’m going to sit down and have a chat with her about the library in the ten minutes before the curtain rises, but I’m about two percent more subtle than that. Instead I stand in the aisle, half turned away, flipping through the program they gave us at the door.
Finally the couple beside the Rosemonts stands and makes their way to the exit, probably taking a potty break so they don’t have to stand in a monumentally long line during intermission.
“Excuse me,” I say when they reach us, sounding nervous and flushed, which isn’t that difficult since I’m trembling. “I know this is forward of me, but my brother’s in the show tonight.”
I spin a story of my brother, the understudy, who’s been part of the cast since they started touring. But this will be his first show. They gave us seats, of course, but they’re all the way up in the boxes. I want him to be able to see me when he looks out at the audience. There are little touches I pulled from the program—a name of an understudy and the part he’ll play.
The woman looks only a few years older than me, and not particularly pleased at the idea of switching seats. She seems the suspicious sort, which is reasonable considering I’m conning them. It’s when the husband sees exactly which box they’d be in that things change.
“Is that Damon Scott?” he says, trying to hide his excitement.
“Oh, he’s very kind. He’s the one who gave us the seats. But my brother will be disappointed if he can’t see me in the audience. I promised to wave at him.”
So that’s how we end up sitting next to the Rosemonts.
I can feel Sutton shaking with laughter beside me, but he manages to hold any words inside. “You hired me to do a job,” I tell him under my breath. “I’m doing a job.”
“I have no complaints,” he murmurs, his hand finding mine.
I let him hold my hand because that’s the part we’re playing for Tanglewood society right now. Not because it feels warm and comforting for him to rest my palm against his. Not because it’s strangely sensual for him to rub his thumb along the outer edge of my hand.
The lights dim without me exchanging a single word with Mrs. Rosemont. We watch the show, which I fully intend to enjoy since I haven’t seen it yet. The rave reviews are fully deserved, and I’m laughing and gasping along with the rest of the audience.
She notices me first during intermission, but I’m careful not to look her way. I feel her think about saying something to me two different times. Didn’t we meet at the gala? she would ask.
But she’s silent and so I don’t say anything either. Patience.
It’s in the final act that things really progress, and by that I mean—I cried. Twice. The show is a gorgeous tragedy, and there are t
ears streaming down my face. The program is clenched in my hands, almost torn apart by the strength of my emotion. Sutton looks stoic beside me, but I know he’s moved by the way he holds my hand.
Mrs. Rosemont is crying, too. When the curtain falls and the actors take their bows, she and I are among the first to rise to our feet, clapping our hands as hard as we can, trying to convey everything we felt and lost and learned in such a basic, universal sound.
It’s only when the lights go up again, and everyone streams out the doors, that she turns to me. “You’re the one who wants to tear down the library,” she says, her eyes tinged red.
“I don’t.” Lying works well for getting someone to switch seats with you. For something like this, honesty is the only way. “I’d love to restore the library, to see it in its glory.”
“Then how can you…” She glances at Sutton but must think better of what she’s going to say about him. He sits with his ankle over his knee, looking supremely relaxed and confident in a theater. He would look this way in a stable or a boardroom. That’s because it comes from inside him, that certainty that he’s right where he needs to be.
“I love the library, but it’s not doing anyone any good with all the books molding and the wood rotting. And no one, not Bardot and Mayfair, not the city of Tanglewood, is going to pay the small fortune it would cost to repair it.”
She sniffs. “That doesn’t mean I’m going to condone a mall.”
“What I’m proposing is something that will benefit the city of Tanglewood, the history of Tanglewood, more than an abandoned building ever could.”
The wrinkles around her eyes deepen. “What is your plan?”
“We go through the books. Find the ones that are worth keeping and the ones that aren’t. Donate the ones of value to the Tanglewood library system for distribution or display.”
“That’s not enough.”
This feels like more than an interest in historical restoration. It feels personal. “Tell me why,” I say. “Tell me why the library is so important to you.”
She studies the velvet curtain, clearly deciding how much to tell me. Secrets are a form of currency. “I went to that library as a child.” A pause. “It was more than a place for books, you understand. It was the place you could learn things, no matter what family you came from. No matter how much money you had.”
“There are other libraries.” It’s strange feeling to argue against myself.