The two men retreated to Myles’ b
ooth. Myles pulled a steno pad and pen from his messenger bag, prepared to take notes.
“So, tell me about the Madrigal. I gather it’s a theater?”
“It is. Our community theater, over on Front Street. It was built back in 1912 as a home for vaudeville.”
“Seriously? In a town this size?”
Nate shrugged. “Wishful has always been a home for the arts. They ran live productions until the start of World War II. There was a brief stretch where it was almost converted to a movie theater, but then Edward Stanton bought it in 1958. He performed the first restoration and expansion because he didn’t believe that the people of Wishful should miss out on the arts just because it was small. Over the years, the Madrigal has earned a reputation as one of the best community theaters in the south. We’ve done everything from Shakespeare to Rogers and Hammerstein. I’ve been directing productions there for the past twenty years. It’s a real part of town history. But, like so many things around here, it’s seen better days.”
“I understand Wishful’s economy has been in a decline for the last couple of decades.” Myles had seen back issues of the paper talking about it.
“Probably a bit longer. It’s started to turn around under the leadership of the new city planner, but she’s just one person and can only do so much. Our best shot is to put on a show that’s sufficiently popular to bring in folks from the surrounding areas, raising enough revenues to pay off the debts enough to bring them current.”
“How much will it take?”
Nate named a figure that had Myles whistling. “Damn. You’ve got your work cut out for you.” He hoped like hell the actors in this community theater were better than most of the community level shows he’d seen. “The Observer is happy to help however it can. I’ll be happy to write a human interest piece to go in the next edition, as well as announcing auditions. Do you think you could make time later today to meet me and my staff photographer for a quick little tour? A pic of the stage would make for good front page imagery.”
Nate slid from the booth. “I can do that. Around three-thirty?”
“We’ll be there.”
“I appreciate your help, Mr. Stewart.”
“Myles, please.”
“Myles then.”
“I’ll do what I can to connect everybody to the plight of the Madrigal—whether they’re into theater or not. Really give them a feel for what they’d be missing if it closed its doors.”
“It’s a good start,” said Nate, heading for the door, “but the only way to truly experience the theater is from the stage.”
~*~
“Have you seen The Observer this morning?”
Piper Parish took a well-deserved two-minute break, dropping into a chair beside Shelby Abbott, the clinic office manager. They’d had a rush of stomach flu and the start of a scabies outbreak from the moment the doors opened at eight, and Piper’s dogs were starting to bark, even in the orthopedic shoes. “No, why?”
Shelby passed it over, tapping the front page.
Historic Madrigal Theater To Close?
“What?” Piper bent over the newspaper and devoured the article. “Oh, no no no no. This is terrible!”
The Madrigal was her second home. She’d grown up there. So many of her memories were tied up with that place, Piper couldn’t fathom it closing its doors or, worse, being turned into something else entirely.
“Looks like all hope isn’t lost. They’re doing a last ditch show of White Christmas,” Shelby pointed out.
If they were going to save the theater from financial ruin with this one last production, they needed to pull out all the stops. “Tyler has to come out of retirement for auditions.”
Shelby stared Piper down over the rims of her glasses. “You can’t be serious.”
“You know nobody in town can dance like she can.”
“It’s been eight years.”
“Have you thought about what this could do to her?”