HOLLY STARED, GLASSY-EYED and numb, at the TV screen above the bar, showing the smoldering Deville for the umpteenth time. How could she be dead-tired and wide-awake at the same time?
The fire was out but the damage was done. They’d never find another theater before losing their cast.
Two years of planning. Up in smoke.
She tapped her glass on the gleaming oak bar. “Can I get a refill, Devin?”
“You sure?” The bartender grabbed the remote from under the counter and switched the channel to one of the sports networks. Baseball. Much better, even if the Yankees were getting spanked by the Blue Jays. “It’s a lot stronger than your usual.”
“I’m sure.” After today, she needed something way more potent than a mudslide.
“Okay.” Devin grabbed a bottle from the shelf behind her and poured two fingers of rich amber liquid into Holly’s glass. “But after this I’m switching you to Kahlúa and milk.”
“Killjoy.” Holly took a sip and coughed. Why anyone drank Scotch was beyond her. But tonight she wanted—no, needed—to get drunk, so Scotch it was.
“Looks to me like there’s not much joy to kill.”
Holly sighed. Her friend was right. Tonight there was no joy in Mudville. Flighty Holly had struck out.
Watching the Deville burn on the news had been surreal. The cast and crew had all huddled around Ethan’s laptop, silent. A few of them had wanted to head over to the theater, but Ted and Judith—when they weren’t sniping at each other—convinced them they’d only get in the way. After about a dozen replays, they’d sent almost everyone home with the promise of an email by morning. Only Holly, Ethan and the company manager had stayed, frantically calling every theater in a twenty-block radius.
The Helen Hayes was too small. The Gershwin too big. The Lyceum was just right but unavailable. As were the Cort, the Booth and the Walter Kerr. Four hours of speed dialing and all they had to show for it were sore fingers and an air of desperation.
“Go home, Holly,” Ethan had ordered when she laid her head on the table and let gravity and fatigue keep it there. “We’ve got things covered here. I’ll call you if anything pans out.”
She pushed herself upright on leaden arms. There had to be something more she could do. Make a latte run. Recharge phones. Pay a visit to someone and beg.
Oh, wait. She’d already done that with Nick, and look where that had gotten her.
Ethan had won out in the end. Sort of. She’d gone, but not home. Instead, she’d stopped by Naboombu, the cozy underground bar around the corner from her East Village apartment, where Devin Padilla, her upstairs neighbor and best NYC gal pal, tended bar. If Holly was going to drown her sorrows, she could count on Devin to drag her home.
They made an odd pair. Holly, the suburban-housewife refugee. Devin, with her multiple piercings and tattoos. But Devin’s recent bad breakup had required just as much ice cream as Holly’s divorce, and they’d commiserated over multiple pints of Ben & Jerry’s Karamel Sutra.
“So what happens now?” Devin picked up a cloth and swirled circles down the length of the bar.
Holly knocked down another swig of Scotch. “Beats me.”
She checked her cell phone for what must have been the hundredth time. No messages. Four bars. And yes, the ringer was on high. “But if this show goes belly-up before it even opens, it’ll take years for me to get another shot at Broadway.”
“Why? It’s not your fault the place burned down.”
“That’s not the point. The fire’s just the latest—and worst—in a string of catastrophes. It’s like the show’s doomed. No one’s going to want to take a chance on it. Or on me.”
A man at the opposite end of the bar raised his empty mug and eyeballed Devin. With a sympathetic look at Holly, she tossed the cloth onto her shoulder and went to refill the guy’s beer, leaving Holly alone with her Scotch and fatalistic attitude. A dangerous combination, if there ever was one. What if they couldn’t find another theater? What if the show had to be canceled? What if Nick left town and they never got a chance to finish what they’d started in his hotel room?
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