The sun shone brightly as Colgrey, Foldress and I walked down the street to 'Leroux's'. It was the morning of Thursday April 19th, 2007. The weather was decently warm, and a soft, comfortable breeze gave the overall feel of the day an even more relaxed feeling.

​

Foldress cracked his knuckles anxiously as we walked. "Can you believe we're doing this?" he asked, audibly trying to contain his excitement.

​

I asked him dryly, "Doing what, exactly?"

​

"Becoming business owners 'overnight'!" he exclaimed jovially. "Throughout the entire time I was in college, I had my parents down my back about my degree. According to them I would never use a business degree 'in the real world'. Joke's on them, now isn't it?"

​

The three of us, only about a year or so prior to the death of Sebastian Leroux, had each just graduated from Central Illinois University (CI-U). At the word that Leroux's was searching for new management, we three took a gamble, having not found work elsewhere, and threw our hats into the ring. I'd imagine we looked like children to Mr. Scarman. Here were we; three ignorant men in our mid-twenties with no prior business or management experience, vying for the ownership of one of Chicago's top ten most cherished landmarks. And yet, he chose us above those other contenders who were surely more qualified than we were.

 

Who knows why he did. I'd like to think it had to do with our attitudes towards the place, and not just a decision made to spite the other individuals who Scarman had said were banging at his door for a decision.

​

"That reminds me, you and I have that interview with WGN tomorrow afternoon," Colgrey reminded. The two mused over the interview a moment while we continued on; halfway between Colgrey's apartment and our new acquisition. The publicity the three of us were getting seemed to excite the two. It was as if we were a newly elected president, and everyone wanted to see if we would deliver on empty campaign promises or fail miserably.

​

Ahead of us, 'Leroux's Dinner Theater' rose out of the concrete. The elegant sign hanging off the red-bricked face seemed to be eying us with the same scrutiny as our public. My stomach churned at the sight of it, and the simple thought that in a matter of minutes we'd be signing documents and then... it'd be ours made my legs shake.

​

But what a beautiful building it was. Three stories into the air she rose. Green shutters and doors, contrasting with the brick, seemed like a beacon to those passing by, beckoning them to come and dine. Ivy climbed up her Northeastern side, as though it were vying for the attention the building herself was receiving. On either side of the door, saucer-shaped lamps stuck out and pointed down. It was a classy looking place; no argument about that.

 

As I gazed up at this place, soon to be ours, something in one of the windows on the third story caught my attention. The sun was in one of my eyes, impairing my vision greatly. However, I thought I'd seen the curtains move back from the window, and a shadow in the shape of a man took its place. They stood for a moment, as though they were eying us up for a fight, and then seemed to vanish.

​

Neither Colgrey nor Foldress noticed the man, and I shrugged it off as nothing to concern myself about.

​

"There's a rehearsal going on, I think," remarked Foldress. "It's probably just one of the actors or another member of the staff."

​

Still, a part of me felt uneasy about the experience. I decided, however, to remain silent about it. Nerves, I told myself. It's just my nerves.

​

Crossing the threshold of the doorway; our eyes working vigorously to adjust to the drastic change in lighting, the three of us were met by a woman in her late forties. In her day, she might have been gorgeous, as she had an antiquated kind of beauty to her now. Time had worn on her face, however, and the stress of her job had grayed her hair. Scarcely a trace of make-up was on her skin, and she wore a black pantsuit with a pale pink shirt underneath.

 

"Good afternoon, Gentlemen," she said. Her voice was firm, save for the slight wavering that comes from strain. "I don't know that you three remember me; I'm Clarissa Rader. We met when you first met with Bill."

​

I did remember her, if only slightly. I couldn't tell you a detail about her from the day we first met with William Scarman, however I do know we did meet her. She had been the personal assistant to Sebastian Leroux the fifteen years before he died, and was also the restaurant's maître d'.

​

The three of us reintroduced ourselves, and then Ms. Rader led us to the left, where we ascended a set of stairs to the second floor where Scarman was waiting for us. We followed in silence for a bit, the three of us glancing about stupidly at the decor like idiot tourists in a hotel.

​

"You're the maître d', right?" I asked nervously, attempting to break the awkward silence. "You... were the maître d'? Right?"

​

Ms. Rader threw me a sharp glance over her shoulder as we climbed the stairs. When she turned back she said in a dry, uninterested voice, "Yes. Was and am."

​

Cross did she seem, although why, I didn't know. Perhaps, like so many, she disliked the notion of three inexperienced 'kids', fresh out of college taking over the business. Or maybe it was something else altogether. Naturally, I had no intention of asking.

 

Up the stairs, down the hall, and through the second door on the right was where she led. Within the room, the very same in which we'd spoken to him some years earlier, Scarman sat behind that desk previously belonging to his late brother-in-law. He seemed, to me, to be a little more relaxed than the last time I'd seen him. However, though the burden was off his shoulders, the wear and tear of finding a suitable replacement for Sebastian Leroux had taken its toll and left its mark, both physically and emotionally.

​

"Well now," he said, looking up as we entered the office. "Come to take center stage at last?"

​

He stood and shook each of our hands while we exchanged pleasantries. The air about the room was pleasant; easy. We sat and chatted while we waited for our lawyers to arrive.

​

"You must be pretty glad to see this all over," Colgrey remarked, crossing his right leg over his left. "I'd imagine you've had a hell of a couple of years."

​

Scarman settled back in his seat with a sigh. "Oh, more than you know, boys. But, I feel confident in my decision. So long as you three don't fail the public, I'll have considered this all worth it. I'll... I'll finally be able to retire. Relax. Be alive. I feel like a damned ghost right now."

At that moment, Ms. Rader reentered the room, the two lawyers in tow. She said in her curt voice, "Ghosts again, Bill? Not trying to scare away these young men with that nonsense, are you?". Her glare cut through the air between herself and Scarman, and seemed to pierce through him like an arrow through an apple. In her eyes I saw something like fear.

Foldress offered an uneasy laugh and replied, "No, no! The only ghost the old man was talking about was himself."

"Well," Ms. Rader said with a quick, forced smiled, "never mind me then." She quickly exited the office as the lawyers took their seats; each pulling out papers and pens as we prepared to sign the closing documents.

                                                                       -------------------------------------------------

Meanwhile, unknown to us, three of the company's actors were downstairs in the dining auditorium, rehearsing a scene from a production titled 'Tiffany Knows Best'. The scene involved a semi-over-protective mother named Tiffany, who is being introduced to her son Paul's girlfriend, Isabel. On stage, playing the parts as listed, were Ramona Reid, Michael Gonzales, and Savanna White.

​

Unfinished, the set consisted of a blue love-seat and a burgundy recliner which was filling in until the actual seat for the play was acquired. Behind the furniture, the 'back stage' was visible, revealing to those watching the rehearsal various props and backdrops from the production currently showing for the next couple of weekends at Leroux's.

​

"Mom," Michael said, with an excited look on his face, "I'd like you to meet Isabel!"

​

The actors stood stage right, where, by show-time, a free-standing doorway would be, leading from outside Tiffany's house into the living room.

​

"Hello Mrs. Bishop!" Savanna exclaimed in the southern accent she'd adopted for Isabel. "Paul has told me so much about you!"

​

By most accounts, White was overplaying her part. Her 'happy' was an inhuman kind of ecstatic; forced and over-the-top. Something in the auditorium must have agreed with those individuals saying she was 'too much', for immediately after her line, a large moon made of plywood leaning against the back wall somehow managed to fall forward away from the wall.

​

With a loud bang, the thing hit the floor of the stage, causing the actors to jump. The younger of the three swore in surprise. Those sitting in the audience, primarily the director and stage manager among other actors from the show, were on their feet in a split second, each craning their neck to see if the moon had hit anything or anyone. No one spoke for a time, just stood like prairie dogs, looking at the fallen moon.

​

"Alright," the director, a somewhat portly looking man named Ron Hartman, said. "Just a set piece falling. Nothing too, too serious. Savannah, why don't we pick it up from your line, shall we? And... action."

                                  

Ms. Reid snapped back into character with almost no issue. The fake, forced smile of Tiffany returned to her face almost instantly. Savannah and Michael paused a moment, their faces pale as the blood slowly crept back into their cheeks.

​

"H-hello, Mrs. Bishop." Savannah said again with much less enthusiasm. "Paul's told me so much about you."

​

Ms. Reid beamed. "Oh, I'm sure he hasn't told me nearly enough about you!" She looked at Michael with a brief, curious glance and grabbed Savannah's hand to lead her to the couch. "Sweetheart, why don't you go grab us some drinks while your little friend and I talk?"

​

"Sure mom!" Michael said with a smile, and proceeded to walk across the stage until he was off on the left hand side.

​

The scene proceeded as normal; an apparently unassuming scene in which Tiffany converses with Isabel, asking her questions and making snide remarks to the audience all throughout. Tiffany is quite the overprotective character, so virtually everything Isabelle tells her about herself she finds unacceptable.

​

"And now I'm finishing my degree in culinary!" Savannah delivered.

​

"Oh! How wonderful!" Ms. Reid said in her most fake voice. Then, turning to the audience, she remarked, "She's decided to break the stereotype of women belonging in the kitchen by working hard and entering a career in a kitchen! How grand!"

​

Michael began his next line, but paused after one word, his voice shaky as he finished. "Isabel's... g-going to be up for an apprenticeship at a restaurant in the city."

 

There is debate around the pause. Having not been able to interview him, I can't say for certain what caused it. I have only what Savannah has told me that Michael had told her, and that is that there was a soft voice in the space just behind him. A soft murmuring, almost in his ear.

​

"How wonderful!" Ms. Reid exclaimed once more.

​

"Thank you!" Savanna said. She briefly threw her co-star a questioning glance, then looked down at her cell phone as the script requests. "Oh! Actually, I've got to be going! It was really nice to meet you Mrs. Bishop!"

​

She stood, straightening her shirt.

​

"Wonderful to meet you too, dear."

​

Ms. Reid stood and hugged her, an heir of condescension in her voice and a sneer on her face. Michael stood as well, and, separating from Ms. Reid, Savannah approached him.

​

"I'll see you in class tomorrow, Paul," She said, wrapping her arms around his waist. The two looked into each other's eyes for a second, then exchanged a quick kiss.

​

"S-sure thing, Isabel," Michael chuckled in his character's nervous laugh.

​

They kissed one more time, and then Savannah White exited stage right.

​

"Isn't she great, ma?" Michael asked. "She's sweet, kind, beautiful..."

​

"Yes, yes," Ms. Reid said, stepping towards the audience with her hands clasped in front of her. "She's a sweet gal, to be sure. But..."

​

"But what?!"

​

"Aaand cut!" Ron Hartman yelled. He stood and approached the stage. "That was great guys. Mona, if you wanted to ramp up your... smugness... a bit more..."

​

She asked, "You don't think I'm doing too much?"

​

"No, no," Hartman said. "I honestly think you're doing great right now. But if you wanted to push more..."

​

The two continued their discussion about Ramona Reid's performance. While they conversed, Savannah and Michael went back to pick up the fallen moon.

 

"You alright?" She asked him, noting the look of unease on his face.

​

Michael nodded slightly, uttering a soft, "yeah". Then, after a moment, he asked, "you didn't hear her?"

​

Savannah eyed him with concern and shook her head. "Who? Ramona?"

​

"No, never mind," he said. Savannah was willing to let the issue go, but he exclaimed in a hushed whisper, "There was whispering, or... laughing. Or something! It was right over my shoulder."

​

"Michael," Savannah said, touching his shoulder, "there was no one behind you, I was facing you almost the entire time."

Michael shook his head once more. "Shouldn't have mentioned it."

​

"You're just nervous. Maybe a little bit rattled," she said, trying to calm him a bit. "The set piece fell, and you're letting those stupid ghost stories play with your mind."

​

He shook his head once more, but otherwise kept quiet.

​

"You know it's all just a myth," Savannah pressed. "You've worked here for two years -"

​

"And have seen enough to know it's not just a myth," Michael cut her off. "You know that."

​

Had I been there for the conversation, I would have been as curious and confused as you, reader, are. Thankfully, about this time upstairs, my colleagues and I were wrapping up our closing purchase, and I'd soon gain insight as to what these two young actors were talking about.

                                                               ---------------------------------------------

"Alright gentlemen," one of the lawyers facilitating the sale said, pulling a sheet out of a folder. "One final document, and then you finally get to take it easy." He motioned to Scarman, who laughed himself into a small coughing fit.

​

He produced from his pocket a handkerchief, which he held over his mouth until he gained control over himself. Colgrey and I didn't see it, but Foldress swore he saw a bit of blood on the cloth as Scarman pocketed it. "Yes, it looks like you boys will be carrying the cross from here on," he said in a shaky voice.

​

"A burden we're eager to bear," Colgrey replied with a smile.

​

It was the kind of response the old man had wanted to hear. He offered a hearty smile, his eyes beaming as they had the first time I'd met him.

​

The final document was explained, then passed from Scarman to Foldress to Colgrey and myself. I remember the way my hand shook as I wrote that last signature; the gravity of the situation weighing on my wrist.

​

The lawyer retrieved the document from me, looking it over with an approving smirk.

 

"Well," he said, flashing a smile towards Scarman, then the three of us, "congratulations, gentlemen. You just bought a business."

​

Smiles encompassed the room, as the three of us shook hands with Scarman and the lawyers, who left a quarter of an hour later. The four of us sat in the office for a time, chatting some and exchanging pleasantries over a bottle of champagne Scarman saved in his desk drawer for retirement.

​

"Well now," Scarman said after a time, pushing himself up from his seat and stepping around the desk. "Why don't I give you fellas a tour of this place before I go?"

​

I think we were given one after our first interview all those years ago, but as much time had passed, another quick tour around was very welcomed. We three stood, our chairs scrapping the floor as we did. Out in the hall, Scarman began showing us around the second floor. It suffices to say, there wasn't much up there. One hall held nothing but offices, all roughly the same size. There was a large room where fabrics of various materials and colors were held. Sewing machines were set up and a few people were going to town, eagerly working on costumes for 'Tiffany Knows Best'.

 

We were introduced to the costume designers briefly (most of which were students earning extra credit), and then moved on.

​

"That's really it for the second floor," Scarman said as we approached the stairwell again. "The main floor is considerably larger than the upper floors. 'Course, I'm sure you picked that up just looking at the building."

​

He began stepping towards the stairs heading back down, Foldress and Colgrey following. I'd paused, curious as to why we wouldn't head up. I posed the question to the trio ahead of me, stopping them after just a couple of steps down. My friends wore looks of annoyance. Scarman's face, however, was a mix of fear and pleading. His mouth hung open.

​

"There's... nothing upstairs," he said, slowly shaking his head. "There's no need to go up there."

​

"What do you mean there's nothing upstairs? There has to be something upstairs; I saw someone up there this morning on our way in."

​

"Who cares?" Colgrey scolded, rolling his eyes. "We own the place; you can check it out later."

​

"I don't know what you saw," Scarman said as footsteps echoed up the stairs, "but I can assure you, the third floor is unfinished, and contains nothing but un-laid tile and some sheets of dry wall."

​

At that moment, Ms. Rader appeared on the landing, excusing herself as she stepped around my companions. I watched as she, without so much as a pause, turned the corner, and proceeded up the stairs to the 'unfinished' third floor. I pointed accusingly at her as she ascended while throwing Scarman a questioning glare.

​

"Clarissa has business up there," Scarman said.

​

"On an unfinished floor?" I retorted.

 

Scarman shrugged. "It's complicated. Just do yourself a favor, and don't go up there unless asked. You'll be saving yourself a lot of trouble."

​

He turned back around and continued down the stairs. Foldress and Colgrey threw me curious looks at the man's puzzling words, but followed him down without another word. My eyes lingered a moment on the landing just below the third floor as the hem of Ms. Rader's skirt vanished around the corner; the soft 'tip tap tip tap' of her heeled footsteps becoming more quiet as she ascended. Then I, too, took the stairs down; rushing slightly in order to catch up with my friends as the elderly man continued showing us about.

​

The lobby, where the stairs emptied at, we'd seen many times before. It was decorated in ornate carvings; images from across the world displayed all about the place. The spacious floor was of white marble, as was the staircase leading to the upper levels of the auditorium. On either side of this staircase was a statue of a very majestic looking elephant.

Above our heads was a gorgeous chandelier, illuminating some quite ornate paintings in a domed ceiling.

​

"Place always looked nice whenever I'd been here," I remarked, "but you don't quite realize how much is actually here until you're in it after-hours."

​

Scarman coughed a little, then said, "Yes, this was all done in... seventy-nine? Or... I don't know now; between seventy-nine and eighty-three sometime. Sebastian wanted the place to look the part of a rich man's theater without charging his guests a rich man's price."

 

"Well done," Colgrey commented, staring at the ceiling.

​

"Do they ever host like... proms? Wedding receptions?" asked Foldress.

​

"Did Leroux?" I corrected my friend. "And should we?"

​

"I would," Colgrey remarked.

​

"Oh yes," Scarman said, walking to the opposing side of the lobby; over to the corner to the left of the marble stairs. "Sebastian loved having proms here. Loved it. You, of course, can make up your own minds about that. If you'd follow me now, I'll show you the kitchens."

​

We followed the man through a door tucked into the back corner of the lobby which held a sign saying, 'Theater Staff Only'. A long hallway stretched out in front of us and splintered off into two directions. The right side led to double doors like those seen in any ordinary restaurant; double hinged to allow them to open in either direction, with large circular windows at eye level.

​

The left side stretched on; eventually splitting into two again, we'd later find out, leading to either the auditorium, or backstage.

​

Through the double doors we went, and were instantly in a brightly lit kitchen. Several chefs were at work; chopping vegetables, preparing beef stock and chicken broth for the weekend's meal. Multiple ovens and stoves lined the floor. Four or so large sinks sat against the wall. Finally, a row of deep fryers and a multitude of refrigerators completed the kitchen.

​

"The theater has a total of fifty two tables, each seating about six people," Scarman explained. "In addition to our three performance nights, the dining hall is also open on Thursdays."

​

"The size of the kitchen staff is certainly justified then," Foldress remarked, gazing about at the busy chefs preparing for the nights' service. They all ran about, like ants in white coats working synchronously at their task.

 

"Most justified," coughed Scarman, and he briefly introduced us to the head chef, a large man named Montel Conley. He was a very tall, almost intimidating looking man with smooth, dark skin; his hair cropped very tight to his scalp. We each introduced ourselves, shaking hands with the man. His grip was strong, but his personality was very laid-back.

​

"You gentlemen fitn'a stay for dinner?" he asked, his eyes never leaving his blade as he chopped parsley into suitable flakes.

​

"We've got an engagement tonight," Foldress said, almost absently as he nodded towards Colgrey.

​

Montel 'tsk'ed a couple of times, then said, "Too bad. I'mma have to make you somethin' some other time."

​

"I'll be here tonight," I chimed.

​

"A'ight, a'ight," he said, nodding. "Jus' let me know what you want."

​

I told him, "Chef's discretion."

​

"If you'll follow me, gentlemen," Scarman said, back at the double doors leading out of the kitchen.

​

We bid fair-well to the man, our head chef, and followed our predecessor as he led us down the other hall. Where it again forked, he stopped.

​

"Up that way," he said, pointing to the hall leading upwards, "is just more entrances for the wait staff. The hall, you can see down there a ways, curves back around up there, and there are, I think, two openings leading into where the guests dine."

 

Without another word, he took the lower hall, which declined only slightly. After a few paces we were 'back stage'. The rehearsal, which I detailed previously, was on break at the moment. A few of the actors passed by as Scarman led us along, introducing us to whichever actors he knew as we went.

​

In front of one of the dressing rooms, he stopped. The door was open, and two voices were conversing inside. Scarman asked if he was interrupting anything important, which a female voice told him he wasn't.

​

"These two, my boys, are our rising stars of 'Company A'," he said, motioning us in with two fingers. The acting staff, in order to handle doing a new show every three weeks, was split into two groups; Company A and Company B. Presently, Company B was performing 'Fiddler on the Roof' with this weekend and the next being their last shows, while Company A rehearsed 'Tiffany Knows Best', premiering in three weeks.

​

"Allow me to introduce to you Savannah White and Michael Gonzales," Scarman said with a certain degree of enthusiasm. His face lit up as he said the two's names.

​

We shook hands, the three of us introducing ourselves. Ms. White was a beautiful young woman, with silky brunette hair which came down to about shoulder-length. Her hazel eyes shimmered with youthful enthusiasm. She was about average height for a girl her age (twenty-four), and she looked very much like the debutante Scarman regarded her as.

 

Mr. Gonzales, though handsome, did not look his best at the moment of our meeting. His dark brown, almost black, hair was in a bit of a mess, despite his efforts to lay it back down. His face was pale, although his cheeks were a bright red. The man seemed nervous, though he fought to act as composed as he could.

​

"These two have been headlining a couple of productions lately," Scarman continued, "and the community seems rather enchanted with the pair of them."

​

"He's just being a suck-up," Savannah said with gleeful sarcasm, waving him on.

​

"Alright, alright. So I am," the old man replied. "But the pair are amazing."

​

Savannah extended her thanks at the compliment. Michael seemed very uneasy while we stood there, talking about the two of them. I'd thought, perhaps, that that was just his natural demeanor when he wasn't in any character. However, Scarman must have noticed his unease as being out of place.

​

"You alright, Michael?" he asked.

​

Michael nodded his head. By the look in his eyes, it appeared to me that he wanted us to leave and drop the issue, but then Savannah said, "He's a little shaken. A set piece fell during rehearsal... kinda close to where he was standing."

​

Scarman turned to us and, dismissively, said, "These things happen scarcely. I can assure you, no one has ever been severely hurt within this theater. But you're quite alright, aren't you Michael?"

​

The young man nodded his head, and with that, we were ushered back into the hall. We continued along through to the wardrobe, encountering the likes of Shari Webster, Jack McCarrey, and Martin Black. Back in the make-up department we were introduced to Mike Ives, the lead makeup artist. He was a rather handsome man with ear-length brown hair, a striking jaw line, and model-like looks. A bean-stalk of a man if I ever saw one; tall and twiggy.

 

As he, Foldress and Colgrey spoke, I noticed two individuals sitting a small distance away; a woman and a young man. She looked to be between thirty-five or forty. Her face was clear and beautiful, yet not without those touches of age, most notably around her eyes, which looked to be a bright shade of blue.

​

Her body was lean, her legs long, and she had this sort of classic Hollywood heir about her; like Monroe or Hepburn. Gorgeous doesn't even begin to describe her.

​

The boy she was with looked to be a little less than half her age. His hair was short and blond. He had a bit of a scrawny build, not as tall as the woman, but close. He spoke with what looked like restrained enthusiasm to the woman, who smiled lovingly at him.

​

"I see you've spotted the leading lady of Company A," Scarman said. Ives had left, allowing Scarman to finish touring myself and my friends about the place. Not without first, of course, noticing my wandering eye.

 

"Who is she?" I asked, trying in vain to not stare too long.

​

"Her name is Ramona Reid," he said. "She's been a performer here for... twenty years? Or close to it, I think."

"And the boy?"

​

Scarman cast a brief glance towards the two, a look of impatience on his face. "Eric Reid; her son. He's a Company B actor. Does smaller roles; background characters with fewer than six lines." And then, almost as an afterthought, he added, "His father, Ramona's husband, died some years ago. Horribly tragic. Come on, now. Few other people I want you to meet before I turn you three loose."

​

He, Foldress and Colgrey moved on, Colgrey asking some question about the overall success of the performance's duel company system. I stayed a moment, no more than a second or two, to take in the beauty of this Ms. Reid as she spoke with her son. She was a little bit older than me, but I found myself extremely curious about her.

​

That would have to wait, however. My friends had moved on, following Scarman out onto the stage. It was here that I caught up with them, introducing myself to Ron Hartman and Gail Jeffories (Company A and B directors, respectively), Teresa Hannigan (casting director/choreographer), and Simon Rutherford (Stage manager).

​

"Ron and Gail have been with the theater for... what, thirty years?" Scarman asked.

​

"Twenty-seven," Gail corrected. She was a bit of a toady looking individual; short and squat with a wide-lipped mouth and eyes which appeared large behind her thick-lensed glasses. "But that was back when Ronald and I were still happily married."

​

She nudged Ron with her elbow, a playful smile spreading a mile across her face. Ron scoffed sarcastically.

​

"One of us was happily married," he said, nodding towards the woman. "I distinctly recall spending each day gripping those iron bars, screaming, 'you've got the wrong guy!'"

​

Everyone in the circle gave at least a soft laugh, Gail included. This sort of playful banter was typical of the two, it seemed. I suppose, if nothing else, it wasn't a messy divorce, or else they'd gotten over it.

 

"I've been here thirty years," Teresa piped in. Short and frail looking with bifocals and rather eclectic jewelry, the woman looked every bit the part of the crazy old aunt in half a dozen books from my childhood. Had I just seen her walking about in public, I might be inclined to describe her to my friends as a 'crazy cat lady'.

​

Scarman shook his head in frustration. "That's right, that's right. Damn this old memory. Mr. Rutherford, please tell me if I'm not mistaken, was just brought on two years ago?"

​

"Roughly, yes."

​

"Dear Lord," Foldress remarked. "Amongst all the hell of finding someone to take the reins of this place, you had to hire a new stage manager too?"

​

"That was an easy decision," Scarman said. "Mr. Rutherford came with the full recommendation of his father, Henry Rutherford, who was a stage manager here before him. So far, he's every bit as attentive and en pointe as his father was."

​

"Thank you, sir," the man said. He seemed a man of few words; silent and calculating, as creative types often are.

​

"So," Teresa began, a look of defensive curiosity on her face, "how much control do you intend on having in the affairs of the production staff?"

​

"Absolutely none," Colgrey said, making a sweeping motion with his hand. Beside him, Foldress stood smiling; his hands pocketed as he nodded. His eyes looked out at the tables making up the audience.

​

"I wouldn't say 'control'," I commented with a shrug.

​

Gail, Ron and Teresa's eyes narrowed on me accusingly.

​

"What, then, would you say?" Teresa asked, curtly.

​

I shrugged again. "I mean... I want to be part of this place. Not just sit in an office upstairs and make sure the money's coming in. I'd like to have input on things; be a part of it all. But I'm certainly not going to force my wants on your productions. I want to be a partner to the staff, not an authority figure. Try to be everything Sebastian was."

​

Teresa and Scarman nodded. She seemed to relax a little; clearly her fear, as well as the rest of the staff's fear, was that new management was going to come in and micro-manage every aspect of operation. That, thankfully, was not my style. And it certainly wasn't the style of my co-owners.

​

"I told you, Terry, you've nothing to worry about from these boys," Scarman said. "I've picked them well."

​

"Well thank you, Mr. Scarman," Colgrey offered, though the complement was more towards Scarman himself than it was either of us.

​

Just then, one of the guest-entrance doors leading back to the lobby opened; its squeaky hinges resounding a soft echo. Ms. Rader stepped into the dining hall/auditorium, her face a hardened mark of unamused emotions. She approached the stage with strong deliberate paces while in her hand she clutched a white envelope.

​

She walked up the steps in front of the stage, and approached our little group.

​

"I say, Clarissa," Ron said, "do you never smile?"

​

"Well, certainly not around you," Gail jested.

​

"Ifyou four would please excuse us," she said, not addressing Ron's joke. "I have a matter to discuss with our newmanagers."

​

 She eyed the three of us fiercely; her stern gaze a solid warning to not argue a point for staying even a moment. Foldress and Colgrey excused themselves and followed her out of the hall, chatting amongst themselves.

 

"What's this about, Clair?" Foldress asked as we followed.

​

"Just wait," she said, monotonously.

​

Colgrey demanded, "Wait? Wait for what? What's this about?"

​

Ms. Rader remained silent; simply staring straight ahead as she led us towards the stairs, Foldress, Colgrey, and I in tow with Scarman bringing up the rear.

​

Chapter 3