“I had a wonderful time as a child actor, but as an adult, I prefer being behind the scenes.” What choice did she have? Her acting career was down the drain.
Pen nodded. “Johnny said you would be perfect for us. I understand that, as well as years of practical experience, you have a drama degree from UCLA.”
“Yes, when Johnny left Quark Kent, I decided to take a break from acting and go to college.” Theater seemed the logical choice of major.
A short-necked, muscular woman with over-rouged cheeks and unbelievably black hair leaned across the table. “I’m Xandra Fontaine, and we’re so happy to have you with us, Mrs. Sanger.”
Moira gave Xandra her best fake smile. “Farrar, please. I’ve reverted to my maiden name—for professional purposes, of course.” As if she’d ever get a role again. She’d turned down the right roles at the wrong time after marrying Colin, and her acting career had wilted and died on the vine. Giving up her career hadn’t helped her marriage, and in the end, Colin had passed away a few years ago. “And I don’t want to trade on Colin’s name.”
Xandra’s eyes glistened with interest. “I just adored Colin Sanger. And he was so right for the role of Rhett Butler in the remake of Gone with the Wind. Tall, dark, and handsome—and that voice! It sent shivers down me every time he spoke.”
“Everyone tells me that.” Yeah, Colin was a heartthrob. The women wanted him, the men wanted him—she would have had to sweep a pile of adoring fans off the doorstep every morning if they’d lived in a normal house rather than massively built mansion with an eight-foot-tall wall around it. The wonder was that Colin hadn’t dug a moat and stocked it with alligators.
The long-necked, long-beaked woman sitting next to Xandra, who seemed to have dyed her hair out of the same pot as her neighbor, moved her head forward like a hissing snake. “He died so young.”
Moira lowered her eyes, struck her best grieving widow pose, and softened her voice to a whisper. “It’s been two years, but I miss him still.” Damn this Method acting. She’d convince herself if she wasn’t careful.
Xandra took over again. “Too bad there were never any children.”
The twosome stared at Moira pointedly.
Who were these women? Were they tag-teaming? Moira sighed dramatically and gave the same crap answer she’d given countless tabloid reporters. “We were both busy with our careers and thought we had all the time in the world.”
The door opened, and the people seated around the table looked up long enough to identify the newcomer, a tall, angular woman in a peacock-blue squaw dress cinched at the waist and a copper-medallion belt. Her flyaway hair looked like a stray mockingbird had tried to make a nest in it.
Pen motioned toward her. “That’s Vashti Atherton, our accompanist. Musical genius. She scored the Gift of the Magi. Her younger daughter, Micaela, will play Della, the wife. Phil Schoenfeldt—the man at the end of the table who’s waving his hands around—has been cast as the husband. And Travis McAllister will sing the dream sequence. He’s the one talking to Vashti right now.”
“Pen, I really do need to see the script.”
“As soon as our chairman gets here, my dear. He’s bringing photocopies for everyone.”
The door opened again and an attractive brunette entered, nodding at Pen as she took a seat further on down the table.
“Rebecca Espinoza. Her husband is a city councilman, and they’re very supportive of civic theater. Both of their children have appeared in our productions.”
Xandra leaned across the table again. “Lucinda Jane and Melody have been taking dance classes with Sister and me since they were toddlers. Clarette and I choreograph all the numbers and train all the dancers—even the ones who don’t patronize our studio.”
Pen beamed at the duo. “The Fontaine sisters have been very generous in contributing their talents and expertise to our theater productions.”
Moira commented the only way she could. “Wonderful!”
Vashti Atheron, Phil Schoenfeldt, Travis McAllister, Rebecca Espinoza, Xandra and Clarette Fontaine. She repeated each name to herself and glued it to a face. She didn’t want to accidentally snub anyone in the grocery store—these people would determine whether she stayed in Bosque Bend in triumph or slunk back to Pasadena in disgrace.
A masculine voice rang out from the end of the table, where most of the men seemed to have congregated. “Hey, Pen, what’s holding up Chairman Mao? Rafe’s photocopier broken again?”
The room roared with laughter. Apparently a running joke.
Pen gave him a quick comeback. “You know more than I do, Travis. He’s your brother.” He turned to Moira. “We’re not very formal—no elections or anything—but Rafe McAllister runs the show. Great guy.”