Chapter 68

Big raindrops pelt the windows. While we wait out the storm, I clean up. I feel him watch my ritualistic sweep of the work area. I can’t do much about the work jiz that coats me after taking money and Marjorie’s grief all day, but I vanish long enough to wipe my hands, arms, and neck with rubbing alcohol from the first-aid kit. I at least smell sterile.

When the rain quiets to plinks, Chaz smiles. “Shall we?” Just those two words sound so urbane. He sprinkles a word like “phenomenal” into commonplace conversation, as all performers seem to. And Chaz is intimidatingly handsome, indifferent to it yet completely confident the room watches, just daring anyone to look away. His inflections and timing have been compared to a young Jack Lemmon, but something about his carriage reminds me of Cary Grant.

It’s intermission outside the Music Box Theatre, where I collide with Tracy and Matt.

“Tracy! Matt! What are you guys doing in town?” I blurt.

Matt scrambles. “It was last-minute.”