Page 155 of Everything's Coming Up Rosie

“We all signed it,” Sadie says, beaming.

“You can hang it in your new apartment,” Grace adds. “If there’s room.”

“So you don’t forget us,” Evelyn adds.

I pick it up and stand, holding it out in front of me, unable to keep the tears at bay. “I could never forget you.”

I look around, doing my best to carve each face in my memory. “You all have helped me so much. You helped me remember why I love theatre and why I can’t give up on it yet. This community and the way you all give of your time and your talent—it’s so special.”

The reactions are quiet, emotional, meaningful, honest, and I let myself feel it all.

“We would’ve loved to keep you here with us, Rosie,” Connie says, “but there are dreams yet to be chased.” She points a finger toward the ceiling as if to make a point.

I nod, gaining a bit of composure back. “Yes. There are. And I’m going to chase them a little differently this time. I’m going to chase the joy and leave all the desperation behind.” I scan their faces. “And even though I’m sad to go, I’m excited that I’m leaving you in the most capable hands.”

Quiet chatter filters through the group, and I realize they don’t know yet.

“When I got here, I had no idea you were hiding a true theatrical genius in this theatre, but the more time I spent with Arthur Silverman, the clearer it became.”

Arthur tries to duck behind the man in front of him, obviously not wanting any part of this unsanctioned announcement.

“He is more capable, more renowned, and more decorated than I could ever hope to be, and he has agreed to take the position,” I say. “Doing more of what he was born to do.”

The applause is tentative, but when I force Arthur to come stand next to me, the cheers pick up, and soon he’s waving a hand to make them all stop.

“I run a tight ship,” he says. “But I’ve seen how much talent I have to work with, so I’m not going to go easy on you.”

“But you are going to have fun,” I prod.

“Yeah, yeah,” he grumbles. “Fun too. Maybe.”

I wrap an arm around his shoulder and squeeze. “I can’t wait to come see your shows.”

He doesn’t exactly smile, but his frown loosens the wrinkles in his forehead. “And I can’t wait to come see yours.”

***

After the party, Booker drives me back to my cottage and walks me inside. “I want to show you something.”

I must look suspicious because he smiles and adds, “Trust me.” He reaches for my hand, then leads me through the cottage and into the backyard—the part that feels secluded and hidden away.

On the grass, there’s a big blanket, and in the center of it, a wooden board under several lit candles flickering in the darkness.

“It’s our last night together,” he says. “I wanted it to be special.” He stuffs his hands in his pockets, looking adorable and sweet, and I wonder how in the world I’m going to walk away from this man.

“I wasn’t sure if you’d eat after the show, but I picked up sandwiches from this great little deli in town. And there are chips and fruit.” He leads me over to the blanket and shows me the picnic basket, full of all the things he mentioned. “And I brought chocolate.” He pulls out brownies. “There’s frosted and unfrosted. I wasn’t sure which kind you like. People have strong opinions about frosting.”

“I love frosting,” I say as seriously as I can.

He stuffs the unfrosted ones back in the basket. “Frosted it is.”

“Did you make them?” I ask.

“Louie helped,” he says, and then he adds, “I made sure he didn’t accidentally drop anything in them.”

I smile as heat rushes to my cheeks. “Nobody’s ever half made me brownies before. Nobody’s ever half madeanythinglike this for me before.” I sit down across from him, and he hands me a sandwich—chicken salad, my favorite—and then a bag of chips.

We’re quiet for a few minutes while we set up makeshift place settings, then unwrap and open our food. He pulls a bottle of champagne from the basket, pops the cork off, and pours us each a glass. Then he holds the glass up in the air and says, “To the success of this show and the success of the next one.”

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