Proposing to Preston (The Winslow Brothers, #2)(18)

“Today was perfect.” She swallowed the lump in her throat. “I’m sorry.”

He sat back on his heels, looking down and nodding. “Well, I tried.”

“You did,” she said softly.

He didn’t answer, just looked away from her, out over Sheep’s Meadow toward the setting sun.

“I shouldn’t keep this,” she said, amazed that her voice didn’t break as she held the book out to him.

He finally looked at her, and though it would have been easier if he was angry with her, he wasn’t. Instead, he smiled, his beautiful lips tilting up just enough to soften his face and break her heart a little more.

“Yeah, you should. I got it for you. For luck.”

She straightened, clasping the book tenderly against her chest. It was time to go; another moment and she would either burst into tears or fall back into his arms.

“Preston—”

“Good luck on Tuesday, Elise,” he said, his voice still managing to be warm, though his eyes were profoundly sad. “You’re going to be great.”

“Thank you,” she somehow managed, raising her hand in farewell.

He nodded once, then turned his face toward the sunset again.

And though she looked back at his solitary figure several times as she took steps—one after the other—farther and farther away from him, it hurt more than she ever could have guessed that he never once looked back to watch her go.





Chapter 5


Elise had been to many auditions in her twenty-four years.

In the small town of Lowville, New York, where she grew up, she’d auditioned for every church play and high school show, even driving her father’s beaten pickup truck an hour each way to Utica every day one summer to be in a larger, more professional show.

At Tisch, she tried out for every part she was remotely qualified for, and since graduating from college, she went to every open audition she could find. She’d sat for hours at the Actor’s Equity building in Manhattan, her number in hand, waiting to be called, only to be dismissed after a five-second look. More than anything else, she likened the New York stage audition process to a meat market, and if you weren’t the cut they were looking for? You were out.

Today she finally understood there was a whole other world when it came to auditioning. Never having been to an agent submission audition like today’s, she couldn’t help but draw comparisons. At an open call audition, better known as a “cattle call” to those who, like Elise, were one of hundreds who showed up to audition, there was no guarantee you’d be seen and the chance of getting a callback was about two percent. Here? At Lincoln Center? She arrived early and gave her name to a receptionist in a neat, quiet, air-conditioned office. She had a place to sit while she did her breathing exercises and ran Mattie’s lines in her head, and when it was her turn to audition, she was escorted to a small practice stage where she personally met the director, casting director (not Mr. Durran, but his associate) and several other people attached to the production.

“Elise Klassan,” said the director, squinting at her from a long table in the second row of the small theater. He looked down at the table where she noticed her black and white headshot in front of him.

“Yes, sir,” she said softly, offering his bent head a small smile, such that she imagined Mattie Silver would employ.

“Donny raved about this one,” said Max Schofield, Mr. Durran’s partner, and a Casting Director just as respected as Mr. Durran.

“Well, we’ll just have to see, won’t we?” The director looked up again. “I’m Harold Fischer, the Director. That’s Mr. Schofield, our Casting Director. Heidi Lyons, our Stage Manager, Steve Smith, our Assistant Stage Manager, and Frank Coletti, one of our three Producers. Welcome. Thank you for coming.”

“Thank you, sir,” she answered, channeling Mattie Silver with every cell in her body.

She’d worn a long white skirt—gauzy and prairie-style—not unlike the skirts she’d worn to church on Sundays at home. She’d found it at a street fair last summer on sale for five dollars, and she liked the familiar, traditional, feminine lines of it. On top, she wore a gray cotton peasant blouse, rutched around the collar and short-sleeved. She hoped to convey a country girl look; with limited resources, it was the best she could do.

“Let’s get right into it, shall we? Steve, can you get up there and read for Ethan?” Mr. Fischer turned to Elise. “Garrett’s in L.A. He’ll be here for rehearsals the last two weeks in May.”

“Ah,” said Elise, nodding in understanding, but feeling far out of her depth when Hollywood actors were referred to by their first names.

Steve, the Assistant Stage Manager hopped onto the stage and pulled a folded copy of the script from his back pocket.

“Assuming you know the lines?” asked Mr. Fischer, a slight challenge in his voice. “We only have a month to workshop this.”

She’d only had two days to learn them, but damn if she didn’t memorize them as fast as she could. Being off-book for this audition had been imperative for her.

“Yes, sir.”

“Huh,” he chuffed, obviously impressed. “Someone who actually came prepared. That’s refreshing.”

“Donny knows his stuff,” commented Mr. Schofield.