Page 15 of Heavy Equipment
Only very recently was it renovated and turned back into a theater. Many people in Tanglewood society accepted the venue into its fold, delighting in the scandalous past and the high-quality shows it brought to the city. Others, like my father, continued to snub it, so I never attended.
Blue shakes his head, his lips quirked. “No, I can’t claim that honor. I’m head of security here.” He glances at Asher meaningfully. “That’s why I called you. One of the performers has her own entourage. They’ve made some requests to change our protocols, as well as to the structure.”
“Bet you love that,” Asher says with a familiarity that makes me wonder if Blue was still head of security when the Grand was a strip club—and if Asher had visited as a customer back then.
“The recommendations are sound,” Blue admits. “Especially with the level of celebrity we’ll be dealing with for this tour. Not only the musicians but the patrons. They’re premiering the tour here so we’ve got A-listers clamoring for the boxes.”
“You’re saving a couple seats near the front for us, of course,” Asher says, in a mild tone that says he isn’t making a request; it’s mandatory.
“Of course,” Blue says, his tone sardonic.
“Is this the Harry March tour?” I have a whole playlist on my phone dedicated to Harry March, the celebrity tenor who’s topped the pop music charts and been in the tabloids.
“He’s headlining,” Blue confirms, “but he won’t be the only one. There’s a couple of gymnasts from Cirque du Monde. A Juilliard-trained pop star. A child prodigy in violin.”
“And Beatrix Cartwright,” I say, recalling that fact from the Life & Arts section of the newspaper. She lives in Tanglewood, but she’s very reclusive. Very mysterious. “Oh, I’m so excited to see her.”
“Then let’s see about these changes,” Asher says, planting a gentle kiss on my forehead. “You’ll be fine on your own a few minutes?”
“Can I look around?” I ask, trying to hide my eagerness. I want to see if any hints remain of the strip club past, beneath the beautiful and historically accurate façade.
Asher gives me a small smile like he can read my mind. He leans forward, whispering in my ear, “There’s a pole left somewhere in the building. Maybe I’ll have you give me a show.”
My blush still flames as the two men walk away, heading into the basement where they’ll discuss structural changes and unnecessary exits and the city fire code.
I head into a plain door in the back of the building marked CAST ONLY. The hallways are empty, doors open, windows in the offices letting in light. Dust motes dance in the sun. It’s a rare look at the building in the day, like glimpsing an actress without her makeup. I can see her wrinkles and her age spots, but also her innate beauty.
The sweet strains of a violin touch my ears, and I follow the sound down the hallway, where it’s darker, windows disappearing, shadows deepening.
My breath catches as I turn a corner and view the stage in its glory.
The parquet floor gleams even in the relative darkness. A single spotlight is on from the wide array of lights and equipment above. The curtains have to be at least five stories tall; they frame the view of the seats, making them look almost like a doll house. Rows of red velvet waiting for people to occupy them. The boxes and balconies are only shadows from this position—I’m not sure that would change during a performance.
The audience would seem so far away.
A single woman sits on a chair, playing a violin, the sound haunting. Her clothes are strangely ordinary for the masterful way she plays, a T-shirt and jeans. Flip flops more appropriate to a college campus than a world-class stage.
The song stops suddenly, and she stands to face me.
“I’m so sorry,” I gasp, mortified that I bothered her. “I didn’t mean to stop you.”
“No, don’t. I’m just a little jumpy,” she admits, looking sheepish. “I tend to get lost in my own world. It’s always a shock to realize it’s not real.”
“You’re the child prodigy.”
“Oh.” She gives a little laugh that somehow emphasizes her innocence. “I’m not really a child anymore, but the title follows me around.”
“Well, however old you are, that sounded absolutely perfect.”
“Thank you.” Her expression is almost shy. It occurs to me that she might be unaccustomed to performing, despite her obvious talent.
No, she’s not really a child anymore. Now that I’m closer I can see that she’s around my age. She only feels young, because of her innocence. There’s something very untouched about her, especially compared to the Harry March of Instagram renown.
“I’m June Li,” I tell her impulsively. “I live here in Tanglewood. If you need anything while you’re in town—the best sushi, a girl’s afternoon to get a manicure—let me know.”
