Louisa

  Stepping away from The Newbury, I make a concerted effort to tamp down my guilt over leaving Clara to tend the household on her own. She isn’t wrong in her assessment of the manner in which the day’s events are unfolding, but I remind myself that Clara’s view is often unnecessarily narrow. Perhaps I am helping her see that not everything can run according to her plan.

  The sun’s warmth seeps through my coat as I walk, helping my shoulders relax while easing thoughts of Clara and laundry. Vancouver is most beautiful in the glimmering morning sun, and though the trees have been battered by days of rain and wind, a few tenacious colour-infused leaves sparkle in the glow.

  I move quickly through the streets, the scent of fresh bread permeating the air outside of the bakery. The library on the corner of Main and Hastings is one of my favourite buildings in the city. Since Carnegie’s fifty-thousand-dollar donation built the city’s first library in 1903, it has served as a stunning example of fine architecture.

  I peer through the expansive window of the diner and spot Thomas seated at a corner table. At my quick tug on the cafe door, the sound of the jingling bell fills the cozy space. A waitress in a dull grey day dress, mostly covered with a full white apron, greets me with a menu.

  “Thank you. I see my friend over there.” I point in Thomas’ direction and am met with his friendly wave. He stands to invite me to the table, waiting until I’ve seated myself before sliding back into his own chair.

  “I’m glad you could make it.” Thomas’ wide smile sends a delightful warming sensation through me.

  “Coffee?” The waitress appears with a pot at the ready.

  “No, thank you.” I glance at the menu. “I’ll have a cup of tea instead.” She refills Thomas’ cup and leaves to fetch my tea.

  “The pancakes are great here.” Thomas directs his chin toward the menu. “If you are hungry.”

  “That sounds good.” I push the menu to the side as the waitress returns with tea and a small pot of hot water.

  “What can I get you?” she asks me, with her pencil poised over a pad of paper.

  “I’ll have the pancakes, please.”

  “Do you want whipped cream with that?”

  My eyes flick up to Thomas, who is watching me with a curious grin. “Yes, please.”

  The waitress looks expectantly at Thomas.

  “I’ll have the same.”

  “Alrighty then. Won’t be long.” The waitress retreats toward the kitchen, hollering “order” as she nears the pass-through window.

  “I assume good pancakes aren’t the reason you wanted to meet.” I hide my nerves by adding sugar to my tea.

  Thomas chuckles. “You will thank me after.”

  “I should be thanking you now.” I blow the steam off the top of my cup. “For last night.”

  “I was happy to help. Besides, bringing Jimmy to life again was fun.” Thomas stirs a spoonful of sugar into his coffee. “Jane explained the reason for the ruse as she drove me home. You are a good friend.”

  My cheeks warm, and I resist the urge to cover them with my hands, instead hiding behind my cup of tea. “I am not certain Jane and I are what you would call friends, but she was in need of some assistance. Besides, Robert isn’t all bad. Misguided, definitely, but not a bad person entirely. Anyway, it all worked out in the end.” I take another sip of tea, aware that Thomas’ eyes have yet to leave mine. “Oh, that reminds me. The champagne?” I lift an eyebrow in question.

  Thomas lets out a low, soft chuckle. “A friend who works at The Club owed me a favour.” He lifts his shoulders with an unconcerned air. “He repaid me with a bottle of The Club’s finest. I felt it might be necessary to really sell Jimmy’s character.” Thomas winks mischievously. “I think it worked.”

  “I agree, it most certainly did. But why do I get the feeling that you made the extra effort for another reason?” I lower my teacup to the table.

  “I could never pull one over on you, Lou.” Thomas pauses while I fill my cup. “I didn’t know how to reach you after you left the theatre group. I tried to track you down, but nobody knew where you’d vanished to.”

  “I didn’t exactly vanish.” My lips purse at the sentiment, as though I’d slinked away with my tail between my legs. “We moved is all.”

  “That’s the funniest bit. I could hardly believe it when I realized you'd been living only blocks away from my own apartment. I’ve spent months looking for you.” Thomas shakes his head. “You were right under my nose all this time.”

  “Why were you looking for me?”

  “That’s the reason I wanted to meet with you this morning. I am directing a play, and you were the first person I thought of for the role. To be honest, I haven’t been able to think of anyone else since.”

  The waitress arrives with two steaming plates of pancakes covered in whipped cream. “Here you are. Enjoy.” She leaves us to dig into the sweet, fluffy stacks.

  “What’s the role?” I ask, hiding my excitement as I place a napkin in my lap.

  Thomas cuts into his stack of pancakes, whipped cream melting onto the edges of the plate. “Harriet Craig.”

  My hands hover over my pancakes, holding a knife and fork. “As in Harriet Craig from Craig’s Wife?”

  I can see Thomas is as ruffled as a hen with a fox inside its coop, but he hides it well beneath a veneer of suave certainty. “The one and only.” He takes a bite of pancake and watches me intently as he chews.

  “Oh my.” I place my fork and knife on the table. “That is quite the role.” A thousand questions dance through my mind.

  “Yes, Harriet Craig is an enormous role, but I know you can handle it. I bet you read every review when the play hit the stage a couple years back.”

  I nod, recalling how fans and critics alike talked of how the play pushed societal boundaries, raising questions of what is appropriate for an upper-class married woman. I was captivated by the character of Mrs. Craig, this force to be reckoned with.

  Thomas reaches his hand across the table and touches mine. “I wouldn’t have mentioned it if I didn’t think you were perfect for the role.”

  I am caught between exhilaration and sheer panic. “Who played Harriet Craig on Broadway again?”

  “Crystal Herne.”

  “Oh, I adore her. She is beautiful.”

  “She is. And so are you.” Thomas squeezes my hand.

  My guard goes up in an instant. “Is that why you thought of me? Because of my looks?” My voice quavers.

  Thomas straightens abruptly. “No. I thought of you because Harriet Craig is a commanding character and you would make her shine, even if all you did was raise that eyebrow of yours.”

  I nod, more solemn than ecstatic, contemplating his words. “Tell me more about the production. What are you thinking?” Realizing that my question may not have been what Thomas was expecting, I lighten my tone and usher into place a confident smile.

  Thomas relaxes and returns to his breakfast, explaining his vision for the play between bites.

  “I’ve filled the role of Mr. Craig with an up-and-comer whose performances, from what I’ve seen, have been outstanding.”

  I take a bite of pancake, my stomach turning as the overly sweet concoction hits my tongue. “Anyone I know?”

  “I don’t think so.” Thomas shakes his head. “He’s not from around here. Toronto, maybe. Honestly, I can’t remember. I was just pleased he agreed to join the production.”

  I nod and let him continue, politely adding the occasional comment while my mind runs rampant. A starring role in a real theatre production is the opportunity I have been dreaming about. But the memory of my last ill-gotten lead role haunts me like a bad dream.

  Thomas cleans his plate with speed. A hum of excitement fuels the rhythm of his words. He has secured most of the cast. The set and even the wardrobe are ready and waiting for rehearsals to begin.

  My stomach is in knots. Pushing my plate to the side, I dab the corners of my mouth with my napkin. “And where is all this taking place?”

  Thomas’ grin widens. “Just up the street. I figured we could stop by so you can see the theatre and read for the part.”

  “I see. So this wasn’t about breakfast, then? Your plan was to bamboozle me into an audition this morning?” I tease him while pushing the plate a little further away, the smell of the sweet pancakes souring my stomach.

  “You are perfect for this role, Lou.” Thomas stares at the table as he gathers his thoughts. “I have a backup, but I’ve been holding off on getting the contract to her.” He pauses, locking his eyes on mine. “Since the moment I decided to direct this play, I’ve pictured you as the lead. I am set on you.”

  Visions of the stage and the lights dance freely in my mind’s eye. I can hardly believe this is happening, given that only days ago I made the decision to chase my dream. No more making beds and scrubbing bathtubs. No more wagging tongues or maid’s hats. No more Hotel Hamilton.

  This is precisely what I want. In fact, it is all I’ve ever wanted. Yet, as Thomas watches me and waits for me to speak, I can’t help but wonder if my acting ability is truly what Thomas is seeking.

  He’s never given me any reason to doubt his motives. Thomas is a few years my senior, so I crossed his path less frequently than others. But each time we worked together at the theatre group, he was respectful and kind. My mind continues to whir.

  Though I’ve never intended to use my appearance to gain a role, I haven’t met a man yet who wasn’t swayed by a toss of my hair or a dazzling smile. How can I be sure I haven’t given Thomas the wrong idea? Am I fooling myself? Is Thomas likely to be any different from the last director?

  I would be a fool to let this opportunity pass. However, it is the quietest voice in the recesses of my mind that I cannot help but hear. It asks, what if I have no talent at all? What if I have been skating through life with my God-given good looks?

  The memory of my last audition sneaks into my periphery. I was elated during the first read-through and then the second. The final callback after lunch had me happy enough to do cartwheels. I still remember the director’s parting words to me. You, Louisa Wilson, will go far.

  By the end of the day, I had secured the lead role. I was told to return the next day to sign the paperwork, with rehearsals to begin the following week. The theatre was nearly empty as I gathered my things and headed for the door. Flushed with excitement, I walked half a block along the theatre’s brick facade before stopping to slide my arms into my coat. I was buttoning up, with the playscript tucked between my knees, when I overheard a few of the cast members chatting in the alley, their cigarette smoke drifting through the cold February air.

  The man is predicable. Even if Miss Wilson does have talent.

  I recognized the voice of the male lead. Yeah, but it’s not her talent he’s interested in. His plays always have a pin-up girl as the lead. He prefers trophies to real actresses. His voice softened. I feel sorry for the girl, really. She probably doesn’t know what she’s gotten herself into.

  I shake my head in defiance of the memory. Despite the crushing disappointment I felt that day, I continue to find myself drawn to the spotlight. The first time I stepped onto a stage, I fell head over heels in love. It’s thrilling to have permission to be someone else for a while. The feel of the audience’s eyes on me and the applause they so graciously offer make me feel whole, complete, worthy.

  I feel the warmth rise to my cheeks and know that raw emotion is colouring my face. “Well, I suppose it couldn’t hurt to read a few lines.”

  Thomas slaps a couple of bills on the table. Grabbing my hand, he pulls me out the door, waving a hearty thank you to the waitress as we leave. Off to the theatre we go, with Thomas’ beaming face leading the way.

  Chapter 16

  Saturday, October 1, 1927

  Clara

  I return to the apartment as the clock nears two, refreshed and toting a much better mood. The walk with Rebecca was just what I needed, and though the chores still await me, I am buoyed by my outing. Even the laundry seems less daunting than it did this morning. A little bit of sun goes a long way when the Vancouver weather begins its descent toward winter.

  I busy myself with the washing of Papa’s and my clothes, staying true to my warning that Louisa will have to wash her own clothes this week. I suspect the task will be accompanied by a copious amount of whining and muttering from my sister. With the clothes positioned on the drying racks, I move back to the kitchen to scrub the bread pan. I have prioritized the list of chores, coming to terms with the fact that not everything will get done. The dusting, for example, is last on the list. I can squeeze it in one evening after dinner next week, if time and energy allow.

  I scrub the bathroom, including the tub, before sweeping the entirety of our apartment’s floor in preparation for a once-over with the mop. An hour later, a rare thankfulness at the small size of our home washes over me as I dump the contents of the mop bucket into the kitchen sink. I check my watch. Three fifteen. Both Papa and Louisa should have returned home by now.

  So much for Louisa’s offer of assistance. A frustrated sigh escapes my lips as I plunk myself down at the kitchen table. With a pad of paper and a pencil, I detail my Thanksgiving Day plan of action. Sifting through Mama’s recipes, I calculate the timing, listing the dishes in the order I will prepare them.

  With the list before me, it’s clear that I will be short on time, no matter how early I begin cooking Sunday morning. Turning the paper over, I start again. I’m determined to serve Mama’s beef mince pie, for the sake of family tradition. I will have to bake both the mince pie and the apple pie after my Saturday shift at the hotel. My nose wrinkles and my mouth twists, unable to see another way. I will be baking late into the evening, before rising early the next day to continue the dinner preparation. I tap my pencil on the table and decide there is no way around it. I write Saturday at the top of the page before listing mince pie and apple pie underneath. Then I finish the list with Sunday’s plan of attack.

  “The effort will be worth it,” I say out loud. “A real Thanksgiving we can be proud of.” A resolute nod of my head affirms my commitment to the celebration. I stand, scooping up the recipes and placing them in the order I have listed. I take a moment to appreciate our family’s accomplishment. We have food in our cupboards and a secure roof over our heads. That was not always a guarantee, and I am thankful every day for our family’s recovery from the dark period of near pennilessness.

  The apartment door swings open, wrenching my attention away from the kitchen. Louisa steps into the short hallway, barely breaking stride to drop her bag on the floor.

  “Clara?” she calls out with breathless excitement, her head swivelling around the living room before finding me straddling the distance between the kitchen and the table. “There you are.”

  “Here I am.” My eyebrows converge, crinkling my forehead.

  “I got it. Can you believe it?” Louisa is giddy enough to take flight.

  “Got what?” I bite my bottom lip, not certain where this announcement is going.

  “I auditioned for a play today and I got the role.” Louisa squeezes me into an embrace, exuberance spilling out of her.

  My arms are trapped by my side, imprisoned by Louisa’s hug. I force the words out with a shallow breath. “You didn’t mention you’d be auditioning for a play.”

  “I didn’t know.” Louisa pulls back, though her hands still grip my shoulders. “Isn’t it crazy? I went out to meet Thomas and . . .” Louisa’s thoughts seem to lack direction. “Did you know he’s been looking for me all this time?”

  “Louisa.” I raise my voice to gain her attention. “Slow down. I have no idea what you are talking about.”

  “Let’s sit down and I will tell you all about it.” Louisa pulls me toward the sofa and settles herself as much as her excitement will allow.

  I wait expectantly, well aware that the day is growing short and the list of chores is far from complete.

  “Thomas.” Louisa dips her chin, her eyes imploring me to remember the connection. “From the theatre club.”

  I nod and push myself back into the corner of the sofa.

  “Apparently, shortly after I left the club, he decided to put his time and money into directing and producing a play. As soon as he settled on Craig’s Wife as the play, he knew I would make the perfect Mrs. Craig. I was his first choice for the female lead. He told me so this morning. Thomas has been looking for me ever since.” Louisa takes a deep breath before launching in again. “I am amazed. I can hardly believe what good fortune it was that I called the theatre and left a message for him about Friday night.”

  “Friday night?” I ask, realizing that today’s news is somehow tied to Louisa’s mysterious Friday evening excursion.

  With a wave of her hand, Louisa continues. “That is another story altogether. Anyway, Thomas asked me to meet him this morning, but I had no idea he wanted me to audition.”

  “That’s great.” I nudge a little enthusiasm into my words. “I suppose getting back in touch with the theatre was a good suggestion, then.”

  Louisa sniffs the air sharply, impatient with me for not keeping up. “You don’t understand, Clara. Thomas is putting on a real production. He has it all organized. The play will take place at a theatre downtown. The one just up from the library. The costumes have been acquired, along with the lighting, the music, and most of the cast. For goodness’ sake, there will be a paying audience and an opening night. I will be earning my first wage as a professional on the stage.” Louisa lets out a squeal of delight. “This is exactly what I was looking for. Something to take my career to a new level.” Her expression falters, the elated smile vanishing like the sun behind a storm cloud, before reappearing with her next words. “Of course, I didn’t agree to the lead role, but who knows where I will go from here.”

  “I am happy for you, Lou.” Even as I say it, I recognize the lack of truth in my statement.

  “But . . . ?” Louisa draws out the word, her delighted demeanour shifting behind a guarded gaze with a slow, deliberate blink of her eyes.

 

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