and the dance shoes that wore out too soon. She'd broken through to principal, but had continued to study. She'd made second lead, but never gave up her classes. She finally stopped waiting tables.
Her biggest part had been the lead in Suzanna's Park, a plum she'd relished until she'd felt she'd sucked it dry. Leaving it had been a risk, but there was enough gypsy in her to have made the move an adventure.
Now she was playing the role of Mary, and the part was harder, more complex and more demanding than anything that had come before. She was going to work for Mary just as hard as she would make Mary work for her.
When the music ended, Maddy stood in the center of the hall, hands on hips, labored breathing echoing off the walls. Her body begged to be allowed to collapse, but if Macke had signaled, she would have revved up and gone on.
"Not bad, kid." He tossed her a towel.
With a little laugh, Maddy buried her face in it. The cloth was no longer fresh, but it still absorbed moisture. "Not bad? You know damn well it was terrific."
"It was good." Macke's lips twitched; Maddy knew that was as good as a laugh, for him. "Can't stand cocky dancers." But he watched her towel off, pleased and grateful that there was such a furnace of energy in her compact body. She was his tool, his canvas. His success would depend on her ability as much as hers did on his.
Maddy slung the towel around her neck as she walked over to the piano where the accompanist was already stacking up the score. "Can I ask you something, Macke?"
"Shoot." He drew out a cigarette; it was a habit Maddy looked on with mild pity.
"How many musicals have you done now? Altogether, I mean, dancing and choreographing?"
"Lost count. We'll call it plenty."
"Okay." She accepted his answer easily, though she would have bet her best tap shoes that he knew the exact number. "How do you gauge our chances with this one?"
"Nervous?"
"No. Paranoid."
He took two short drags. "It's good for you."
"I don't sleep well when I'm paranoid. I need my rest."
His lips twitched again. "You've got the best—me. You've got a good score, a catchy libretto and a solid book. What do you want?"
"Standing room only." She accepted a glass of water from the assistant choreographer and sipped carefully.
He answered because he respected her. It wasn't based on what she'd done in Suzanna's Park; rather, he admired what she and others like her did every day. She was twenty-six and had been dancing for more than twenty years. "You know who's backing us?"
With a nod, she sipped again, letting the water play in her mouth, not cold but wonderfully wet. "Valentine Records."
"Got any idea why a record company would negotiate to be the only backer of a musical?"
"Exclusive rights to the cast album."
"You catch on." He crushed out the cigarette, wishing immediately for another. He only thought of them when the music wasn't playing—on the piano, or in his head. Luckily for his lungs, that wasn't often. "Reed Valentine's our angel, a second-generation corporate bigwig, and from what I'm told he's tougher than his old man ever thought of being. He's not interested in us, sweetheart. He's interested in making a profit."
"That's fair enough," Maddy decided after a moment. "I'd like to see him make one." She grinned. "A big one."
"Good thinking. Hit the shower."
The pipes were noisy and the water sprayed in staccato bursts, but it was cool and wet. Maddy propped both forearms against the wall and let the stream pour over her head. She'd taken a ballet class early that morning. From there she'd come directly to the rehearsal hall, first to go over two of the songs with the composer. The singing didn't worry her—she had a clean voice, excellent pitch and a good range. Most of all, she was loud. The theater didn't tolerate stingy voices.
She'd spent her formative years as one of the O'Hurley Triplets. When you sang in bars and clubs with faulty acoustics and undependable audio equipment, you
Her biggest part had been the lead in Suzanna's Park, a plum she'd relished until she'd felt she'd sucked it dry. Leaving it had been a risk, but there was enough gypsy in her to have made the move an adventure.
Now she was playing the role of Mary, and the part was harder, more complex and more demanding than anything that had come before. She was going to work for Mary just as hard as she would make Mary work for her.
When the music ended, Maddy stood in the center of the hall, hands on hips, labored breathing echoing off the walls. Her body begged to be allowed to collapse, but if Macke had signaled, she would have revved up and gone on.
"Not bad, kid." He tossed her a towel.
With a little laugh, Maddy buried her face in it. The cloth was no longer fresh, but it still absorbed moisture. "Not bad? You know damn well it was terrific."
"It was good." Macke's lips twitched; Maddy knew that was as good as a laugh, for him. "Can't stand cocky dancers." But he watched her towel off, pleased and grateful that there was such a furnace of energy in her compact body. She was his tool, his canvas. His success would depend on her ability as much as hers did on his.
Maddy slung the towel around her neck as she walked over to the piano where the accompanist was already stacking up the score. "Can I ask you something, Macke?"
"Shoot." He drew out a cigarette; it was a habit Maddy looked on with mild pity.
"How many musicals have you done now? Altogether, I mean, dancing and choreographing?"
"Lost count. We'll call it plenty."
"Okay." She accepted his answer easily, though she would have bet her best tap shoes that he knew the exact number. "How do you gauge our chances with this one?"
"Nervous?"
"No. Paranoid."
He took two short drags. "It's good for you."
"I don't sleep well when I'm paranoid. I need my rest."
His lips twitched again. "You've got the best—me. You've got a good score, a catchy libretto and a solid book. What do you want?"
"Standing room only." She accepted a glass of water from the assistant choreographer and sipped carefully.
He answered because he respected her. It wasn't based on what she'd done in Suzanna's Park; rather, he admired what she and others like her did every day. She was twenty-six and had been dancing for more than twenty years. "You know who's backing us?"
With a nod, she sipped again, letting the water play in her mouth, not cold but wonderfully wet. "Valentine Records."
"Got any idea why a record company would negotiate to be the only backer of a musical?"
"Exclusive rights to the cast album."
"You catch on." He crushed out the cigarette, wishing immediately for another. He only thought of them when the music wasn't playing—on the piano, or in his head. Luckily for his lungs, that wasn't often. "Reed Valentine's our angel, a second-generation corporate bigwig, and from what I'm told he's tougher than his old man ever thought of being. He's not interested in us, sweetheart. He's interested in making a profit."
"That's fair enough," Maddy decided after a moment. "I'd like to see him make one." She grinned. "A big one."
"Good thinking. Hit the shower."
The pipes were noisy and the water sprayed in staccato bursts, but it was cool and wet. Maddy propped both forearms against the wall and let the stream pour over her head. She'd taken a ballet class early that morning. From there she'd come directly to the rehearsal hall, first to go over two of the songs with the composer. The singing didn't worry her—she had a clean voice, excellent pitch and a good range. Most of all, she was loud. The theater didn't tolerate stingy voices.
She'd spent her formative years as one of the O'Hurley Triplets. When you sang in bars and clubs with faulty acoustics and undependable audio equipment, you
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