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said.
    “I’ll tell everybody to be ready.”
    Helen glanced from the suitcase to the
doorway. Beyond she could hear the dinner preparations of the
Farnsworth household, the distant tinkle of silver against china,
the muffled sound of footsteps, an occasional burst of
laughter.
    Brick would devote himself to Barb Gladly at
the dinner table. And Helen wouldn’t be there to suffer.
    “You’re not going to argue with me?” she
asked.
    “Why should I argue? You’re the boss.”
    Helen walked to the window and stood looking
out. Snow fell silently onto a land already covered with a fine
white blanket.
    “We could wait until it quits snowing,” she
said.
    “Whatever you say.”
    “The weather forecast predicts snow for the
next four days.”
    “I’ll sit in front of the fire warming my
toes instead of traipsing with you all the way across the estate to
that drafty old barn Farnsworth calls a playhouse.”
    Helen wadded the curtain in one hand,
released it, and wadded it over again.
    “I don’t suppose he’ll say anything.”
    “Who?” Marsha pretended ignorance.
    “Brick.”
    “Not likely.”
    “They can get someone to replace me.”
    “Certainly.”
    “I mean...” She wadded then smoothed the
curtain. “It’s not as if I’m the only actress who can play
Katharina to Brick’s Petruchio.”
    “I agree completely.”
    “You do?”
    “Of course.”
    “Ginger Rutters will be happy to do it. She’s
always wanted to play this role opposite Brick.”
    “Lots of women would.”
    Helen whirled from the window.
    “Are you saying Brick is appealing?”
    “I didn’t say it. You did.”
    “No, I didn’t. I simply asked you the
question.”
    Helen paced the floor, occasionally frowning
at the suitcase as if it had done something to offend her. The
afternoon in the theater filled her mind. Her skin still burned
from Brick’s touch.
    “Well... he certainly has no appeal for me,”
she said.
    Marsha gave her an arch look but wisely
declined comment.
    “Don’t give me that look, Marsha.”
    “What look?”
    “You know the one. The one that says I’m
being irrational and overreacting.” Suddenly all the fight left
Helen. She sank onto the carpet and wrapped her arms around her
knees. “Go ahead, Marsha. You might as well say it.”
    “Say what?”
    “What you’ve been dying to say ever since we
left the theater.” Marsha pulled up a chair, folded her hands in
her lap, and waited.
    “All right. I admit it. Brick flustered
me.”
    Helen pushed her heavy hair off her forehead.
“It was more than that. Oh, God... Marsha... I felt the earth
move.” She dropped her head onto her knees. The tears that had not
been far away since rehearsal started all over again.
    Marsha dropped to the carpet, put her arms
around Helen, and held on, silently lending both comfort and
support. When the tears finally ran their course, Helen wiped her
eyes with the back of her sleeve, then went into the bathroom to
blow her nose.
    With her tear-streaked face she looked
nothing like the idol of stage and screen who had earned the
adulation of fans around the world, but like a fragile, vulnerable
woman, capable of intense emotions and great pain.
    “There were no tissues in the bathroom. How
can a man like Farnsworth not have tissues in his bathroom?”
    She held a wadded piece of toilet paper in
her hand, and behind her was a white trail leading from the doorway
to the bed. She blew her nose once more, then began to unload the
suitcase.
    “We’re not leaving,” she said.
    “I never thought for a minute we would.”
    “Why didn’t you say something?”
    “I figure when a person is upset about
something, it’s best to let him get it out of his system.” Marsha
picked up the toilet paper and threw it into the wastebasket. “Is
it out of your system now?”
    “Not quite. I think I have a few tears
left.”
    “Then cry it out. My shoulder’s broad.”
    Helen hugged her hard. “How can I ever thank
you?”
    “With a