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the bait. She always addressed me courteously as Ms James and unflaggingly deferred to my superior wisdom and experience. She made me uncomfortable.
    Claudia was coming toward me now. She bent down and sparkled into my face. “You’re back. I’m so sorry I’m late.” We were both early. “Did you get everything worked out all right?”
    â€œYes, thanks. The play’s going well now.” And it was. Sunday’s performance of Foxfire had been solid and satisfying.
    â€œThat’s good.” She sat beside me. “And I have some more good news for you. Brian Simpson is coming here to see the one-acts.”
    That was both good news and bad news. Simpson ran a theater in San Francisco, and everything he did attracted a lot of attention. But Simpson was a rather eccentric producer-director, tending to disregard the playwright’s intentions in order to indulge some whimsy of his own. He’d done a Watergate version of Oedipus Rex , and his most recent project was a futuristic treatment of Kyd’s The Spanish Tragedy with an entire rock group cast as the Ghost of Andrea. I shuddered to think what would happen to my experimental one-acts in his hands.
    â€œWhen I talked to Brian yesterday,” Claudia was saying, “I told him we were delighted with both your one-acts. I told him they were definitely worth his serious consideration.” She tapped my arm on the word definitely , making sure I understood she was helping me with my career. So I owed her one.
    I thanked her for the endorsement and asked how rehearsals were coming along.
    â€œVery well, I think.” She glanced at her watch. “Why don’t you come watch? It’s about time to start. Then afterwards you can tell me if we’re doing something wrong.”
    We walked into the auditorium. “Did you have any trouble casting?” The Three Rivers Playhouse operated in conjunction with a school of the performing arts—in this case, drama and dance only. The policy was to hire professional actors to play the leads and fill in the smaller parts with students. I’d had to return to New York before Claudia had finished casting.
    â€œNo real trouble,” she said. “We’ve got some good people. One of them you know. Jay Berringer.”
    I groaned inwardly; I did indeed know Jay Berringer. Jay was a hyperactive gossip, a name dropper, and a climber. But worst of all, he was a bad actor. He came through on stage as a strong personality, which misled some people into thinking he was a strong performer. Not the same thing at all. Jay always played the same role: himself. In a role approximating his own personality, he was just fine. But any role that demanded a little inventiveness or a little perception beyond his own immediate range of experience—such a role defeated him utterly. And Claudia Knight had cast him in one of my one acts.
    â€œWhich one is he in?”
    â€œBoth of them. I figured as long as we had him in Pittsburgh—oh, Jay! Look who’s here.”
    â€œAbigail James!” Jay’s elfin face grinned from ear to ear as he hopped down from the stage and trotted up the center aisle toward me. “How good to see you again!” He gave me a quick embrace and even more quickly turned off his grin. “Claudia tells me Foxfire is in trouble.”
    Don’t you wish . “Not any more. We had a problem with the second act, but it’s straightened out now.”
    Grin on. “Good, good. I knew there was nothing to worry about. This woman,” he said to Claudia, “can fix anything. I know—I’ve seen her work.”
    â€œWhat have you been doing with yourself lately, Jay?”
    â€œWould you believe Arsenic and Old Lace ? There are actually people who still pay money to see that turkey. I played it this summer at the Cape under an absolutely grotesque director who made me long for a Claudia Knight.” Claudia smiled;