Henry talks of hiding his true connection to Violet to protect Audrey’s memory, but I’m more inclined to do it to protect everyone else it impacts, including this sweet woman who likely still sees her daughter as the girl in that photo, innocent, youthful, and full of dreams.
“We should get our seats now,” I say gently.
“Yes.” Gayle agrees, but I don’t miss the light sheen in her eyes. “Before all the good ones are gone.”
A woman at the door handing out playbills smiles wide when she sees us approach. “Mrs. Campbell, I don’t know if you remember me—”
“Sandra Mack. Of course, I remember you. My goodness.” Gayle explains to us, “I taught Sandra for two years in middle school. What grades were those again?”
“Sixth and eighth grade.”
“Yes, of course. She was one of my favorite students.”
“And you were my favorite teacher.” Sandra clutches her hands to her chest. “We all heard about Audrey. I am so sorry for your loss.”
Gayle’s and Howard’s lips press together tightly as they nod.
“She didn’t suffer for too long in the end. I suppose that’s a blessing.” Howard adds quietly, “That’s what they tell us, anyway.”
Sandra’s hazel eyes flitter to us. “Are you family?”
“Cousins,” I blurt because her eyes are on me. “From out of town.”
“Oh! Well, wonderful. Let me help you to your seats.”
Sandra leads us into the cafeteria that’s been transformed for the show, the rows of chairs facing the stage on the far side. Henry and I fall behind Gayle and Howard as we walk down the main corridor.
“Cousins from out of town?” Henry whispers.
“Better than the idea you came up with. And you should be carrying these.” I thrust the bouquet of blush-colored roses into Henry’s hands.
“Here you are.” Sandra gestures to four seats at center right with sheets of white paper taped to them, labeled Reserved for Campbell Family. “We thought Violet might appreciate seeing familiar faces in the crowd, given all she’s been through.” She offers a sympathetic look before marching off the way she came.
We settle into our seats, with the men anchoring the ends, and Gayle and I beside each other. All around us, people pour in as the clock moves closer to curtain call, and a low buzz of voices grows.
“She is so nervous,” Gayle confides in me. “She was practicing her lines all night and this morning, in the kitchen. Pacing around the table, yelling ‘Off with her head!’” She chuckles.
“It’s a big role for her. Especially as a sophomore. In my school plays, it was always the seniors chosen for the main characters.”
Gayle drops her voice to a whisper. “I think it has more to do with who’s in the audience tonight.” She widens her eyes meaningfully at the solemn man sitting tall next to me, clutching flowers, his thoughts seemingly elsewhere as he takes in the chaos. “We know what a busy man he is. It means a lot to her that he came.”
“He wouldn’t miss it,” I say with confidence, but the truth is, I never asked Henry how he felt about any of this. I never gave him a choice. I told him I’d bought four tickets and suggested giving Violet’s grandparents a ride, and he merely said, “That’s fine.” But if he didn’t want to be here, he wouldn’t be here. He is Henry Wolf, after all.
I slip my hand into his, giving it a squeeze. “You good?”
He snaps out of whatever stupor he was caught in. “Yes.” His eyes drift over my mouth. “You?”
I nod. “I’m excited to see her perform.”
“You always know the right thing to do and say.” A few beats pass before he leans in to kiss me. “I would be lost without you.”
A lump swells in my throat. It’s so rare for Henry to show vulnerability, and yet he’s growing more comfortable doing so each day with me. “We’ll figure it out together.”
When the overhead lights dim and the spotlights hit the stage, a chorus of “shhhs” quiets the energetic crowd almost instantly. Henry’s thumb strokes the back of my hand as we listen to the school principal and the drama teacher greet families, thanking the multitude of people who helped with everything from costumes to posters to a fundraising campaign.
The curtain finally draws open.
The classic tale begins as I remember, with an artfully painted backdrop of a forested scene that Violet said the art club spent three weeks working on. A senior male student—with the deepest voice in the school, according to her—sits on a stool, narrating the opening, just as she described he would.