“It does?”

“This is the second part of the story that will frame my narrative. I meet the theater group, pull a stunt out of Hamlet to right old wrongs, then save the show. This is part of my story! And you’re my Boswell.”

“Your what?”

“My Boswell. My right hand. The recorder of my adventures. Now, let’s wrap up some business. We need to call Donna and tell her there’s a delay for a few days while the script is being rewritten. Tell her that the studio will be sending someone over to cut her hair short. It’s a nice touch. She’s always been a hair diva. It will be a very, very nice buzz cut.”

For some reason, this caused Scarlett to hesitate.

“It’s hair, Scarlett,” she said. “I’m not cutting off a finger. Now, I have a contact at the Roundabout who has access to the most amazing costumes. I’m going over to meet her. Move all of these things off the stage and the floor. I want this space completely clear and open. I’ll be back in a few hours.”

Scarlett looked around at the chairs, furniture, boxes, and heavy pads.

“You want me to move all of this?”

“Oh, don’t worry,” Mrs. Amberson said. “I’m sure you’ll be fine.”

She grabbed her purse and waved, leaving Scarlett alone in the sweltering room. This didn’t precisely seem like the copious thanks she’d been promised. Scarlett folded a few rows of chairs in a disgruntled manner, then planted herself on a pile of them to send some messages to her far-flung friends. She was so engrossed in this that she didn’t notice when, a half hour later, the door opened and someone walked through the mess in her direction.

“Hey,” Eric said.

Scarlett literally fell off the chairs in alarm. Profuse apologies from Eric followed. They weren’t needed. What she needed was some dignity and poise, but you can’t just get them at the corner deli.

“So we have to get this cleared out?” he asked, once he was sure that he hadn’t caused Scarlett any permanent damage. “I just got the call. I hope you didn’t do too much on your own. I have to change my shirt. I’ll be right back.”

He took a shirt (perfectly folded) from his bag, and went into the corner behind a box.

“I realize this is ridiculous,” he called from his impromptu dressing room. “Guys take their shirts off all the time in public, but I have the Southern thing going on, remember?”

He emerged, wearing a T-shirt so snug and perfect that Scarlett first thought that someone was playing a joke on her.

“It’s how we show respect,” he said. “We don’t flaunt our nakedness in front of ladyfolk.”

This was both a staggering disappointment and a touching show of thoughtfulness.

“I guess we should start moving this stuff,” he said, looking at the disaster around them. “And I guess there’s no chance there’s an air conditioner in here, is there?”