I rush down the lengthy hall, passing framed posters of previous shows. At the end, I turn right, toward the stage doors, and find the back of a man with a familiar build.

“Charles?” For a split second, I fear my mind is once again playing games. But then he pivots my way. Indeed it’s him, dapper in a pin-striped suit, his black curls tamed with tonic and amber eyes deep set. “You’re here,” I say in partial disbelief.

The corners of his mouth slide upward. “Yeah, well. Been hearing about a snazzy Dutch dame who vanishes in a crate. Since she’s earnin’ all the raves, figured I’d best size up the competition.”

I can’t resist smiling with a hint of both satisfaction and pride.

Fedora in his grip, he gestures while edging closer. “You got my gift, I see.”

I glance down. “Oh… Yes, thank you. It was so generous of you.” Sparked by memories of his plum kerchief, I recall our last encounter and with it my cowardly departure. No longer one to hold much in, I add, “Especially after how I left. Dashing off a note, not even speaking with you first.” Undeniably, it was a shameful habit of mine. “Really, Charles, I’m very sorry—”

“Nah.” He advances a full step. “It’s me who’s sorry.” He shakes his head, reflecting. “There were things I was dealing with back then, and not real well. What with my 4-F gnawing at me, leaving me feeling like—” He lowers his eyes, conveying a revived humility. “Crux of it is, I was a downright chump.”

How absurd of me not to discern the true root of his behavior before. As confident as I’d been about reading people’s tells, I should have seen that his inability to serve in the war was never a relief to him. Apparently I wasn’t the only one keeping up walls.

“So…” I offer him my hand. “We have a truce?”

He grins thoughtfully before humoring me with a shake. Then after a brief lull, he says, “Ya know, I’m back on the road next week. Maybe we ought to combine efforts sometime. Give folks twice the bang for their buck.”

I shrug, withholding a smile. “Why not? I could always use another assistant.”

He lifts an eyebrow and purses his lips, a sign of touché, and we both laugh.

“Hey,” he ventures, “how about a late supper tonight? We could celebrate your stardom with flair.”

I barely contemplate it; I have Evelien to consider. At the boardinghouse, she needs her sleep, or by morning she’ll become—as her oma says—an “angry berry.”

“I’m sorry, but I can’t.”

He appears disappointed but resigned. This, after all, is what I do.

Then an option comes to me. “But maybe brunch tomorrow? Before the matinee?”

He blinks, surprised. “I’ll leave my details at the box office.”