Free Prince of the Playhouse by Tara Lain Page B

glass and sat on the flowered easy chair opposite the couch. “So how can I help you, darling? This isn’t exactly my gig, so I don’t know where to start.”
    Gray leaned back with his tea glass and gave Ru an appraising once-over. “You look wild.”
    Ru glanced down at the floppy harem pants and the linen tunic he’d layered on top, all in shades of red and gold. “What? This old thing?” He laughed. True, he had worked at the look. Might as well emphasize their differences, since he couldn’t highlight what they had in common.
    “One more thing before we start, because I don’t want to forget. My folks are visiting on the Wednesday of the Hamlet run. They’ll be here a week. I really want my mom to have a new outfit. Any chance you could design something for her? I mean, after she gets here. I know you’re overloaded with the costumes and your collection before then.”
    Wow. Design for Gray Anson’s mom. “I’d be honored.”
    “She’s almost fifty, but really great-looking. She never pays much attention to herself, so I’d love to get her some clothes that show off how pretty she is.”
    “Sounds like you’re really close.” What would that be like?
    “Yeah. They live in Michigan, and I can’t pry them away from their friends, so I bought them a nice house on a lake that they really love. They’re great parents. I wish I could do more for them.” He frowned and stared into space.
    “I’ll bet you make them proud every day.”
    That made the frown deeper. Odd. Then he looked up and smiled. “That’s what they like to tell me. How about you? Where are your folks?”
    “Uh, dead. My mother died of cancer when I was a teenager, and my father died after that.” No details to be provided.
    “So they never got to see you be a success.”
    Ru gave a half smile. “To the extent that I am one, no, they never did.” Not that his father would have given a shit—except maybe to steal his money.
    With a little shrug, Gray set down the glass and picked up his script. “So does this dude really see a ghost? I mean, are people going to take a ghost seriously?”
    Ru scooched his legs under him on the chair seat. “Have you ever felt so crappy and guilty about something that you couldn’t get it out of your mind?”
    Gray nodded. “Yeah, I guess.”
    “Isn’t that like being haunted?” Damn, he sure knew about that.
    “You think that’s what Shakespeare meant?”
    “No.” Gray grimaced, and Ru laughed. “Shakespeare’s audiences did believe in ghosts, and they loved supernatural shit on the stage, so he always gave them something cool. The audience for our version of the play is coming to see you be serious, not do special effects. Hell, who could compete with your movies? What matters in this case isn’t what Shakespeare meant. It’s what you mean. If you’re agonizing over all the bad shit you did to your old man before he died—or more specifically, before your uncle killed him—then you’ve got stuff on your mind. That’s what we want to see.”
    “How did you get so smart about this stuff?”
    What could he say? How much? “My family was dirt poor. Dirt doesn’t buy a lot of schooling, but I always wanted to be educated. I used to, uh, go to the library and find the most challenging books I could carry. The Iliad and The Odyssey , Oedipus, French comedies, and Shakespeare. Lots of Shakespeare. I didn’t have anybody telling me what it was supposed to mean, so I interpreted it for myself based on my own life.” Yes. Based very closely on his life.
    “But that’s what Shakespeare’s audiences must have done too. Based it on what they knew.”
    “Exactly. We all have shared experiences, even if our lives are wildly different. Hamlet’s a really young guy. So are you. Find the stuff you have in common. Forget the words and go with the feelings. How would you feel if your mother married the guy you think killed your dad and seems to be reveling in it?”
    “I’d be