With the collapse of her plans to act, other means of retrieving the summer from “total loss” occasionally occurred to her. A job. Audrey, in a letter, described hers with such loving detail as quite to overshadow the meager news about her erstwhile boy friend.
A job? Judy tried, but her disappointing attempts always followed the same pattern.
“Have you any experience?” “None?” “Sorry.” or “We have all the help we need. You must apply early in Aspen, long before the season.”
Judy surrendered. Actually she was enjoying this unexpected leisure. Lonesome sometimes? Yes, but free, free to wander about....
Entering the shop of Berko Studio, she exhausted the patience of the elderly salesman before she selected her two views of Aspen and the mountains nearby. How much there was to see in this wonderful world of the Rockies! A thought flashed through her mind. Why not come back with an article for the The Plow, her high school paper? The October issue was always lavishly devoted to a Vacation Series.
“My Summer in Aspen.” She shook her head. What had she done that was interesting? Precisely nothing—yet.
“Aspen Past and Present.” Decidedly better, she thought. But it had its drawbacks. You must have an encyclopedia or some means to acquire information. She meditated. She had finished every book she owned. The library! She slung her bag over her shoulder, thankful that Aspen had one!
She reached the library in a half-hour’s brisk walk and found to her surprise it was an insignificant corner of a large red brick structure, “The Aspen Bank.” Thinking she must be mistaken, she circled the block only to discover the bank building had still another entrance with an inconspicuous sign, “Wheeler Opera House, 1881.” She stood there puzzled. Could this be the opera house where world-famous singers and actors had appeared in the old mining days? Why, only the other night her father had brought home some colored photographs. Together they had fairly drooled over the plush and gold interior, more than four hundred gilt chairs in the orchestra, stage boxes upholstered in red plush. Her mother had remarked with chilling candor, “It’s nothing like it used to be. It was twice burnt down and twice restored.... We’re going there on Thursday night. The Juillard Quartet is giving a Lecture—Recital. You’ll see it then.”
“It’ll be a wonderful evening,” her father promised, “and I’ll take you on a personally conducted tour of the House.”
Judy retraced her steps. The Opera House could wait.