“I don’t know, Peggy,” Mr. Miller replied, “I’m beginning to wonder if we shouldn’t have had someone go to see him as you suggested. Perhaps any try would have been better than none at all. This move of theirs may ruin the theater for good. We can’t possibly stay open if business drops off any more.” He frowned. “The Chamber of Commerce will never want to hear of a summer theater again, and we can’t afford the loss of money either.”
“Do you think it’s too late?” Peggy questioned intently. “Too late to see Bill Slade?”
“I’m afraid so,” he said. “I’ve already spoken to Max. Aunt Hetty is so furious that she won’t talk to either one of them, and they won’t speak to Richard or Chuck.” He smiled ruefully. “Impasse. Like nations trying to get together without a common language.”
Peggy was silent, remembering that Bill Slade had seemed to speak her language. Could she have been so very wrong about that, after all? Why couldn’t she see him herself? Why did it have to be one of the directors of the theater or of the Chamber of Commerce? If the Slades were too stubborn or unreasonable to talk with “authority,” maybe they—or at least Bill—would be freer with her. She laughed softly to herself, thinking of the Hatfields and McCoys. This feud was every bit as unreasonable and silly—and in the stories, it was always the younger generation that somehow managed to work things out! Feeling a little like a heroine in a legend, Peggy decided to try.
But how? All through the rest of the rehearsal—with Alison back and working just as Chuck had predicted—Peggy thought about it. She couldn’t call and ask for an appointment. It had to be subtler than that. She would have to arrange something that seemed quite accidental. Yes, a chance meeting with Bill Slade! But how?
VIII
An Explanation
“Chuck, are you up yet?” Peggy knocked cautiously on the door of his combination office-living quarters on the lower floor of the annex. It was eleven o’clock and the tired company hadn’t turned in until three-thirty in the morning.
“Come in, Peggy.” Chuck opened the door and motioned her in. His desk was covered with work, and crumpled wads of paper littered the floor. “Been up for hours,” he said. “I was just going over the budget.” His eyes were hollow and ringed from lack of sleep. “The answer is, what budget?” He tore up the piece of paper he was holding and dropped it in the waste-basket. “It doesn’t look good, Peggy.”
“Oh, Chuck, I’m sorry!” Peggy felt dreadful, realizing the enormous amount of work that he had put into the theater, and the possible futility of it all. But she couldn’t reveal her plan, much as she would like to, even to offer him some hope. It might not work out after all, and Chuck was so depressed that he would probably try to dissuade her from seeing Bill Slade. She had determined to try, at any cost, and she must do it very quietly and all alone.
“Could I possibly be excused from the reading today?” Peggy asked. “There are so many things I need from town, and I haven’t had a chance yet to catch up on shopping—”