Peggy shrugged. “Excitement, I suppose. Life.”
Randy nodded emphatically. “That’s it,” he said. “In her mind, she sees New York as a romantic fairy-tale city where people can live exciting lives—”
“If they know how,” Amy interrupted.
“Exactly,” Randy said. “And the daughter in the play doesn’t know how. When she first comes on stage, she’s hoping that her mother will tell her. But her mother is too preoccupied with her own life to spend much time with her daughter’s problems. In fact, it never even occurs to her that she has any.”
“And later on,” Amy chimed in, “the daughter turns to her grandmother—the one she’s never met before. Again, the same thing happens.”
“At that point,” Randy said, taking charge of the conversation, “the daughter realizes she’s on her own. She decides the thing to do is to fall in love. Unfortunately, the first man she meets is all wrong for her. But she can’t see it and neither can the others.”
“But the grandfather sees it,” Amy said brightly.
“Yes,” Randy nodded. “He knows what she’s doing and has a long talk with her. On the surface it’s very light and funny, but actually it goes deeper than that. His granddaughter means a lot to the old man, and he’s trying the best way he knows how to give her the experience of his years. He knows he can’t lecture her—she’s too stubborn for that, and so they just sit by the fire and talk. They talk about life and growing up. About families and the tremendous joy that life offers. All of that.”
“You mean,” Peggy said, “that the grandfather and the young girl are getting to know each other as people, not just as relatives.”
Bandy slapped his hand down on the table. “That’s exactly it,” he said approvingly. “It’s a scene where two people start out as comparative strangers and end up as close friends. Despite all the laugh lines, it’s a very tender moment—and that’s the way it should be played.”