Chapter Text
Beth Spencer steps out into the street, yellow sundress swaying with the wind. The breeze lifts her hair, and along with it brought a shabbily pinned poster flying.
Curious, Beth picked it up, the typewritten words dark across the page. The poster was creased, smudged with what looked like coffee. In big bold letters, it wrote:
FEMALE PERFORMER NEEDED!
Take a Left, a New Original Musical Revue by Charles Kringas and Franklin Shepard
Beth's never heard of any of them before, but the poster seemed legitimate enough to her. Ever since she was a child, she had dreamed of performing on a stage, but never had the opportunity to. They had rejected her too many times, to the point in which she lost hope, and decided that she'd be better off working in an office.
5 years after the terrible incident which made her give up auditioning for anything ever, Beth decided that she'd give it another try, even if this Revue was just a small production.
Start small, dream big, she told herself. And she set off to the venue stated on the poster.
The same poster showed itself on the door of the address stated in the poster. There were two other ladies queueing inside the space, no bigger than a two roomed apartment.
Beth stepped into the dim, cramped space, the door clicking shut behind her with a finality that made her pulse jump. The air was still and warm, smelling of old wood and nervous sweat. Two other women, one tapping a script against her leg, the other humming, occupied the only two folding chairs. They glanced at her, their gazes performing a quick, professional assessment before returning to their preparations.
Setting her purse on the floor, Beth shifted slightly, away from the two women. She pulled out the small compact mirror, her name engraved on it. She unclasped it, and it reflected her face, her youthful look marked with tinges of nervousness.
She’d taken care of her appearance: a touch of rose-colored lipstick, her chestnut hair swept into a soft, low ponytail. The yellow of her sundress seemed to glow in the dimness, a brave, bright flag. But was it too bright? Too youthful? Did it look like she was trying too hard?
Her reflection blurred for a second. She took a slow, deliberate breath, the kind the therapist had taught her. In for four, hold for four, out for four. The world snapped back into focus.
A while later, a door at the back of the room opened, and a young man with an anxious, expressive face and ink-smudged fingers peered out. "Uh, we're ready for... Sarah?" The woman with the script stood up.
Sarah sang with a high pitch, her voice penetrating through the paper-thin walls.
“NEXT!” another voice screamed, before Sarah stormed out, muttering under her breath. The other girl stepped in, and a while later, she ran out crying, the sheet music clutched to her chest like a shield.
Beth smoothed her sundress, the cotton soft under her damp palms. She took a deep breath, and stepped through the door.
A man, probably no older than twenty-five, sat at the piano. He wore a crisp white shirt, his expression hopeful. The other anxious looking one, handed her a script, with lines that she had to sing. She couldn't tell which one of them was Franklin Shepard and which was Charles Kringas.
The man in white began to play a tune on the piano, his fingers gliding across the keys. "Just read it through," he said, already playing a dissonant chord. "And, go.”
Beth’s mouth went dry. The notes on the page swam. This wasn't the simple ballad she'd prepared. This was a mountain. She thought of the crying girl, of Sarah's stormy exit.
But then she looked at the bespectacled man, who was watching her with a ferocious hope, and at the other, who gave her a small, almost imperceptible nod of encouragement. They weren't jaded professionals. They were two guys in a tiny room, willing a show into existence.
She took another breath, the one that steadied her. She didn't look at the music again.
Instead, she found a crack in the plaster, fixated her eyes on it and began to speak-sing the lyrics. She pushed past the initial tremor in her voice, leaning into the rhythm of the words. She tuned up a tone whenever she was asked to, and when the song finally ended, there were no disapproving frowns, or words of rejection.
“Thank you! You're hired!” The man in white exclaimed, his arm outstretched and she reached for it. They did their introductions, the one at the piano introducing himself as Frank, and the bespectacled one as Charley. A while later, another lady walked in, introducing herself as Mary.
***
It seemed to be love at first sight for Frank. The moment Beth Spencer stepped into the room, he knew that something had just shifted. It wasn't just her voice, though the clear, true tone of it had cut through the dusty air and his own mounting despair. It was the way she stood in her sundress, a splash of sunlight in their grim little room. It was the intelligent flicker in her eyes as she scanned the room, taking them in, seeing them, not just dismissing them as amateurs in a storage room.
While Charley vibrated with the pure, undiluted joy of finding another performer for the show, Frank’s reaction was quieter, deeper. Her voice didn't just fill the room; it ordered it. It made their wild gamble feel, for the first time, possible. Necessary, even.
When she accepted the job, her hand was cool and firm in his. "Beth Spencer," she said, and he felt the name settle somewhere vital.
"Franklin Shepard. Frank," he managed, his usual demeanor momentarily disarmed.
Frank found his center. In the chaotic weeks of rehearsal, as Charley rewrote numbers overnight and Mary dissected lyrics, Beth was the calm. She learned harmonies faster than anyone, and could translate Charley's frantic artistic directives into something actionable. She worked a full day at her office and still arrived with energy, with that same steady light in her eyes.
He found himself writing music not just to her range, but to her essence. A ballad came pouring out one night, the notes falling into place as he pictured her listening, really listening, in the middle of their creative chaos. He'd call it "Beth's Song," though he'd never tell her that.
He’d stay late after rehearsals under the guise of balancing the books, just to walk her to the subway. Their conversations weren't like his talks with Charley (all big ideas and exploding dreams) or with Mary (all witty barbs and shared skepticism). With Beth, they talked about real things: the work she was doing, his worry about his mother, the strange, specific beauty of a city street at dusk. He made her laugh, a warm, generous sound that felt like a reward. He could tell, that she took, was beginning to fall in love as they got closer.
One evening, as they stood under the flickering light of the 86th Street station entrance, a sudden summer rain began to fall. He offered his jacket. She smiled, shaking her head, and tilted her face up, letting the fine mist catch in her hair.
"Don't you mind getting wet?" he asked, captivated.
"A little rain never hurt anyone," she said, her gaze meeting his. "Besides, it's just water."
In that moment, Frank Shepard, the anchor, the one who always planned for the storm and chased success, wanted nothing more than to step out into the downpour with her. He knew then it wasn't just her talent he'd fallen for. She was the steady ground from which all their impossible waves could rise. And he was, utterly and completely, a man in love.