I started acting on stage at seven. My first role was Marcie in We’re All Stars, Charlie Brown. I don’t remember the audition, but I do remember my mother’s reaction: something along the lines of “What? My child, with her nose permanently stuck in books, whose best friend is a tree, is going to stand up in front of people? AND SING??”
He had no idea that I loved him. He barely acknowledged that I existed, a maid twice over, little more than a shadow in empty hallways. Trapped in unhappy marriage and prisoner in his own castle, he did not conceive that anyone loving him was even possible. The baron was a man of war, not of love.
At first, she sang to remember. It was a way to pass the long, dark time, a way to drown out the buzz in her head when the earth shook and the bunker rattled, a way to live outside the bars of her cage, to be a woman who smoked and drank, flirted and pined, flipped her pin curls and married a man for his car.