45. CARSON

Trying to lead two blindfolded women by the hand isn’t nearly as fun as you might think it would be.

It doesn’t help that they’ve already finished a bottle of wine between them at lunch.

“Watch your big feet, bitch!” Tricia hollers as she stumbles into Cassie.

“Maybe if you stepped on yours instead of mine, you’d be okay!” Cassie counters.

They both burst into a slumber party giggle fit, which makes it even harder to pull them in the direction I need them to go, which is down. I should have recruited Leonard to help when he dropped us off.

We’ve got a triangle of hand-holding going on – each has a hold of one of mine, and one of the other’s – which maybe isn’t the best way to do this. But it’s too late now. I can’t imagine how opening my big mouth would help one little bit.

“Why are we on a slant?” Cassie’s asks. “Are we in a museum or something?”

Tricia snorts. “Better not be, with the spectacle we’re putting on!”

“Okay,” I say. “Stop here.”

A murmur of laughter comes from in front of and below us.

“Who’s laughing at us?” Cassie calls. “You try doing this blindfolded! Whatever this is!”

“What are you doing to us, Carson?” Tricia growls. “I didn’t sign up for public humiliation.”

I hide a grimace, even though I know that can’t see me. At least we’ve reached where we need to be. I position the two of them so they face the same direction, holding their arms to make sure neither of them falls over.

“All right, you can take them off now.”

“This better be worth it, buster,” says Tricia.

“I’m sure it will be,” Cassie says, patting my hand. She leans toward me. “It better be.”

They both reach up and tug on the fabric knots of their blindfolds.

“Ta-da,” I say.

The look on their faces is worth every penny and every stumbling step it took to get to this point.

“Oh, my God,” Cassie says. “Is this…?”

Tricia, as always, is a bit more blunt.

“Holy shit!” she says.

I direct their attention to the stage and the gentleman standing there.

“I apologize for the laughs from the orchestra,” he says. “They’re all drunk. They usually spend their afternoons in a bar.”

More laughter from the orchestra pit in front of us.

Cassie looks at me, mouth open.

“Are you serious?”

“He’s serious, all right,” says the man on stage. “Hi, my name is Michael. I’m the stage manager for The Book of Mormon.”

Tricia scans the place, wide-eyed. The Eugene O’Neill Theater is empty except for us.

“We’re the only ones here!” she crows.

“It’s a private matinee,” says Michael. “Which is pretty amazing since, like I said, no one involved in this show gets up before happy hour.”

I drape an arm over Cassie’s shoulder.

“You didn’t get to finish watching the show the last time you were here,” I say. “I figured you wouldn’t mind watching the first half again.”

I turn to Tricia.

“As for you, I figured you could use a little culture.”

She grins wide and flips me the bird.

“This is seriously awesome, Carson,” she says. “Thank you so much for inviting me.”

“How did you pull this off?” Cassie asks.

I point to the stage.

“A sizeable donation to the Foundation for the Arts opens a lot of doors,” Michael says. “The truckload of top-shelf scotch didn’t hurt, either.”

I direct the women to their seats directly behind the orchestra pit.

“This is hands-down the craziest thing that’s ever happened to me,” Cassie says as she settles in.

“Correction,” I say. “The craziest thing this week.”

Tricia grins. “I would tell you two to get a room, but I want an invite to whatever the next crazy thing is.”

“Don’t worry,” I say. “You’ll get one.”

“Ahem,” says Cassie. “That depends on what the next crazy thing is.”

“Seriously,” Tricia deadpans. “You’re not making the ‘get a room’ thing easy here.”

Cassie rolls her eyes and tilts her head toward mine.

“Riff-raff,” she sighs. “It’s getting so people like us can’t even go to the theater without running into them.”

Tricia ignores her and stretches her legs out into the aisle, crossing them at the ankles.

“I could get used to this,” she sighs.

The lights go low as the familiar strains of “Hello” begin to waft from the orchestra directly below us. Once again, the young men in their short-sleeved shirts and black ties take the stage.

“This is obscene,” Cassie whispers in my ear.

“You ain’t seen nothing yet,” I whisper back.