The next morning at eight-thirty I was already sitting on the stage of the Venezia Theater on West 44^th Street. I wore a pair of old denim overalls, grateful to have a job that allowed me to show up looking like a total slob.

I had the whole place to myself, which was how I liked to work. No eyes scrutinizing my craftsmanship, no one breathing down my neck or making demands. Nobody moaning that I was in their way, or that I had to work faster. The crew wouldn’t be here for hours yet, not until the afternoon rehearsal, and I was pretty damn happy to have the run of the place.

At moments like this it felt like my theater, my own private kingdom. I got to control how things went, how things looked. It was like a zen meditation, everything going according to my personal rhythm. This was my territory. My true home. I was a goddess overseeing my domain. For a few precious hours, anyhow.

To top it off, for once I was in a good mood. One that only brightened when at 8:45, as promised, Marcus came striding in with a latte in hand and charged up the stairs at the side of the stage, a big smile on his handsome face.

“You’re a living god,” I told him as he handed it to me. I looked him up and down, almost unable to recognize the man who spent so many hours crumpled in a heap on our communal couch. He was wearing a well-fitting suit jacket, tapered trousers and brown leather shoes. Very stylish, for a guy who often sat around in a Knicks jersey drinking beer.

“Whoa. I don’t get to see you in your work clothes often,” I said. “You clean up nice.”

“I wish I could say ditto,” he laughed, gesturing towards my motley assortment of worn-out clothing. I looked down at the paint-splattered black tank top I had on under my overalls and my ugly, tattered sneakers, and let out a snort.

“What’s wrong with my exquisite haute-couture ensemble?” I retorted. “Dior was charging, like, fifty thousand dollars for this outfit at fashion week. It’s a one-of-a-kind monstrosity.”

“Uh-huh,” he said. “Whatever you say, fashion queen. Listen, I have to take off in a minute, but can I have a look at your set before I go?”

I nodded. “You brought me a latte. You can have anything you want. Come this way.” I led him deeper onto the stage, where a gigantic mock town was set up on all sides. Mostly it was a set of homey-looking houses with pretty flower boxes and white picket fences. A rickety-looking ladder stood at the center of the stage. At first glance it probably appeared to be temporary, but the sad truth was that it was a part of the set. We were in no position to afford high-tech, well assembled ladders. Only the worst, most likely to fall apart pieces of trash for us.

“Our Town, right?” he asked. “I recognize the look. I played the stage manager in our production in high school.”

I nodded. “It’s a classic,” I said. “I guess we wanted to give the audience something that makes people feel good before the demolition company blasts this place to holy hell and turn it into overpriced condos.”

“Well, the stage looks amazing,” Marcus said, wandering up and examining the outer wall of a white-paneled house. “Really amazing. Who knew my roomie was so talented?”

I opened my mouth to offer up some kind of smart-ass reply when another voice, from somewhere far behind me, beat me to the punch.

“I suspected it from the moment I first laid eyes on her.”

The words came from the direction of the front door. The voice was deep, commanding…and devastatingly familiar.