It’s not every day a gleaming, burgundy Rolls-Royce proceeds down the long driveway of Jacobs Grand Hotel. So it was with some interest that the woman walking a small dog on a beautiful May afternoon and her young male companion stood on the grassy edge of the roadway and watched the classic car go by.
Because the vehicle was being driven at such a slow, stately pace, they had plenty of time to examine the occupants. An elderly man wearing an old-fashioned peaked chauffeur’s cap crouched behind the steering wheel, and in the back seat, a woman with dark hair pulled back in an immaculate chignon stared straight ahead, revealing a rather patrician profile.
“Who was that?” asked the young man when the vehicle had passed, allowing the threesome to move back into the middle of the gravel driveway to continue their approach to the hotel.
“That lady,” replied Charlotte Fairfax, “was our patron and chief benefactor, Mrs. Paula Van Dusen.”
“Huh. I wonder what she was doing here.”
“Meeting with your uncle to discuss arrangements for this year’s production up at her estate, I expect. She hosts an annual fundraiser for us. We do a one-time performance, and her rich friends pay heaps of money to come up from the city to sit on lawn chairs and watch.”
“Why would this Van Dusen lady want to do that?”
“Because she fancies herself a patron of the arts; she’s in a position to help because she knows all the right people with deep pockets, and because she has a soft spot for all things theatrical. Especially actors, or so I’m told.”
“This play up at her estate. Sounds like fun.”
“Fun.” Charlotte turned the word over in her mind. “I suppose whether it’s fun or not depends on your perspective, but all things considered, yes, it’s fun. It’s outdoors, on a lovely summer evening in the Catskills, and the audience members bring their own picnics. Hampers filled with smoked salmon and champagne.” She grinned at the young man. “And it’s fun for the actors because they get to do something special for just this one performance, once a year.”
Aaron Jacobs raised an eyebrow and shot her a questioning look.
“The male actors play all the female parts, just like they did in Shakespeare’s day.”
“Isn’t that a lot of work for just one performance? Memorizing all those lines?”
“Not as much work as you’d think. They’re pretty familiar with all the lines from so many rehearsals and performances, and they perform a shortened version of the play, so there’s not as much for them to remember. And to be honest, this production is pretty relaxed, so nobody really minds the odd flub or two. You won’t want to miss it. And you won’t miss it, because you’ll be there with me, working.”
They were approaching the front entrance to the hotel. Although it was nowhere near as grand as it used to be, the whitewashed, stuccoed main building, with its entrance portico, retained a certain vintage appeal. Built in the 1950s by the current owner’s grandparents, the hotel had witnessed the glorious heyday of the Catskills as the summer holiday destination for Jewish families seeking refuge from the heat of New York City. But by the end of the 1970s, the Catskills had had their day, and one by one, most of the old hotels were abandoned to a slow, eerie decay or destroyed by fire. Jacobs Grand was one of only a handful to survive, mainly because the current owner’s grandmother had launched a small Shakespeare festival one summer, attracting bard buffs from across the state. The festival grew into the Catskills Shakespeare Theater Company and was now the hotel’s bread and butter. Shakespeare turned out to be an inspired choice. Summer stock theater with kirtles and partlets instead of boaters and parasols.
Charlotte and her companions—Aaron Jacobs, nephew of Harvey Jacobs, the hotel and theater company owner, and Rupert, her black, red, and white corgi—continued on past the front entrance and made their way around the side of the building to the staff entrance. This led to a maze of corridors that linked the kitchens, theater backstage area, rehearsal rooms, Charlotte’s costume department, and eventually, by a circuitous, winding route, the front lobby.
At the sound of voices from the backstage area, they hesitated and then walked toward them. Two men seated on plastic chairs were deep in a lively conversation.
“Harvey, I hate abbreviated, simplified Shakespeare,” said Simon Dyer, the theater company’s resident director. “It just seems totally wrong. Plays should be performed the way the author intended them and in the language the author used, even if they are four hundred years old. It’s what the audience expects. Especially our audience. They come to see real Shakespeare, not dumbed-down Shakespeare.”
“But we do this every year,” protested Harvey Jacobs. “I’m sorry, Simon, but this is the way it’s got to be. Mrs. Van Dusen is our main patron, and she raises a lot of money for our company. Money that . . .” He hesitated as he caught sight of Charlotte and his nephew, Aaron, lurking in the wings and gestured toward them. “Money that is used for costumes, sets, and so on.”
“Charlotte says it’s actually quite fun,” said Aaron, as he and Charlotte, holding Rupert’s leash, came closer.
“Does she now?” Simon replied, throwing them a frosty glare.
“And it isn’t just about the play,” Harvey continued. “Most of the people who attend the performance stay for the weekend, and many of them book into our hotel, so it’s good for business all around. In fact, we’re already sold out that weekend, so we’ll be taking on extra staff. Your high-minded, artistic principles are all very well, and I do understand what you’re saying, but there’s always the local economy to consider.” He stood up. “Sorry, Simon, but this is the way it’s got to be. Charlotte’s worked on lots of these productions, and I’ll leave her to tell you all about it. She’ll be glad to fill you in, I’m sure.” Charlotte gave Simon a sympathetic, encouraging smile. “Well, that’s it for now, I guess,” said Harvey.
He took a few steps toward the exit that would eventually bring him to the hotel lobby, then retraced his steps to rejoin the little group.
“Oh, I almost forgot. There’s something else I should tell you. Mrs. Van Dusen’s just told me that this year’s performance is going to be a little different in that her daughter’s getting married on the Saturday after our performance. Our play will be included in the wedding festivities. The wedding rehearsal will be on the Friday afternoon and then a bit of supper for the wedding party and then the play. She said dinner would be laid out for the cast and crew after the performance, as usual, along with her invited guests. Should be quite a party this year.
“And because the wedding will take place the next day, she asked if we’d keep the sets simple, so we can dismantle them after the performance or early the next morning to give the people who are working on the wedding enough time for setup. Apparently she hired a top florist from New York, and there’ll be bowers and arches covered in roses and God knows what else.”
“Really?” said Simon, perking up. “Bowers and arches? That sounds perfect for us. I wonder if there’s any chance they could be installed in time for the performance so we could use them, too.”
“Possibly. Makes sense to me. You can at least ask,” said Harvey. “Well, you know where I am if you need me.”
Simon waited until Harvey was out of earshot before speaking.
“I’m really not looking forward to reworking a Shakespeare play. It just seems very wrong to me. But if we have to do it, do you suppose there’s already an abbreviated script somewhere?”
“I think there’s an abbreviated copy of every play in the archives,” said Charlotte. “Really, it won’t be so bad. The shorter scripts leave out unnecessary characters, so there are fewer actors for you to deal with.”
“Speaking of actors, does he know about the other thing?” Aaron asked. “You know. The men.”
“Ah,” said Charlotte. “Right. The men. That’s the other thing. All roles are performed by men in this performance—an original practices production—so you’ll have to think about how you want to cast it and schedule a couple of rehearsals.”
“Christ almighty!” said Simon. “I don’t remember signing up for this!”
“It’s a lot of fun, though,” Aaron helpfully reminded him. “At least Charlotte says it is.”
“It is, Simon,” she said. “Really, just keep an open mind.”
“And what about costumes?” he said. “That’s your bailiwick. Will all the men have to be fitted with dresses?”
“Of course,” said Charlotte. “And that’s why we’ve got Aaron.”
“What?”
Charlotte laughed. “Don’t look so worried. We’ve got about a dozen big skirts and bodices that they wear. We don’t worry too much about a good fit for this performance. The costumes just to have to look right to someone who’s had a glass or two of Veuve Clicquot.”
“I forgot to ask the most important question,” said Simon. “What play are we doing? Or am I supposed to sort that out, too?”
“It’s always a play taken from the ones currently in production,” said Charlotte. “And Mrs. Van Dusen gets to choose which one.”
“And which one did she choose?”
Charlotte looked blank. “We forgot to ask Harvey! I expect she told him at their meeting.” She thought for a moment. “My money’s on Romeo and Juliet. Everybody loves that one. But let’s find out.”
She tipped her head at Aaron, who pulled out his phone. A moment later, he pressed the red button to end the call.
“Well?” said Simon.
“A Midsummer Night’s Dream.”