Your Hand In Mine: A Whiley World Novel

By Stephanie Surma

Gemma has always thought of Beckett as an antagonistic diva. Working with him is one of the worst parts of her job-- until she finally tells him to adjust his attitude. Suddenly, he treats her like she's the only person on the Whiley World Costuming team he likes. When the job position promised to her goes to someone else, Gemma's shocked to discov

• Language: English
• Publisher: Steph C Surma Books
• Release date: Jan 28, 2022
• ISBN: 9781087920344

Stephanie Surma

$20.00 U.S.

Book preview

One

The green room for the Merriment and Fantasy stage show at Whiley World Theme Park was anything but merry or fantastical. From its dubious inception, somebody had decided it was a good idea to take a walk-in closet, cram thirty-something people into it, and say try not to die! The costumes alone took up half the space, in three sets of cubbies. The sliver of room leftover was barely enough to fit the performers, techs, dressers, costuming coordinator, stage manager, and entertainment manager. Everyone was always yelling, something was always on the verge of going wrong, and people wouldn’t stop touching each other’s props. If you looked up the definition of stress in the dictionary, a picture of the Merriment and Fantasy green room would be there.

Despite all of it, somehow, Gemma MacKensie had yet to quit her job.

In her own defense, she liked coordinating better than she liked being a dresser. It was easier to keep track of her dressers and the twenty-three performers they worked with, to make sure things were running on time for the stage manager while he was busy calling show cues, and to run interference when problems arose.

There had to be a payoff to being everyone’s go-to for diva problems. There had to be; Gemma just wasn’t sure what that payoff was. It didn’t matter who was working on her six-person team each day, or if she was coordinating, or covering for a dresser, or even if she was on the show at all. If a performer started to get snippy, their dresser would always come to Gemma, often in a panic. Gemma, with her heart on her sleeve, always tried to mediate.

She was back at it again today, of course. On top of the regularly scheduled chaos, she was disappointed— but not surprised— to see that most of the women on her team had converged into a clump and started toward the stage door. Their voices were just loud enough that she could pick out the words jerk, costume, and Beckett.

Gemma watched another dresser clip a mic pack into someone’s costume, and tried not to sigh. Of course it was Beckett. Recently, it had always been Beckett, every time, without fail. The man had a serious case of two-face syndrome. She was at a loss over it, too; she had no idea how a man could be so sweet and charming on the stage, and so completely socially inept off of it.

It was never what Beckett said that made her dressers practically riot, but how he said it. Low, demanding, just this side of irritated, and often the precursor to him barking out demands like an angry hound on a chain. If the conversation she’d just overheard was anything to go by, his demand today was to find some way to fix the texture of his costume.

Gemma rubbed her hands over her eyes. The texture. She was going to have a stroke. It wasn’t like they could magically guess how their laundry procedure would affect the cheap and terrible fabric used to make the Prince Sterling tunics. It was a wonder the things even held together to begin with, considering costuming’s heinously low budget. Gemma didn’t even know what this terrible, parchment-paper-colored fabric was called.

The texture. God.

They were already at five minutes to places. Sweet baby Joy, the youngest member of the team, looked like she was about to hand in her company ID. She was on the verge of tears. Beckett, on the other hand, looked about ready to punch his hand through a wall, or something equally dramatic. He was still in the company-issued Entertainment tee and sweatpants, clutching his tunic so tightly that it was definitely going to wrinkle.

At the sight of the whole situation, the only coherent thing Gemma could think was, Oh no.

Helping matters approximately not at all, Beckett was intimidating as all hell. The man looked like something out of a Gothic-era romance novel, all slicked back dark hair and pale skin, over six feet tall, and broad through the shoulders. He had a regal air to him that suited Merriment and Fantasy wonderfully, despite his semi-permanent look of displeasure.

Steeling herself for the emotional blast she was surely about to endure, Gemma tacked a smile on, and approached the far corner of the room.

What seems to be the problem, here? She spoke to Beckett using what she called her princess voice, a little higher and deliberately sweeter than her usual speaking voice. As she did, she wedged herself in between him and Joy, like a human shield, effectively cutting the teen out of his line of sight. Freed from the oncoming crisis, Joy bolted. Out of the corner of her eye, Gemma barely caught sight of Joy’s long, beaded braids whipping through the stage door.

Gemma had to crane her neck up to meet Beckett’s sharp grey gaze. Amongst all the pre-show chaos, his stillness was disarming. His scowl, she decided, looked more irritated than angry— and that was a good start. She could work with irritated.

He inhaled roughly, and Gemma braced herself to be shouted at. When he spoke, however, his words came out just shy of mumbled, and through gritted teeth.

My shirt. It was all he said, and then he thrust the offending garment toward her. With a steady, patient hand, Gemma pulled it from his iron grasp. She instantly recoiled at the crunchy texture against her palm.

God, that’s awful, she blurted. Beckett nodded. She flexed the fabric in her hand, and could have groaned from the way it audibly crinkled as it shifted. It was so stiff, it could have hung itself up. Yikes. Was this your only dry shirt?

Yes. She should probably consider his curt tone rude, but unfortunately, she knew how he felt. Rough, scratchy textures weren’t her favorite thing, either. She’d be pretty pissed in Beckett’s situation.

Shoot. Okay. She sighed as the tunic creaked again. It felt more like plastic than fabric. Well, so far, we’ve been hanging these in the dryer room overnight.

Gemma! The stage manager’s sharp, whiny voice startled her. When she looked around, Don was lurking at the stage door, a squishy-looking gremlin of a man with a sour expression and a baby face. Three to places!

Thank you, three. She wasn’t Don’s hugest fan, but she wasn’t inclined to get a reprimand for stalling the show, either. Nevertheless, she turned her attention back to Beckett. So what we could do instead is toss your shirts in the dryer for a few minutes when we come in each morning. It should keep them from getting… The tunic began to droop awkwardly in her hand, like gravity had forgotten about it until just that moment. Gemma couldn’t keep from grimacing at it. Crunchy.

Why can’t you just dry them in the dryer? Beckett snapped.

They’ll shrink.

She was convinced he was about to launch into his trademark barking, demanding an immediate solution, or even telling her to have another shirt brought up. They only had one other, right now, and it was still hanging in the dryer room, getting crunchier by the minute.

Instead, resignation replaced the irritation on Beckett’s face. Gemma could have wept with relief.

One minute!

Gemma shot a glare at Don as she shouted the standard thank you, one, along with everyone else in the room. Beckett wasn’t even in the first two numbers. He had almost six minutes before he needed to be on stage, wearing this stupid, crusty tunic. So, she continued, trying not to let her ire at Don bleed into her voice, if we try a few minutes in the dryer on low every morning, your shirts won’t get ruined from the heat, and they should be nice and soft for you. In theory, anyway. Her smile was forced, and definitely better suited to a customer service job, but Beckett still hadn’t started yelling, so it must have been working on him. I can bring you a new shirt for the noon show, but do you think you can tolerate wearing this one for now?

Beckett’s jaw ticked, but he nodded, and took the shirt back.

It was as close to a win as she could hope for. Of course, since she was well versed in the ways of divas, she immediately said, I’m sorry this show will be uncomfortable for you. We’ll get you all fixed up for the rest of the day as soon as this one’s over.

Another curt nod from Beckett, and then Gemma turned away, her customer service smile remaining dutifully intact as she breezed through the stage door and past a glowering Don, snapping stage cues into his headset.

Beckett’s all set, she told him, still using her princess voice. Don gave her a thumbs up, despite his sour expression.

All six of her dressers were gathered near the wall, as close to being out of the way as they could be in the sliver of space available to them. Between the greenroom wall and the hedges that stood in as wings for the outdoor stage, they all waited to help dancers through their quick changes.

They turned their gazes onto her as one, each with various levels of concern and confusion. Gemma jerked her thumb over her shoulder, and then did a mocking imitation of Don’s glare. Even Joy had to stifle her giggles at the sight of it.

Naturally, the show went off without a hitch. Not that Gemma was surprised— her team was just that good. There were twenty dressers trained, plus herself and the other two coordinators, and no matter what combination they had, the team worked together like a well oiled machine.

Once they’d finished freeing the performers from their various costumes, Gemma corralled the dressers into the elevator outside of the green room. Good show everyone, she said, counting heads. Great job!

Just before she shut the green room door behind herself, she caught sight of Beckett approaching her, his tunic in hand. Seeing him shirtless wasn’t a travesty by any means— lots of well-toned muscle, glistening with a sheen of fresh sweat. Whether she liked it or not, Gemma had to admit he was very nice to look at.

Too bad about his personality, though.

Thank you, she said, as he held the shirt out to her with his permanently displeased expression intact. I’ll bring another one up for the next show. With that, she shut the green room door, practically in his face, and slipped into the elevator, just as it started to wail an alarm for being held open too long.

Was Beckett awful? Joy asked, fidgeting with one of her long, beaded braids. She hovered at Gemma’s side, a little closer than the rest of the team, chewing on her plump bottom lip.

No, Gemma assured her, and meant it. She’d worked with way worse over her five years here at Whiley World. One guy, notably, had been such a brat, scuttlebutt insisted the parade costuming team had made a voodoo doll of him to take their frustration out on. Gemma didn’t doubt it for a second.

Beneath the greenroom was a web of hallways, which led to the employee services building behind the park, which held the park’s central costuming room. Gemma and her team sailed through the door at the front, past the accessory counter, the poorly arranged coordinator cubicles across from the managers’ offices, and rows upon rows of costume pieces and parts. Their own five rows were near the front, but the team continued straight past them, to the laundry area in the back. It boasted seven washers and five dryers, all gigantic, and all in nearly constant use. The noise was a familiar symphony to Gemma, who joined the rest of her team in front of their assigned dryer to help sort laundry.

What’s Beckett got against us, anyway? Joy asked, producing a clip from one of the many pockets of the costuming cargo pants she wore and securing her braids out of the way.

Maybe God gave him a stick up his ass to protect the rest of us from falling in love with him on sight. It was Rena who spoke; her childlike face and inherent sweetness were, more often than not, belied by the dry way she delivered her sarcastic commentary— and she had a lot of commentary.

Gemma shot her a sidelong glance as she paused to watch the team pull the laundry out of the dryer, dumping it all into the tall rolling laundry basket they’d swiped from one of the laundry ladies. Ever the romantic, she said, with the same dry tone Rena had used. Rena smirked faintly at the pantyhose she was rolling. I’ve got to put this in our laundry, she said, waving the balled up tunic in her fist, and toss Beckett’s shirt from the dry room into here for a few minutes.

"What? Why?" Daphne— Rena’s roommate, whose aesthetic was virtually the direct opposite of Rena’s soft femininity— scowled at Gemma’s announcement, already hanging tee shirts on flimsy paper hangers and shoving them onto a too-small metal rack.

Gemma held up the tunic, warm from the summer sun outside, but somehow not drenched in sweat, and bent it. All six of the women standing around the hamper made the same disgusted noise at the crinkly sound it let out.

Smirking, Gemma said, That’s why, and strolled away to swap out the shirts.

When Gemma entered the drying room, she headed straight to their designated rail, one of ten mounted inside the room for costumes to hang from as they dried. The room was horribly loud, filled with half a dozen industrial fans blasting the costumes, and a few heaters placed in rare clear spots against each wall. It was basically like walking into a hair dryer. Nobody stayed in here for very long, if they could avoid it, but some of the college interns were known to come stand inside it and scream during their exams. The stage show’s assigned rack was full of shimmering colors and fabrics, still dripping from their trip through the washers the previous evening.

Damp tunic in hand, Gemma returned to the laundry area. They’ve been getting crusty in the dry room, she told the others as she draped it over the edge of the hamper they were still filling. I, for one, also don’t want my clothing to crunch when I put it on.

Daphne made a face that clearly showed she found this whole situation, and probably also Beckett, ridiculous. At the same time, she pulled the last of the laundry from the dryer, took the shirt Gemma had just draped over the hamper, and tossed it in. On low?

Yep. Give it ten.

"Did he really need this shirt today? Daph hit the plus button on the dryer’s timer and then started it. He’s so damn picky."

He’s high maintenance, Gemma agreed, taking one side of the hamper to drag it down the room to their aisles. "It’s our job to attend to performer needs, though, unless we all feel like dealing with equity contracts. And managers. And drama."

"Ugh," Came the collective response from the team.

Joy muttered a few choice words under her breath that Gemma chose not to hear. We don’t get paid enough for this, she grumbled more loudly, seizing one side of the rack while Rena took hold of the other side.

God, Gemma sighed, eyeing the mountain of socks yet to be paired in the hamper. Preach.

It had been a hard discovered truth. Gemma hated her job— or at least most facets of it. When she’d started, fresh out of college, she’d thought she would amount to something. Maybe make it to manager one day.

Makes you miss being a seamstress, doesn’t it? Ivy, another dresser, shot Gemma a knowing look as she started on the socks.

Oh, god, no, Gemma said, sneering. Have you ever tried sewing buttons and zippers for eight hours a day, five days a week? She shuddered at the memory, steadying the hamper as it attempted to roll away from them. The pay may be better, but when you’re not allowed to talk to anybody or listen to music, it’s basically a glorified factory job.

What a rip off, said Joy.

Tell me about it. Gemma had only taken the temporary transfer to try and broaden her skills, after her own college internship costuming the parade. She’d been stagnant for a year, by that point; it had taken another year after she’d returned to costuming to convince the managers to train her on something new— the old stage show.

Joy took hold of the hamper with one hand and began to drag it toward their costume rows at the front of the room. Any idea when Veronica’s coming back?

Tired of me already? Joy just shot Gemma a droll look, and Gemma laughed, trailing behind while Ivy attempted to fold a pair of tights beside her. She’ll be on Holidays until next week, I think.

Gemma didn’t envy that one bit. Preparing for the upcoming autumnal festivities— upcoming being a relative term— was a daunting task, involving a lot of sorting, cleaning, unpacking, and rearranging. Gemma had been on both the Halloween and the Winter Wonderland teams, and she’d gladly never repeat it. Veronica— the head coordinator for stage show costuming— had been delegated to it for nearly a month.

You’ll still be on the team though, right? Joy asked, with a slight frown.

Probably not, Gemma thought glumly, but only said, We’ll see what scheduling does with me.

Scheduling. The bane of everyone’s existence, here. They were the reason Gemma had been stagnant for so long, leaving her to rot as a laundress, or building the meet and greet costumes for daily park operations. If it hadn’t been for Frank, the stage show’s costuming manager, all but chaining her to Merriment and Fantasy, she’d still be floating around like an aimless bee between laundry and costume builds.

She’d become a trainer six months after learning the old stage show, and when that show had closed, she’d finally been selected as a coordinator for Merriment and Fantasy. A part time coordinator, one who only covered the lead coordinator’s weekends, but coordinator nonetheless.

All that work, and all she had to show for it were her bonuses as trainer or coordinator, and a list of responsibilities longer than her arm that should have belonged to people well above her pay grade. The hours were unpredictable at best, and sometimes she had to pick up whatever short shifts— or ten hour laundry shifts— people were trying to give away, just to make rent. She had attendance issues pouring out of her ears, so close to getting herself fired that she’d actively considered just handing in her ID herself.

The only things really keeping her here, at this point, were her friends. Not to mention those pesky little things called bills and food. So, unlike Beckett and his crunchy tunics, she couldn’t afford to throw a temper tantrum anytime soon. What a shame.

***

The dryer idea worked like a dream. Gemma put it into her nightly emails to the other coordinators, Frank, and the entertainment managers, and then added it into her Morning Meeting notes, before she left for the day. The next morning, she sat down at the Merriment and Fantasy coordinator cubicle, and patiently read the expected Run it by Veronica email from Frank, the equally expected That’s fine, add it to Morning Meeting notes email from Veronica, and the vaguely condescending email from one of the performer managers telling her how to do her job. Same old, same old.

At least they had a few days away from Beckett to implement it, before he decided to go off the rails again. He wasn’t on her performer list for the rest of the week, actually. This bright, cheerful Wednesday morning held the promise of a Prince Sterling performer who had learned manners at some point during his upbringing.

Don’t be salty, Gemma told herself, sipping at her Dunkin iced coffee and reviewing the other inane emails cluttering up her company email.

Inanity and stress aside, show coordinating was actually an enjoyable shift. Gemma had been floored to be selected as a coordinator at all, that Frank had personally seen some sort of potential in her. It meant she finally had a say in how they ran the costuming side of things for the new show. It gave her the opportunity to make an actual difference. She knew firsthand that problem solving was nigh impossible as a dresser, and whenever the dressers had complaints or suggestions, she made sure they were passed up the chain. For once, she was finally needed as more than just a mediator for problem performers.

She hummed to herself as she went through each row with her morning checklist, glancing at everyone’s presets from the day before. Everything was in order, no surprise. There wasn’t a single item in the repairs section, and the dry cleaning had already been delivered and tucked neatly into one of their aisles by the morning laundresses. Nothing extra to do, but enough to keep them from collectively dying of boredom between shows.

The team arrived in a hectic cluster from the wall clock out in the hallway, babbling and gossiping as usual. Six variants of good morning greeted Gemma as she settled back down at her desk, and the group clumped right in front of her for Morning Meeting.

Good morning, team! Smiling at them all, she snatched up her notes. Gemma was a firm believer of starting their day out as positively as possible, no matter what the day held in store. Luckily, today was already gearing up to be a good day for all of them. Only a few new things to cover today, so this should be pretty quick.

It took less than five minutes before she dismissed them off to their daily assignments. Each dresser had their own track, five of them assigned to various fur characters, and the sixth assigned to Royals. All six of them had one equity element or another mixed into their responsibilities. They all stampeded away to get started, starting the gossip right back up. It reminded Gemma of a family, in a way, and she couldn’t say it enough: she was so proud of her team. She was proud to be a part of it.

Yet another email pinged its way into her inbox, asking for a chart involving shoe sizes and quantities for one of the Royal characters, Princess Rosaline. Gemma pulled up the show’s costume inventory, humming to herself again. It felt like she was in her own little bubble of sunshine.

Until Beckett walked up.

Over his shoulder was a stage show exclusive garment bag, one with thick purple and white stripes that Gemma had personally suggested back in April. The unique pattern was how they kept track of their own bags, and how they made sure they had enough for everyone to have their own, with a few to spare. Seeing it on Beckett’s shoulder irked her more than she’d have liked to admit.

It was Beckett’s day off. Or at least, his day away from show, at dining or meet-and-greets or parade or whatever else it was that he’d been trained in. She shouldn’t be looking at his scowling face today. That scowl could have peeled paint, and Gemma would really rather have been anywhere else besides directly in his line of sight.

Such a pity he was actually relatively handsome. If he didn’t spend all of his time being a diva, he’d probably be the show heart-throb.

Good morning, Beckett, she said as he stopped at her cubicle, even though on her end, the good part of the morning had just gone up in flames. What can I do for you?

There aren’t any shirts on the line for me, he said by way of greeting. I’m supposed to have three.

Like she didn’t know how to do her job. Gemma would have paid good money to have one conversation with this man that didn’t involve steeling herself against his anger management issues. Or the use of her princess voice, or her vacant customer service smile. Well, the two you used yesterday are both still wet.

What about the third one?

She would also have paid good money to give him a crash course in basic conversation skills. It’s still in repair from when Dolly ran into you last week. Since you have two more in perfect condition, I didn’t rush it.

"Well, can you?" He fixed her with a glare that, instead of frightening her or whatever else he’d intended, merely swept the smile right from her face, and her princess voice from her throat.

Seeing as you’re not on my roster for today, I don’t see any reason to.

Beckett’s jaw ticked, and his free hand clenched at his side. I got pulled ten minutes ago, he told her through gritted teeth.

I haven’t gotten the email yet, Gemma told him flatly, but I’ll take your word for it. I’ll put one of your shirts in the dryer and bring it up before first show.

Beckett rolled his jaw. It was a miracle he still had any teeth at all, and that he hadn’t ground them into dust from how often his jaw ticked. He said nothing, but he gave a sharp jerk of his chin that he apparently deemed an appropriate form of gratitude. Then he turned on his heel and stalked up toward the accessory counter, no doubt to intimidate the pretty college intern there, minding her own business and shining jewelry, into surrendering his accessories for the show.

Gemma tried not to huff her irritation out loud, in full view of the managers’ offices. Instead, she marched through the room to duck down the Royals aisle, where Rena was focused on hanging the dry cleaning from the day before.

Beckett got pulled, Gemma said, to which Rena nodded, without bothering to look up from her task.

Saw him pick up his costume. She shook a voluptuous petticoat until it hung as close to flat as it would ever get, and then did a great job of stuffing it onto the rail where it belonged. He’s pissed about the shirts, by the way.

I’m well aware.

Rena snorted and pulled a Sir Cassius shirt down from the line, examining a pearly button hanging