"Curtain," Linda said, and the soft sound of scripts closing ran around the table. No one spoke. Scott and Eileen met each other's eyes, nodded slightly, slowly. Derek, frowning in thought. Julia, stunned, almost fearful. Ivy blinking back tears. Simon, composed, watchful. Sam, apprehensive and a little dazed. Ana, Jessica, exchanging glances, Jimmy, lost.

Someone had to speak. Tom, at the piano, "Well -" Derek, as if on cue,

"Right. Well done, everyone. No notes for now. Go home, work on your music, we've got a show."

The universal sigh of relief snipped the last thread of tension, whispering giggles replaced the silence.

"Off with you, then." Kissing his wife lightly. The cast dispersed, the production team gathered. They had a show.

Two years, almost, since "Hit List's" Broadway run had ended. "Bombshell" was still packing in audiences, its third Marilyn Monroe getting better reviews than the second, who had had the misfortune to follow Ivy Lynn.

Karen had left Broadway for Hollywood a few months after the one-two punch of Ivy's Best Actress Tony and Jimmy's jail sentence. Without her glamor and the real-life chemistry she and Jimmy had brought to the production, "Hit List" had folded quickly, but not before Jimmy had sold, shortly before his (early) release, the film rights. For more zeroes than he had ever thought to see. Zeroes that had bought all creative control, leaving him – zero. Jimmy had hated what they had done, to his songs, to Kyle's (and Julia's) script. Had begged Karen not to be a part of it. Had got drunk with Derek, who had also admonished Karen, told her in no uncertain terms she would regret her choice.

Hollywood-clever people. They'd adapted "Hit List" into a semi-musical. Amanda Chambliss (all the "real-life" characters had last names in the film), later singing star "Nina," sang four songs, her rival, "Diva" (no "the," now) sang two. Some of the score was drawn from Jimmy's music, but film-Jesse, played by the flavor of the month, sang only the opening bars of "Broadway, Here I Come," written for suicidal Amanda. "Heart-Shaped Wreckage," sung by Karen alone in voice-over, was the film's theme. Gone, all gone, "Voice in a Dream," "The Love I Meant to Say," "The Goodbye Song." "Reach For Me," gone. Two of Amanda's songs were new-written for the film; both of Diva's were. Pop-crap. Jimmy hated them.

Three of his orphaned songs. Just three. "Good For You," which wasn't even supposed to be good. Cold comfort that the "mixed" reviews (defined by George S. Kaufman as "good and lousy," according to Tom Levitt) had singled out his orphans for praise. Daisy Parker had fared well, too, with the critics. Her Supporting Actress Tony had been juice, Hollywood had scooped her and Karen up in one net. Karen had not been so favored by the reviewers. "As bland a nonentity as her character." "Can sing, can't act, can dance a little." "It is perplexing in the extreme that this characterization garnered a nomination for Broadway's highest accolade." The tone varied, the wording varied, the meaning and melody didn't. Derek had known. Karen live had magic. Karen filmed had none. Cutting the songs and beefing up the dialogue had laid bare her weakness as an actress, stripping off the musical fig leaves. Audiences had stayed away in droves. The film had closed without earning back a quarter of its modest investment. Karen had landed a couple of product endorsements, though not Apple, which her agent had angled for. No further acting offers.

She'd returned to New York, and Jimmy, just two weeks ago. He loved her. Couldn't quite forgive, could never forget. But he loved her. Took her back, at her urging had asked Derek if she could be squeezed into "Gatsby." "She'd be perfect as Jordan Baker – Jessica can still do "Bombshell," Karen needs this!"

Derek had refused. Wouldn't consider it, wouldn't discuss it.

Ivy had performed in "Bombshell" until pregnancy became prohibitive. Had worked non-stop, almost furiously, until labor started, two days before her due date. Television producers filming on the East Coast had practically stampeded her with roles, scripts written and re-written to enable opening credits to boast, "Special Guest Star Ivy Lynn." And, after Miranda's birth, stage roles beckoned; readings and workshops took precedence, although Ivy continued to fatten her bank account and her resume with television roles.

Derek had lain fallow. An unfamiliar, uncomfortable position. Producers were leery of a director who had confessed to replacing an actress giving a well-recieved performance with one who slept with him for the role. Television work there was, a little. In between, he had amused Ivy by attending childbirth classes with her. Later, he changed diapers, warmed bottles while his wife worked.

Tom and Julia, Eileen Rand with them, had come, with a very rough first draft of "Gatsby." Eileen had agreed to produce a workshop. Would Ivy play Daisy Buchanan? Would Derek direct – with Tom's assistance? Oh, yes. Yes, they would, each, and both.

"Are they going to make a fetish out of dying protagonists? First Marilyn, now Gatsby?" Derek was joking, but Ivy spoke seriously.

"Death runs through most of their work. Always has. "Three on a Match?" That was about death, friends dealing with the death of a friend. "Heaven and Earth?" It's all about death. In a funny way, but it's still death. And "Bombshell," yes, and now "Gatsby." It's a natural progression for them."

Her intelligence – he wouldn't admit it was greater than his, but it was quicker. She was right, and he hadn't seen it.

The first draft had begot a second, a third, without achieving the right focus. The songs were uneasily worked in, pieces from the wrong puzzle. The workshop had – well, it had made "Marilyn – the Musical's" reception look like a roaring success. Tom and Julia had fought. Tom and Derek had squabbled and bickered; more than once, Ivy had broken the tension by noting that she and Derek were married, not Derek and Tom, and she'd thank them not to carry on as if they were. Eileen had rippled with tension like a caged tiger.

It had been Ivy who had sent them all back to the drawing board. They were approaching "Gatsby" the wrong way. It wasn't going to work as a conventional musical. Julia had thought "outside the box" when she'd re-worked "Bombshell," even if the final version had differed from that vision. Tom had used a variety of musical idioms for "Bombshell," he should explore that freedom further, instead of limiting himself to 1920s styles. Ivy had suspected, but had not said, that Tom and Julia were finding the material intimidating. They had to not, or "Gatsby" would never get off the ground. And she'd fallen in love with Daisy. The show had to happen.

The resulting book, the songs, were audacious. Chunks of Fitzgerald's narrative were snipped, stitched, patched and embroidered by Julia into prose poems, half spoken, half sung by Nick Carraway. The songs ran the gamut – "No Tomorrow," Gatsby's party guests sang, a Charleston beat with a dark, almost dirge-like note running through it to undercut the merriment. Joplin cadence for Daisy and Nick's duet, "What's a Cousin For?" Gatsby's haunted almost-waltz, "A Light on the Pier." The Daisy/Gatsby counterpoint "Looking Back / Look Ahead," she reminiscing to herself against his passionate plea for their future. Myrtle's fierce "Wanting," Jordan's flip, defiant "(Just a Little) Cheating." Gatsby's wrung reprise of "Looking Back," the last scene before his murder. Nick's closing recitative, "A Grotesque Thing."

Yes, audacious, ambitious, it was. It might – might – be great. It was wildly unconventional – by comparison, "Hit List" had been timid. Eileen had cajoled, scolded, and, in the end, raged. In vain. Investors kept their wallets safely under their bottoms.

It had been Scott who had saved the day, he had sold his Board on "Gatsby." They couldn't turn it down, he told them, willing them with every bit of charisma he could summon to agree. It would be the most important, the most talked about, event in New York theatre – for seasons to come. Even if it wasn't a hit, producing it would add to MTW's prestige. They couldn't lose. Scott wasn't completely sure he believed what he told the Board, but he made them believe, and Huston and Levitt's "The Great Gatsby" became the centerpiece of the Manhattan Theatre Workshop season. Eileen Rand would co-produce.

Recasting, this time mostly with known quantities. Ana Vargas had sung "Wanting," with pure heartbreak underlying Myrtle's ferocity, and been cast without callback. Jessica's audition for Jordan Baker (Ivy had lobbied hard for her) had been a revelation. Like Ivy, the girl had been consigned to the ensemble way too long. An immense talent, and sexy as hell in her sleek, cat-lean fashion. She hadn't been the only possible Jordan they'd seen, but in the end, she'd been the best. And Derek was not going to re-work the casting now for his erstwhile star, Karen Cartwright. Couldn't even come and ask him herself, she'd laid it on Jimmy to do her dirty work. Karen's spell was broken for good, as far as he was concerned.

They'd looked at a lot of Tom Buchanans, and settled on Simon, so good as JFK in "Bombshell." Jay Gatsby had been a problem. They'd offered Michael Swift the role, but he hadn't been available. Tom had been the one who suggested they ask Jimmy Collins to audition. Derek had argued, but had agreed to see him; Jimmy had demurred, but had agreed to read. His audition, Ivy reading with him, had vindicated Tom, and Jimmy was hired.

The audacity carried into the casting, if only once. Sam Strickland was to play Nick Carraway. His audition had been breathtaking, had made any other choice unimaginable. Audiences would have to suspend disbelief in Daisy's black cousin. Sam had never been so close to carrying a show, and was as nervous as he was thrilled. Ivy, New York agnostic, had said novenas for his casting. She'd had to find out exactly what a novena was, but she had done so, and had said one to St. Genesius, who was apparently the patron saint of actors, and another to St. Cecilia, patron saint of music.

And they had gathered, this morning, at Manhattan Theatre Workshop, for a first reading. Unsure how, or whether, this strange collection of wonderful parts would fit together.

Derek thought, on the whole, they would, and well. He didn't have a clear vision, yet, but there was a shape in his mind, and parts of it were coming into sharp focus. Nick. Sam would be the audience's "in," and their guide. Ivy's and Jimmy's voices meshed well. Daisy, indeed, was very clear, and Ivy was looking to him for guidance she had not needed in "Bombshell," which was gratifying.

Yes, he thought, they had a show.