Acts of Love (13 page)

“Dynamite!” Kent cried exuberantly. Luke was more cautious; he thought the set veered too far from realism, but he wanted to study the model and think about it, so for the moment he said nothing.

The telephone rang. His secretary and assistant had long since gone home, so he answered it. “Luke,” said Tricia, “I've cooked dinner. Please come. Seven-thirty. I've missed you.”

I'd like a quiet evening at home, Luke thought, to go over everything. And when I can't think about it anymore, I could take a break and read Jessica's letters. But that doesn't make sense. As my grandmother would say, it's no way for a healthy growing boy to spend his evenings. “Fine,” he said. “Is red wine all right?”

“Wonderful. And, Luke, be very casual. It's just the two of us.”

“Good.”

Kent and Marilyn left his office together, talking about the set. Luke walked home, barely aware of the crowds, thinking mostly of the oppressive heat of New York's streets, somehow feeling trapped by it. In the quiet coolness of his apartment he showered and read his mail, then walked to Tricia's apartment, arriving exactly at seven-thirty.

“I love it that you're always on time,” she said, her arms around his neck. “I'm glad to see you. Tell me you're glad to see me.”

“I'm glad to see you.” And he was. She had nothing to do with
The Magician,
nothing, in fact, to do with the theater, and she was cool and fresh and beautiful. She wore a long slim dress of blue silk, gold ballerina slippers and a white apron trimmed with gold braid, and her hair was perfectly combed, a few strands falling with artful casualness across her forehead. “You look lovely,” Luke said. “But not as if you'd been spending much time in the kitchen.”

“That was earlier. I believe in entertaining my man, not stirring and chopping while he sits alone in the living room.”

“I could help stir and chop.”

“Do you do much of that?”

“None. No one has ever asked me to try.”

“Well, maybe no one has felt very domestic with you. Come look at my column for tomorrow. Scotch?” she asked over her shoulder as she went to the bar.

“Fine.” He found the column on the coffee table and sat down to read it. Her picture was at the top, tiny and grainy but identifiable, her expression somber, as if the news she imparted was too profound for smiles. “Behind Closed Doors” was the name of the column, and Luke skipped from one boldfaced name to the next until he came to a blind item. “What former wife of New York's hottest director leaves tomorrow on a cruise with companion Edwin Peruggia, Hollywood's favorite lawyer, who tried but failed to invest in her former husband's new play?”

“What the hell is this?” he demanded when Tricia turned from the bar with their drinks.

“That's why I wanted you to read it. You never told me you were turning down investors, Luke.”

“We're not. Monte would have told me. Where did you get this?”

“Luke, you know I never reveal my sources.”

“Someone in Peruggia's office, I suppose. It can't have been Monte's staff. Who was it?”

“My lips are sealed.”

“It never happened, Trish. Doesn't that bother you? Where did you get it?”

“My God, you are so stubborn. One of Ed's new lawyers, just out of school. He said he got it from Ed's secretary.”

“And you didn't check it.”

“I don't have time to check everything. Would it really bother you if it runs? It's free publicity, you know.”

“Take it out. It doesn't serve any purpose.”

“It titillates, Luke. That's what it's supposed to do.”

“It produces nothing. Like stirring a cauldron without making soup or stew or sauce.”

“It produces
interest.
Amusement, curiosity, envy, contempt . . . emotions. People feel alive when they have emotions. What else do you produce in the theater, for heaven's sake? You're so high and mighty, but you do exactly what I do. Only I reach more people every day than you do in five years.”

“You left out understanding.”

“Oh, Luke, good heavens, nobody reads a gossip column for
understanding
; they read it to feel superior to people who are richer and more famous and more beautiful than they are. I'm not trying to write the truth of the ages, you know; I'm just giving people what they want. Now could we change the subject? I'm sure it isn't good for the digestion to have deep philosophical discussions before dinner. You really didn't turn him down? You might have done it because you don't like his morals. Or distinct lack of them. Or you heard he was squiring your ex-wife and you— No, I see from your face that that won't fly. Just tell me if he ever wanted to invest in any of your plays.”

“No.”

“Well. I'd believe you before one of Ed's little underlings.” She led him back to the couch and sat beside him, kissing him lightly. “Tell me about the play. I heard Abby Deming is going to star; that's money in the bank for you, isn't it? I mean, she's such a draw; it's amazing, at her age, and as far as I can tell she's never had her face done. And it's extra good, isn't it, because you've got an unknown playwright. What's his name? Tell me about him.”

“Dinner, Miss Delacorte.” In the dining alcove, Tricia's maid lit the candles on the small round table and filled the wineglasses, then vanished through the swinging door into the kitchen.

Tricia took Luke's arm to walk across the room. “We can talk over my excellent dinner.” Luke held her chair as she sat down. “Now, Luke,” she said as he sat opposite her. “What's the name of your newest genius? Tell me all about him.”

Luke was looking past her through the wide windows at thousands of other illuminated windows filling his field of vision. They were the same lights he saw from his own dining room, at a slightly different angle, and it occurred to him that his world was a narrow one, without a change of scene or, it appeared, a change of subject, even when he went to dinner.

“Luke!”

“Kent Home,” he said. “Very young, brilliant, occasionally charming, unfortunately also immature and hyperactive.” He put his hand over hers. “You will not put an item in your column that Lucas Cameron's new play has been written by an immature young man who is going to be hard to control.”

“What makes you think—”

“You were planning it. Forget it, Trish. Not a word about any of this, or I can't talk to you. You know that.”

“This is my livelihood we're talking about.”

“Your livelihood does not stand or fall on items about Kent, who hasn't made a name yet.”

“Will he?”

“Yes.”

“Well, then I'll write about him when he does.”

The maid cleared their soup plates and served soft-shelled crabs and a wild rice salad. Luke refilled their glasses. The candles slowly burned down. And for the rest of the evening, and into the night, they shared the common ground of New York and its celebrities that had brought them together.

But much later, when Tricia drowsily stretched on her silk sheets as he got up to dress, and asked him to stay the night, he shook his head. “I still have a few hours of work. Thank you for everything; it was just what I needed.”

He bent to kiss her, then made his way through the apartment, skirting furniture that hulked like indistinct ghosts in the faint light that filtered in from a city only half asleep, and took the elevator to the street. It was barely cooler than when he had arrived, but he did not look for a taxi; he walked the mile to his building, past sleeping figures in doorways bundled up as if it were winter; past lovers pausing to kiss, or taking an extra skip to make their footsteps match; past a woman in a frayed down coat and wool hat pushing a grocery cart piled high with possessions; past a couple in the midst of a quarrel, spitting accusations, neither hearing the other; past two boys whispering, plotting, darting glances all around; past someone laughing at something her companion had said; past someone weeping at something her companion had said.

Not such a narrow world, Luke thought as his doorman held open the door to his building. If I get out of apartments and theaters and keep walking, I'll see everything.

Martin had left notes on his desk: Tommy Webb had called. So had Monte Gerhart, Kent Home, Marian Lodge—
who's Marian Lodge? Oh, the writer from
The New Yorker.
I can't even remember what I said to her—
Fritz Palfrey, and Cort Hastings saying he'd been reading
The Magician
and he didn't think he liked Daniel as much as he'd thought at first, so he needed some time with Luke tomorrow, and also the playwright, whose name he couldn't remember.

Don't these people ever sleep? Or take some time off?
Luke swept the messages into a pile and left them by the telephone. He looked at his watch.
Not so late. Time for one or two letters.
And with that he knew that he had been waiting for this moment, anticipating the letters in the same way that a child anticipated bedtime stories: a reward for a good day, a treat for the time when everything else had been accomplished. He was faintly embarrassed by his eagerness . . . but why not? he thought. Jessica was Constance's friend; obviously I'd want to know more about her. He went to his chair, where he saw that, once again, Martin had left a tray on the round table, this time with a plate of chocolate cookies beside the thermos of coffee and bottle of cognac. He settled himself, poured cognac and coffee, munched a cookie. Then he opened the box and pulled out a cluster of letters.

. . . can't believe there could be a theater without—

The pages were out of order. Luke reorganized them. It was a short letter, the handwriting agitated.

Dearest Constance, I just got your letter. Oh, damn, that I'm stuck in London when I ought to be with you. Have you known about this for a long time? Well, you must have, good heavens, if your heart is so weak that you have to leave the stage, you must have been worrying about it for months . . . years . . . And never a word to me. Every time I said you looked pale or tired—and thinking back I realize I said that a lot, especially when we took our last play to Los Angeles—you always passed it off: too many late nights, a mild cold, a touch of the flu. You said in your letter that you didn't want to worry me, but aren't we closer than that? I thought you would have shared . . . Well, you didn't and I wish you had, but the thing is, what do we do now? I could come to New York overnight to be with you before you leave; would you like that? Or—I have a much better idea—could you stop in London on your way to Italy? My hotel suite has an extra bedroom and we could have a few days together; you could see me in
A Doll's House
—I'd love to know what you think of it—and I've got a new friend I'd like you to meet. But most of the time it would be just the two of us. We could be as busy or as quiet as you want but at least we'd be together before you go into this strange exile you've chosen. Please let me know your schedule; please write or call, anytime. All my love, Jessica.

Dearest Constance, four perfect days in London (and every time you had to stop and rest we had a chance to try another pub!), but that was two months ago and now I'm back in New York and you're in Italy and I feel as if we're on different planets. I never realized how much I counted on you being on a stage somewhere; it made me feel less alone. I didn't even know I felt alone until now. You said you do, too, when we talked yesterday afternoon, and I was up all night thinking about you. This must be about the hardest thing you've ever done, isn't it? I understand all your reasons—that you wanted to be far away from New York, that you feel you're a different person when you're not on stage and so you went all the way and made a new life to go with the new person you are. I understand it, but still it amazes me that you had the courage to do it.

Your aloneness is much more stark than mine—it makes me feel ashamed even to talk about mine, but you asked about it on the phone. The fact is, I've never had a close woman friend other than you, I have no man I care about, I have no family. You were all of those for me. Until now, and so again—as so many times before—what I have left is the theater. And I do have a new excitement there, because suddenly writers are sending me plays, or sending them to my agent, so I feel that, now, I'm part of the beginning of things. Not quite the creation but close to it.

Still, I wish you were with me. The other day
The New York Times
said, “Now that Constance Bernhardt has retired, Jessica Fontaine is the dominant actress of the American stage.” Imposing words . . . but I'd rather share it with you; I'd rather we dominated together. I do so miss you.

But I have your photographs. Thank you for sending them to me; I like being able to picture you in your villa when I write to you. And yes, I will come to visit, as soon as I can. How lovely of you to quote an old letter of mine: “My door is always open, wide, wide open, to you.” That means everything to me. Be well, I love you, Jessica.

Luke put his head back and closed his eyes.
I've never had a close woman friend other than you, I have no man I care about, I have no family. You were all of those for me.
Two of a kind, he thought: Jessica and I. Constance filled all those roles for both of us. And now she's gone. I wonder if Jessica has found someone to replace her.

After a minute, he looked through the other letters he had removed from the box but not yet read. They listed plays in which she had starred, and another movie, this one a Merchant-Ivory production that received rave reviews, as did Jessica. And then she wrote that she had moved to a house on 10th Street near Grace Church.

I saw it on a Monday and bought it that afternoon; closed two weeks later, and by Friday had workers renovating it. I'd spent those two weeks making drawings of what I wanted, and I can't wait to move in. I'm hoping for a whole new kind of life here. There are still so many roles I want to play—my calendar is booked for the next three years—but now that I have this house I'll have new views out of my windows, new friends, new walks to take and new rooms to come home to from touring and visiting you. Someday you may even come to visit me here—I have a bedroom just for you. What a lovely prospect!