Knowing His Secret (3 page)

Finally, as they were leaving, Tom introduced me to 'Suze and Nicky'. Suzanne Redmond and Nicole Spencer, two rich bitches who made it very clear that I was
hired help and nothing more. It amazed me that they could communicate that with almost no words at all. These girls were pretty much masters of non-verbal cues. The way they looked down their noses at me reminded me of the hookah smoking caterpillar in
Alice in Wonderland
saying "
Who are You
?"

I was suddenly more aware than I have
ever been of my no name clothes and my ordinary brown chain-salon-cut hair. I was wearing my plain gold rope chain. It was the most expensive thing I owned other than my beater of a car and was a graduation present from my parents. I was ashamed of myself for thinking it looked small and cheap.

Suze and Nicky walked up the aisle toward the exit and all eyes, including mine, watched their slim asses sway under the
cute little summer dresses they wore. When they reached the top of the slope, Suze turned and announced, "By the way, I'm claiming the opening night cast party and Nicky gets closing. It's only fair. We deserve
some
fun out of this stag party!"

It took a few moments to regain the momentum of the rehearsal.
Tom told me later to make up a sign that said "Closed Rehearsal" and post it on the door.

"I know it's literally just 'play acting' for these
people, but I take it seriously," he explained. "There's a lot of work that goes into these productions. There'll be plenty of time later for all the party games." I got the feeling that Tom felt almost as out of place as I did.

Tom taught speech and drama at the local high school but told me he aspired to greater things. A
t his age, he had to realize he'd never achieve anywhere near the success of the five young bucks he was directing. In fact, it was more than likely he'd never do anything more creative than directing Little Theater.

He explained early on that I would be filling in on stage when any of the guys had to miss a rehearsal. "Occasionally, one of them will have to go into the city," he had explained.
Most of the time, if they worked at all during the summer, they did it virtually. "From the poolside, with a beer in one hand and a babe in the other," he had said, somewhat bitterly.

The second week, Brian wasn't at
Tuesday's rehearsal. We had blocked the entire third act and the actors were all supposed to be 'off book' by then, at least for act three. So I would be up on stage with two responsibilities: to cue them if they dropped a line or part of the blocking and to read Brian's lines and move as his character was supposed to move.

Tom had meticulously plotted each and every little move the actors were to make. There's nothing more boring than a play that's poorly blocked. It makes the audience feel awkward and restless. Even though people in real life tend to stay in one spot for long periods of time, on stage that won't work.
So the director has to put the play into action for it to succeed.

We were about half way into the act and it was going quite well. I had to prompt Cole on a couple of lines, but nothing major.

Until Tristan moved stage right when he was supposed to go stage left.

"Tristan," I said, "you're supposed to move toward the bar on that line."

"No, I'm not. I'm supposed to move toward the window."

I looked in the margin of my already well-worn script w
here I had written "Coach to s.l." Tristan was looking at me with a challenge in his eyes. I wanted to shrink away, but I knew I was right. If he went in the opposite direction he was going to unbalance the whole tableau.

"Really, you need to be just downstage of the bar at the end of that line." He just stood there, glaring at me.

"I think I know where
I'm
supposed to be."

"Well, not really…" I looked out into the theater where Tom was sitting in the dark.

Tom's voice came out of the darkness."Stage left, Coach."

Tristan glared at me as if I had betrayed him by being correct and moved downstage of the bar.

Later on, it happened again. "Tristan…that's where you're supposed to sit on the couch."

This time he just muttered "fucking hell" under his breath and plopped on the set of chairs that was substituting for the sofa to come. The chair squealed on the stage as his weight pushed it a few inches back. He was practically growling as he maneuvered it back into line with the others.

Later, there was a point where Tristan had to grab Brian's face. The coach was incensed that Brian's character had insulted the old team's integrity and the line was: "I wouldn't walk across the street to piss on you if you were on fire."

When he approached me, he did an impressive job of delivering that line as he took my face into his hands. His eyes seared into mine and
the heat from his hands traveled all the way from my cheeks to places far below. He seemed to hold my head for a fraction longer than necessary and hissed out the words with believable venom.

I stuttered out
Brian's next line. "It would be best to let me burn" and gratefully followed my blocking by turning away from Tristan and walking to the 'bar'. As I mimed pouring myself a drink, I very much wished I had the real thing. It was meant to be a powerful moment in the play. It certainly had that effect on me.

Of all the nights to pick to hang around after rehearsal, Tristan picked this one. He came back to the green room as I was straightening up.
My back was to the door, but I felt his presence even before he spoke.

"Raina?" My name; his voice. I took a deep breath before I turned around.

"Yes?" I hoped that the effort to infuse that little word with nonchalance worked.

"Let's go have a drink." Not
will you have a drink with me?
or
how about joining me for a drink?
He had an odd way of putting things. It was almost a command. Like a rebellious kid, I wanted to say no on principle. But the stronger part of me, the woman in me, wanted very much to have the man to myself for a few moments.

"Sure," I said. "I just need to finish up here." Tristan leaned against the doorframe and wordlessly watched me put the mugs back in their place and rinse the coffee pot. My hands trembled a little as I held the jug under the running water knowing that he was standing ther
e, his eyes fixed to my back. I was acutely aware of the intense physical attraction I had felt for him from the first moment he stepped up on the stage. His powerful portrayal of the coach and his personal magnetism had only heightened my curiosity and, I admit, my desire to get closer to him.

When I had locked theater, Tristan offered me his arm. "My chariot awaits," he smiled. Other than my beat up old Jeep in the parking lot, the only other car was an exotic looking black convertible, the top already down.
It was a subdued version of the Batmobile.

"How about I follow you? We can go to Newly's. It's right near my house."

"I think not." When I didn't immediately loop my hand through the crook of his arm, he put his hand at the small of my back and steered me toward the lot. The firm touch of his hand just above my ass pretty much pushed all other thoughts somewhere far away. He opened the passenger side and I got in automatically--it was expected. "Newly's is for going out with the guys. I have a much better place in mind to take a
lady
."

His emphasis on 'lady' gave it a special ring. I looked down at my jeans and wished I had chosen something else to wear. He saw me looking down at my pants and read my mind.

"Not to worry. There's no dress code where we're going." The engine roared to life with a sound that was the mechanical equivalent to Tristan's own deep, throaty bass. The leather bucket seat enveloped my five foot four frame in pure luxury. There wasn't a piece of furniture in my family's house that was that comfortable.

I had to ask. I didn't care if I sounded like some unschooled rube. I didn't place the
crown shaped emblem prominent on the grill of the car I was about to be whisked away in. Given that it would probably be the first and last time I'd ever ride in such a beast, I needed a name for it.

"Maserati," he answered me. "It's a GT--Gran Turrismo."

"It's a beautiful car," I told him. "Very classy without being splashy."
Just like you
. The car was perfect for him.

"Thank you, I'm glad you like it. It just wasn't practical for the city. A car like this is like a thoroughbred horse. You can't just keep it in a barn all the time." He reached over and stroked my thigh with the back of his hand. "Sit back and enjoy the ride. It's a beautiful night."
What was beautiful was the way his touch made me feel. The stars seemed to shine brighter, the moon glow was a caress.

We had ridden for about fifteen minutes when Tristan pulled off
the main road and drove up a tree lined approach that ended at a huge stone mansion that looked very much like a French chateau I had seen on my one summer abroad. I assumed it was one of the many up-scale inns that dot the Berkshires. But it didn't look too busy.

He pulled up right in front and led me up some stone steps to huge double doors that swung open as we approached.

"Good evening, Mr. Tristan." A slightly built man with Asian features greeted us.

"Hi
, Kwan. My friend and I are going to have drinks on the back porch. Ask Charlotte to rustle up some snacks for us."

"Will do, sir." The man went on his way, flicking lights on as he went.
Tristan had smoothly maneuvered me back to his house just as I was sure he'd done with many before me. As much as I found myself attracted to him, I didn't appreciate being manipulated. He was just too smooth. Too practiced. Too damn sure of himself and his effect on a woman. Although I wanted him, a part of me was screaming for a little bit of pride.

The hall that he illuminated in front of us was as ornate as I expected it to be.
It was full of tapestries and the trim work was incredible--busts and angels and all sorts of things worked into intricate carving.

"Don't take this place too seriously. It is most definitely
not me
." He looked almost embarrassed by the opulence of the place. "I bought it because of the property--the land. It's on over a hundred acres and has a kick ass river along the back boundary." He led me to the 'porch' which was an extensive patio overlooking a rectangular pool and a lawn that seemed to go on forever.

Tucked into the far end of the patio was an outdoor kitchen and living room. It had obviously been an upgrade.

"This and a couple of the bedrooms are where I live when I'm here. What I really want to do is endow this historic pile to some worthy cause and build my own place back by the river."

"What w
ill you build?" I watched him in the soft golden glow of the lights as he went to the bar. His movements made me wonder what it would be like to dance with him.

"Something painfully modern. I want as much glass as I can get
so it feels like you're living outdoors. I'll tuck it way back in the woods so that no one can see me running around naked."

"Do you do that often? Run around naked?"
I couldn't help it. He leapt into my imagination--all golden skin and hair against a background of forest that matched his eyes.

"As much as I can," he grinned devilishly at me and caught me blushing, again. "What can I fix you to drink?"

"Whatever you're having's fine."

He cocked an eyeb
row at me and began mixing away while I vainly tried to push the image of his nakedness to the back of my mind. He brought me a glass and sat beside me on the sofa. He sat close enough so that his knee was touching my thigh as he turned to clink glasses with me.

"To the play!"

"Break a leg," I answered. I took a nice healthy swig of the pale green drink Tristan had made for us. I nearly choked. It was very tart and very, very strong. "What the hell
is
this?" I finally managed to gasp out.

He threw his head back and laughed. "It's a Kamikaze
. Vodka, triple sec and a little Rose's lime juice. You don't have to drink it."

"No,
that's okay…it's growing on me," I told him as I took another swallow. The warmth from his knee against me and the spreading heat from the alcohol were about make the idea of pride go up in smoke. He took his finger and ran it around my jaw line up to my ear where he traced the outline delicately and tapped my simple hoop earring so that it swayed in the lobe. I pulled my breath in deeply.

"
You're certainly growing on me…" The suggestive line belonged in a script. I tried to think of a snappy retort and came up empty. He was intoxicating in spite of the predictable moves. There wasn't anything inherently
wrong
with being rich, handsome and full of yourself, I rationalized. But, if I went for it, I'd have some long awkward weeks ahead of me until the play ran its course. That, and I'd have the rest of the cast, plus those catty bitches to deal with. I'd have 'used' tattooed on my forehead. The men would pity me and the girls would laugh at me.