Postcards From Last Summer (41 page)

“G
ood morning, sports fans. Looks like the Yankees are going to go all the way this year.”

Elle awoke to Judd's gravelly voice, creases of sunlight through the blinds and the robust scent of warm coffee. “The season just started,” she muttered, pushing back the covers and stretching. It was all part of their morning ritual, Judd waking her with a latte and telling her how the Jets did or that the Rangers dominated last night and Elle playing the skeptic.

“A-Rod hit two runs last night,” Judd said.

“Damn Yankees,” Elle joked. She sat up, propped up a pillow, and sipped the latte Judd had left on the nightstand beside her. “So good. Thank you, sweetie.”

He rolled onto his side and placed his palm over her knee. “What's the plan for today?”

“I'm heading out to the Hamptons. I want to take Mary Grace some of that tea she likes, and I promised Lindsay I'd relieve her so she can take a break. Lindsay doesn't get to see Noah too often, especially since he's got the new show going in the city and she's got Mary Grace out there.” Although Elle was happy to help out Lindsay, in truth she felt driven to sneak in as much time with Mary Grace as she could. Each week she brought out Mrs. Mick's favorite flowers or muffins or caramels or Irish teas and spent a day listening to her stories and trying to make her laugh. In the past few years Mary Grace had become a replacement for Elle's own distant mother, who clearly believed that her role of doctoring the masses was more important than raising one daughter. It was through Mrs. Mick's hospitality, giving Elle a home in the Hamptons that summer her parents gave her the boot, that Elle envisioned buying a house and sinking roots out there. The McCorkle house on Rose Lane had become a jumping-off place for so many people, strays and friends of Lindsay and Steve. Elle would always be grateful to Mary Grace for giving her a home when she needed it most.

“Did you have a chance to read those Falkowitz scripts yet?” he asked.

“Not yet, but I'm planning to dig in on the train.” She yawned. “Unless you want to loan me your driver?”

“Let's see. I've got a lunch with Showtime today, but that's midtown . . .” Judd closed his eyes, going through his schedule. Although
Truth and Justice
was on hiatus, Elle was working with him on other ongoing projects, consulting on scripts and casting, working with writers, negotiating with agents. The work suited Elle's jack-of-all-trades personality, as did the long, unpredictable hours.

Still, the best part of her tenure on Judd Siegel Productions was her developing relationship with the executive producer. After a year of tumultuous dating Elle had leapt over the obstacle of those double doors on the first floor of Judd's brownstone with an invitation to the mysterious upstairs. To her delight, there were not skeletons or shrines, but a comfortable apartment, including a den lined with bookshelves, a claw-foot bathtub, and a granite-counter kitchen with Vulcan stove and cappuccino machine. Elle had forged past the barriers and consequently she'd come to enjoy the daily patterns of her relationship with Judd, from lattes in bed to the full-time driver to the comfort of having a burly, argumentative man around 24/7.

“You can have my driver,” Judd said, “but you'll need to send him back. I've got a meeting at Silver Cup tomorrow.” He squeezed her knee. “Are you staying out in the Hamptons?”

“Probably through the weekend. Mary Grace is having trouble getting around. I want to be there to help.”

He nodded. “I'll meet you out there Friday night?”

She smiled. “That'd be perfect.”

“You okay?” he asked, his dark eyes full of concern.

She sighed. “Yeah. No. I don't know.” Judd had heard various tales of her special relationship with Mary Grace McCorkle, her surrogate mother.

“Sounds like she's going,” he said quietly.

“Why are you saying this?”

“Because I hate to see you blindsided.” Judd had been through a similar loss a few years ago when his father died.

Swallowing back a swell of emotion, Elle nodded. “Lindsay has been in touch with a hospice. They're starting to send someone out, a few times a week.”

He nodded, his eyes steady. “It's going to happen. I'm sorry, sweetheart.”

Elle just nodded as a tear rolled down her cheek.

 

“Wheels! You got wheels?” Elle sat down in the wheelchair on the McCorkles' screened-in porch and propelled herself through the door. “Woo-hoo!” she screamed as she went flying down the newly installed ramp, a little too fast for comfort.

“I knew you'd be jealous,” Mary Grace said from the porch divan, where she was sitting with Milo. “Get your own, Elle, and I'll race you.”

Lindsay appeared in the doorway, looking smart in black linen pants and a burgundy camisole top that matched the highlights in her dark hair. “The rationale behind the wheelchair is to help Mom save energy by limiting her walking around town and down to the beach. With the chair, she can still get out and go where she wants.” Lindsay said. “As far as I remember, Dr. Garber didn't mention anything about races.”

“Fiddlesticks!” her mother crowed. “What does an oncologist know about having fun?”

“Good point,” Elle said, running the wheelchair back up the ramp.

“And . . .”
Lindsay pressed her hands to her chest in a dramatic pause. “I have good news. Great news. That was my agent on the phone.”

Milo's eyes grew round as his glasses lifted. “I didn't know you had an agent.”

“I found Debra through Island Books. She represents a few mystery writers, some romance writers, some serious novelists. And, to make a long story short, she said the story speaks to her and she's going to auction it off next month!” Lindsay raised her arms and did a brief happy dance.

“That's great!” Milo jumped up and gave her a hug.

“You worked on that manuscript for so long.” Elle shared her excitement, remembering the days that Lindsay had holed up in the fourth-story room, reappearing only to replenish her supply of Diet Cokes. “That's the story of us, isn't it?”

“Inspired by us,” Lindsay agreed, “with some creative license.”

“I hope the names were changed to protect the innocent,” Milo said.

“I think you're safe,” Lindsay teased. “I made you bald.”

“Why'd you want to do that?” Milo rubbed his bristly brown hair as if in need of reassurance.

L
ater that day, after Milo and I shared a train ride into the city and walked uptown to the theater district, I sat in the shadowy seats of the small theater on West Forty-fourth, replaying the bright afternoon in my head—probably the best day I'd had since the wedding. I hadn't realized the dark cloud I'd been living under, being Ma's caretaker and giving up work, until it lifted, letting a ray of light through. Elle brewed a pot of Irish tea for Ma and placed the Zabar's muffins she'd brought onto a tray while I made a pitcher of lemonade. When the tea was ready, Milo wheeled Mary Grace out to a shadow spot in her garden, where white and purple clematis climbed gracefully up the stone wall of the garage. We sat around the old stone table and talked about possibilities . . .

How much money would my book bring in if it sold? What wild, impulsive purchase would I make, at least with part of the money? Would I want to quit my job at Island Books to write other novels?

“I'm so proud,” Ma said, putting her teacup down with a satisfied clink. “I'm beaming with pride. Can you tell?”

“I just thought you overdid your blush this morning,” Milo said as he swiped a chunk of blueberry muffin.

“My daughter, the author.” Mary Grace shifted in the wheelchair, adjusting a pillow behind her back. “I'm just dying to read your book, Lindsay. How soon can I get a copy?”

“It'll be a while, if it sells,” I said. “Depending on when the publisher schedules it . . . a good rule of thumb is that it takes around nine months from manuscript to printed book, like a baby.”

“So I'll be getting one more grandchild.” My mother smiled. “That's delightful. But I can't wait nine months.”

“I'll print out a copy of the manuscript,” I promised.

“This is great news.” Mary Grace rubbed her hands together greedily. “I suppose it's compensation for the fact that you girls are holding out with your single lives, refusing to bring me real grandchildren.”

“Ma!” I gasped, and Elle let out a snorting laugh.

“You never put on the pressure for me to get married before,” I said. “Don't start now.”

“I'd love to get married,” Elle said. “Judd and I have talked about it, but he's not into it. He figures we've got a good thing going, why ruin it.”

“Men,” Mary Grace scowled. “Pardon me, Milo, but I just can't understand their reluctance to commit to marriage these days.”

“I'm with you, Mary Grace,” Milo said. “I've been coercing my partner Raj to make things legal, register at City Hall, but he's very resistant, says he'd feel trapped by making a legal commitment.”

“You guys should press on for what you want,” I said, wanting to set the record straight. “But for me, marriage isn't going to happen anytime soon. Noah and I just don't have that kind of relationship. His first priority is his work. It consumes him, and when he's in the middle of a show or film, there's very little left of him at the end of the day.” I thought of all the things he'd missed or cancelled in the past year. “He couldn't even make my birthday celebration because they were shooting that day. That's not the kind of relationship I want to sign on to for a lifetime commitment.” Taking a sip of lemonade, I realized the others were watching me. “What?”

“You must have some interest in Noah,” her mother pointed out. “You go into the city to see him, even if it's just to watch him rehearse the actors.”

But I go to the city to escape, to take a break, to hide in the dark theater . . .
I wasn't sure how much of that was true, but I didn't want to hurt Ma by suggesting that I was using Noah as an escape from her. “I don't think people should get married unless it's a perfect match,” I said. “Not to sound too idealistic, because I know we're all human and flawed, but for two people to make it, there's got to be that undying attraction. A chemistry. A spark.”

“And you don't have that with Noah?” Milo asked gently.

“If we do, it's fleeting.” I shrugged. “I'm not complaining, it's just that I don't want to pretend that our relationship is something it's not.”

“A wise bit of insight,” my mother said. “You're so much more aware than I was at your age.”

Now, sitting in the shadows of the tenth row of the theater, I had to wonder about the future of this relationship, especially when my boyfriend could become so consumed in his work that he didn't take time to acknowledge my presence in the theater. Not that it bothered me for the first hour or so as I watched him block a scene with Darcy and Ban and a dour woman named Helen who was playing Ban's mother in the play. Helen was straight man to Ban's comic cut-ups, and Darcy was the one who reacted with laughter and giggles, so amused that she managed to draw Noah into the comedy of it all, until he was laughing, too.

I studied them, as if observing a science experiment, a chemical reaction of foaming, colorful liquid in test tubes. When was the last time I'd seen Noah laugh? Not at his apartment, not while we were having dinner at our small table in the back of Joe Allen. And certainly not in bed, where he brought such sharp intensity to our love life that I often felt as if I were trying to play an edgy, dramatic part and failing miserably.

Where do I fit in this picture? How do I fit in Noah's life? Am I just orbiting the periphery?
I wasn't sure of the answer, but somehow the questions took a lower priority as my mind went back to the phone call from my agent about the manuscript. An auction. I couldn't have asked for better news. It was a huge lift, a gift during this worst summer of my life.

As Noah started to wrap the rehearsal, I went to the edge of the stage to wait for him. “Linds . . . hey. I saw you out there.” He leaned down and touched the top of my head, as if patting a bunny. “I know we were supposed to do dinner, but something came up at the last minute. The guys financing the show want to meet, and you know what that means . . .”

“You can't say no,” I said, surprised that I didn't feel more disappointed. “I understand.”

“Come to dinner with Maisy and me!” Darcy insisted. “I promised I'd take her to Mars 2112, that underground restaurant decorated like the red planet. You take a ride in a spaceship to get there.”

I laughed, a little uncomfortable about the invitation. “Sorry, but I don't have twenty-five light-years to spare!” It bothered me that Darcy hadn't been out much to see my mother. When she did make it out with Maisy, it was Elle who brought Maisy over to spend time with Grandma Mick. I understood Darcy's tendency to withdraw when things became painful, but to tune out Ma . . . it was just wrong. “I should see if Milo wants to do something.”

“Let me warn you, he's usually submerged in the workshop till late. After midnight. Come on,” Darcy said persuasively, “we'll have fun, and Maisy will be thrilled if you come along.”

“Do they serve liquor?” I asked, not wanting to shut my friend down completely. When Darcy nodded, I gave a thumbs-up. “Then let's climb aboard.”

As I headed back to Darcy's dressing room, it occurred to me that I hadn't had a chance to tell Noah about my book. And oddly enough, it didn't seem to matter.