Postcards From Last Summer (42 page)

“W
ell, this is one way to force us to put blood, sweat, and tears into our parts,” Ban groused as he stood at the edge of the living-room set, sweating under the stage lights.

“I don't see any blood,” Helen commented astutely.

Ban pointed two fingers at his own face. “Look closely in my bloodshot eyes.”

“Isn't August an unlucky time to open a show?” Darcy asked.

“Very unlucky when your audience is going to melt,” Helen said. An older actress with a bulldog face and a gravelly voice, Helen Mertz was the queen of deadpan.

“People, please.” Noah raised his hands, his shirtsleeves rolled up to reveal foreams sprinkled with golden hairs. “The air-conditioning is being fixed. I would cancel rehearsal, but we need to be here this afternoon for the photographers. Previews start next week and we have to have promotional photos.”

“Isn't July an unlucky month for previews?” Ban asked.

Noah folded his arms and actually smiled. “Let's try to survive this with our humor intact. I've got to run. Let's meet back here at two.”

After he left, Darcy, Helen, and Ban collapsed onto the set furniture, too hot to move. “I'm going to have lunch someplace crisp and cool,” Helen said. “Just as soon as I have the energy to breathe again.”

Darcy planned to sneak home and enjoy a salad in front of the blasting air conditioner. “I'm heading home, if anyone wants to join me.”

“How far?” Helen asked.

“Four or five blocks.”

“Too far. I'll never make it,” Helen said.

“I'd come along,” Ban said, “however, I'm afraid we can't be seen together anymore. Now that I'm arm candy for the illustrious Nicole De Young, the press would have a field day finding me at your place.”

Darcy giggled. “How is the Diva De Young? Last time I saw a picture of her, she was looking a bit gaunt.”

“Are you talking about her eating disorder?” Ban clamped a hand over his mouth. “I don't know a thing. You didn't hear it from me.”

“Tell us, Ban,” said Helen. “Does she ever eat? Have you witnessed the Divine Nicole consuming sustenance?”

“Only sesame seeds and cranberry juice. Unsweetened, of course.” He grinned. “I don't know what all the fuss is about. So the woman is thin.”

“She's a negative role model for young women and impressionable girls,” Helen barked. “And need I mention that people have died of that disease? Really, Ban, anorexia is no joke.” She closed her script and rose from the couch dramatically. “And with that, I am going to get a sandwich. A very large, overstuffed club sandwich. A goddamned Dagwood!”

“Well,” Ban sighed as Helen disappeared into the wings. “Just the two of us. You know, sometimes I regret ending our little thing.”

“We had some fun,” Darcy agreed, closing her eyes, “but it was hard for me to keep up with your publicity schedule. Besides, I've given up my party-girl days. I'm almost middle-aged.”

“Horrors! Don't you ever let me catch you saying that again.” He stretched his legs, crossing them at the ankle. “I miss you, my dear, but I don't mind losing you to a better man.”

“Really?” Darcy opened one eye. “And who might that be?”

“You don't have to be coy with me. I've seen the way you look at Noah, the way your lovely face lights up when he enters a room.”

Both eyes shot open. “You have?” She didn't think it was obvious. She didn't know anyone could tell . . .

“So when are you going to make your move? Go after him? Here's my personal footnote on Noah Storm: a brilliant director, but won't have a clue how you feel about him until you script it all out for him.”

Darcy took a deep breath, realizing it was no use denying her attraction for Noah. “That's one script I won't be performing. I could never do that to my friend.” Especially considering everything Lindsay was going through now, taking care of Mrs. Mick. Darcy had heard that they'd called in a hospice worker, but the burden of care was still primarily on Lindsay's shoulders.

“You're not doing your friend Lindsay any favors, love,” Bancroft said. “I've seen the way Noah looks at you, too. You have this gift for making him laugh. No one else can lighten that sad sack up.”

Darcy wiped beads of sweat from under her eyes. Could it be true? Did Noah really respond to her that way . . . romantically?

“Isn't it wrong to leave your friend embroiled with a man who doesn't love her, just because you're afraid to rattle everyone's cages?” For emphasis, he gave her the trademark Bancroft squint.

“Don't give me that lazy-eyed look,” she said. “You don't know that about Noah. It's not like he's confided in you.”

“Noah doesn't confide in anyone. A secretive bastard, that one.”

“Okay, then. You just can't go meddling in other people's relationships, Ban. You can't know what's going on from the outside.”

“Half the time you can't know what's going on from the inside, but that's never stopped me from conjecture. And based on my astute observations, I say your friend is not happy with our esteemed director. She and Noah are a rather unhappy couple. If I were you, I'd ask her if she wants out. You have the power to set it all on track, my dear.”

“But I don't,” Darcy said, wishing he were right, wishing that Lindsay really did want out of the relationship and that Noah really was attracted to Darcy. But as Ban said, it was all conjecture.

 

That afternoon, standing under the hot stage lights waiting for the photographer to get the lighting right, Darcy felt her skin covered with a fine sheen of sweat and guilt. How could she do this to her best friend? What demented part of her brain had decided to fall for Lindsay's guy? And if Bancroft could see the attraction, surely other people were aware of it.

She was just a rotten person.

Although it was not part of his usual duties, Milo was operating the lights up in the booth, and Noah was working with him to determine which lights could go dark to reduce the heat in the building. Noah lingered at the fringes of their scene, popping into view to smooth the collar of Ban's shirt or the angle of one of the actor's arms.

He moved behind Darcy and she held her breath as he placed a hand under her chin. So intimate, so invasive. It nearly brought tears to her eyes as he gently tilted her face higher. “Can you keep the chin high and look down—remember, an air of superiority.”

“Got it,” she said, going for imperious even as she fought hard to contain the response that flared to his touch. She longed to grab his hand, press his palm to her cheek, and kiss the soft skin of the tender pressure point on his wrist.

Did he feel the same attraction? The same spark? She tried to read a message in his eyes, but the pale gray glint of intelligence and energy remained—the intelligence of Noah's eyes, as flat as a mirror yet distant as the view through a telescope.

There were no answers in his eyes, no answers for the dilemma she found herself in, falling in love with her friend's lover. And Darcy was left in an awkward pose in an extremely stuffy, humid theater feeling bereft of hope . . . and incredibly guilty.

I
n the offices of
Truth and Justice,
production was in full swing, and Judd barely broke stride as he walked by Elle's cubicle, barking about the scuba scene in next week's script.

“We have two options,” Elle told him without looking up from the budget spreadsheet on her monitor. “We can find actors who have scuba licenses, or hire scuba divers who can deliver a few lines.”

“A scene in the East River!” he bellowed, circling the wall to step into her cubicle. “Who wrote this crap?”

Elle smiled. “It's your script, boss. And not a bad one. Anyway, I'm leaning toward the latter. Especially since, as I understand it, anyone going into the East River is advised to have their shots updated. Licensed divers would be prepared for that.”

“Point two, and more urgent,” he went on, “I understand the scene slated for this afternoon requires a stuntman, and our usual guy is out sick—”

“I know, I know. A dark-haired man to jump from one rooftop to another. I've got Jose Sanchez from Spectacular Stunts. I told him to be on set by one so he can get fitted for wardrobe.”

Judd cupped her shoulders and massaged gently. “Good job, honey.”

“Able to leap tall buildings in a single bound, that's me.” She looked up at him. “And maybe you should watch the massages and endearments here in the office.” Not that she really cared, but two assistant directors shared the cubicle beside hers, and some of the production assistants were meeting with the associate producer in the conference room on the other side of the glass wall. “You don't want the other producers to be jealous, do you?”

With a sexy glint in his eye, he trailed one finger down along her bare neck, dipping toward the cleft between her breasts. “To hell with them.” He pressed his lips to her neck, whispering, “I'm not in love with them.”

“So why don't we make it official, then?” Elle reached up and cupped his burly cheek. “Marry me, big guy. I got a house at the beach and we can have a happily-ever-after under a rose-covered trellis.”

“Not that again.” He pulled away and spun her desk chair so that she faced him. “What, have you been sneaking peaks at bridal magazines again? Believe me, happily ever after has nothing to do with signing your life away on a marriage certificate. How does that song go? Some inkstain dried upon a line . . .”

“You are so sarcastic.”

“That's me, baby.”

“Well, it hurts me when you put down the notion of being committed to me.”

“It's not about you, Elle, it's about someone else's institution. Their rules. We don't need that. We know we're committed to each other.”

Elle knew she was his one and only. Between the time they spent at his place and the long hours in the office, on set, or on location, she was cognizant of every aspect of Judd's day and night. The commitment was there. So why did he always balk at making it real?

“Then why not make it official?” she asked. “This is the society we live in, Judd, and when it comes to you, marriage is a rule I'd like to follow. I want to marry you and make it real. I want a home that we share, not shuffling between our two apartments. And yes, I want kids and all the challenges and heartaches they would bring us. I want to share that with you, Judd. Why is it so wrong?”

“Because I've been down that road, Elle.” His dark eyes were soulful, bitterly dark. “It doesn't work for me. Marriage was really bad for my personality. A lethal match.”

From her discussions with Judd, she'd learned how deeply he'd been hurt by the failure of his marriage. She'd also learned that it wasn't the convention of “marriage” that made the relationship fail. Even Judd had admitted, “We were just young and stupid. She was all enamored that I was a Hollywood script writer, and I was all about her long, long legs.”

Elle reached for Judd's hand, peering intently in his eyes. “It won't be that way with us . . .”

“Says you.”

“Judd, our relationship is completely different from your marriage, you've said so yourself.”

“Yup. And our relationship has worked out well
because
it's so loose, because we're not married.”

“That's not true,” she objected.

He spun her around so that she faced her desk again. “Discussion ended. Back to work.”

“We'll talk about it another time,” she said firmly.

“Don't waste your time or mine,” he said in that gruff executive producer voice he usually reserved for tough negotiations. “It's a done deal, honey.”

Elle refused to give him the satisfaction of looking up as he walked away. She didn't want him to know that this time his gruff executive producer tone had cut right through her, and she didn't want him to see the disappointment that rocked her to the core.

T
he beginning of August brought a significant change at the McCorkle house on Rose Lane—daily visits from a hospice worker named Calida and the arrival of a huge clanking metal hospital bed on the screened-in porch. Although I had argued that the porch was going to get rainy at times, Ma would not hear of being sequestered in the living room. “If I'm to be stuck in one room, let it be a place where I can hear the birds in the morning and the waves breaking at night.” I had wanted to argue that the fall and winter months would be bitterly cold out on the porch, but Calida, the soft-spoken hospice worker with bushy eyebrows and graying temples, had advised me, in a kind but firm way, not to worry about the cold months. Although it took me a moment, I got the underlying message: the hospital bed would be gone by then.

So it was on the screened-porch that I sat in the warm days of August, reading my manuscript to my mother, who now grew tired so quickly that reading had become too much of a strain. At first, reading the prologue aloud, I had burned with embarrassment, stumbling over my own words. But as I progressed in the manuscript, I found an easy rhythm and a command of my own voice, as if I were reading an animated picture book to a child.

Ma seemed to enjoy it, as evidenced when she laughed at the jokes. “Oof ! I never expected a comedy.”

“Probably the Irish in me, I can't let anything go without a smirk,” I said. “Besides, with a title like
Greetings from Bikini Beach
, I couldn't get too heavy.”

One August day I was reading to Ma when she got a call saying that Elle would be right over.

“I thought you were back in production,” I said.

“I'm sick,” Elle said. “I can't go back to the office.”

“Is it contagious?” After all, Ma's immunities were compromised in this weakened state.

“Is a broken heart contagious?” Elle snapped, lacking her usual cheerfulness. “I'll explain when I get there. You just get ready for a day out. I'll spell you with Mary Grace.”

Realizing that I hadn't showered this morning—and probably hadn't shaved my legs in the last week—I jumped into the shower, moving quickly to make myself city worthy. Funny, how being homebound was making me lose my desire to get out. “It's depression,” Calida, the hospice worker, had told me. “The best way you can take care of your mother right now is to take care of yourself. Give yourself some breaks.” But how could I do that when my siblings were a hundred miles away, wrapped up in their own families, the kids' baseball games, their houses and jobs? Their incredibly important lives. Right now I hated them . . . even Steve, who'd gone off to Tokyo thinking Ma would miraculously recover. What a fool.

Elle arrived with a tale of woe to add to my misery. “I just don't know what to do about Judd. Every time I bring up marriage, he turns into an ogre. Yesterday, in the office, it got a little ugly.” As Elle talked she put a muffin in a bowl and cut it into small pieces for Mary Grace. “I went home to my own apartment—alone—last night in a funk. When I woke up this morning, for the first time, I felt uncomfortable going to the office, knowing Judd would be there.”

“And you've always loved your job,” Mary Grace said. “Such a shame that this would spoil it for you.”

“Yeah, well my mistake to get involved with the boss.” Elle shook herself out of the blue mood and thrust her hands into the air. “So I'm on sick leave, and I came out here to see you guys.”

“How much sick leave do you get?” Ma asked.

Elle shrugged. “Who knows? I never used it before.” She dug into her shopping bag, lifted out an Estee Lauder makeup kit in a lavender bag with silver piping, and handed it to me. “This is for you. Saw it when I cut through Macy's and thought you should have it. You don't get enough time to shop these days, sweetie.”

“Thank you,” I said, stunned as I sorted through the beautiful lipsticks, sparkly as candy sticks, and powdered eye shadows in cool palettes of green, brown, and mauve. “I don't even remember the last time I wore makeup,” I confessed. What a hermit I'd become lately.

“You're very welcome. Why don't you try some of that stuff on, then hightail it out to the train station? I'll bet Noah will be glad to see you.”

Noah . . . the artistic genius, brilliant director, lousy boyfriend who was always too busy to call.

“Go on, darling,” her mother said. “No reason to stay cooped up here with me. Get your fanny on that train.”

“Okay.” I tucked the makeup kit under my arm and headed inside. “Just give me a few minutes to make myself beautiful.” Passing through the kitchen, I added, “Actually, better make that a few days.”

 

Emerging from Penn Station into the sunlight of an August day, I felt like a zombie of my former self, moving through the familiar streets of Manhattan that somehow no longer belonged to me. Walking toward the theater I passed Joe Allen, the restaurant where Noah and I had spent hours discussing scripts and story. Down another street was the subway stop for the number one train, which I used to ride to Island Books. And ahead loomed a square blue sign for my bank, such a familiar stop, back when I had a life here in the city.

No one questioned me as I passed through the stage door of the old theater. The props mistress gave me a nod as I moved through the wings, finding my way to the middle seats of the cool theater suffused in amber light. The cast and crew of Noah's shows had gotten used to seeing me wait on the fringes, like Noah's personal fan club.

I sank into a chair in the middle of the theater, wondering if it was worth interrupting Noah to let him know I was here for an unexpected visit. He stood at the foot of the stage, running a scene with Bancroft and Darcy, the three of them laughing over some mistake that Ban kept making that struck them as funny. Since the actors were not miked, I could only catch bits and pieces of their conversation. Feeling like an outsider, I had just sunk down into my seat when someone tapped my shoulder—Milo, sporting a wide grin.

“Hey, Linds. Does Noah know you're here?”

“It's a surprise visit. Elle showed up to stay with Ma at the last minute.”

“Come on up to the booth to keep me company. I'm working on the light board until they hire a proper lighting designer.”

Feeling like I was sneaking off to an adventure, I followed him through a door in the back of the theater to a catwalk that led to the lighting booth, a small box perched high at the rear of the theater, barely big enough for two people.

“It's a good thing neither of us has a weight problem,” I said, tucking myself behind the console of red lights, switches, and levers. “But it is cozy up here. A real bird's-eye view.”

Onstage, Darcy doubled over, giggling about something I had missed.

“It's not that funny,” Bancroft said, laughing despite himself.

“They're punchy today, aren't they?” I commented.

“Rehearsals have been going well,” Milo said. “Noah seems happy with the way things are shaping up, don't you think?”

“I wouldn't know.” I ran my fingertips over the edge of the light board, feeling like a spectator of my own life. “He always pulls away when he's working on something. Spins himself into a cocoon.”

“One of those artistic types,” Milo said, half joking.

“Sort of. But lately I feel very far away from him, as if he's working in a foreign country and phoning in every few weeks. I don't know. Maybe it's because I'm stuck out in the Hamptons with Ma and he's stuck here with the show.”

“Maybe,” Milo agreed, his voice slowing tentatively. “Or maybe there's something else to it. Did you ever consider that Noah might be interested in someone else?”

I tensed, stabbed by the hint of bad news. “I can't imagine Noah fooling around,” I said evenly. “He doesn't have time for another girlfriend, and I can't see Noah cheating on me. He's just not that type.”

“Not cheating, exactly,” Milo said, his eyes straight ahead on the stage, where Bancroft exited and Noah jumped onto the apron, motioning Darcy closer. Apparently Noah was blocking her soliloquy, directing her to possible marks downstage left.

I shifted my sandaled feet uncomfortably. “Milo, what are you trying to say?”

“Um . . .” Milo pressed his lips together, frowning as he followed Darcy with a spotlight. “Have you ever thought that your boyfriend might be in love with someone else?”

I looked from him to the stage, spotlight on Darcy and Noah. He had one hand behind her back, the other pressed to her sternum in a gesture so intimate it stole my breath away. He was probably instructing her on projecting or feeling the scene with her heart or letting the energy flow up along her spine—business as usual, but in a most personal way.

“Oh, God.” I pressed a fist to my mouth, unable to turn away from the new source of pain. The glaring discovery was so apparent, so obvious that I felt a slight sting of foolishness at the thought of all the people who'd been watching it happen for months. “I feel so stupid.” I turned to Milo. “How long has it been going on?”

“It hasn't. You know Noah wouldn't cheat on you—you said it yourself. And Darcy is your friend.” He shook his head, his eyes glimmering, dots from the light board reflected in his glasses. “She wouldn't do anything to hurt you. I'm fairly sure no one has acted on this attraction, out of love and respect for you.”

“Me? Oh, great. Now I'm the one keeping two star-crossed lovers apart.” I turned back to the stage, feeling the corner of my mouth twitch as a sob came on. My froggy face, I called it. “I'm screwing up everyone because I want to have a boyfriend,” I blurted out.

Milo shrugged. “Nobody can blame you. Noah's a hot property.”

“Not a very good boyfriend,” I said, my voice catching with a sob. My defenses were down. I was tired, and my mother was dying, and I missed my job and my Manhattan life.

But I couldn't let all that cloud my judgment. Noah and I had been going through the paces for a while now; a loveless relationship based on convenience, social status, and probably some pity on his part.

“I've been such a moron.”

“No, you haven't.” Milo put a hand on my shoulder. “You've been forging ahead, fighting your own battles miles away from all this . . . this dynamic that seems to have a life of its own.”

Down on the stage, Darcy's golden hair fell over one shoulder as she lifted her head to face Noah. He moved closer to her—close, but not touching. Such intensity, their eyes locked on each other.

I felt the sting of jealousy. Something
was
going on between them!
Look! Look!
I wanted to shriek at Milo.
They're in love—they've got chemistry—and Noah and I always struggled to find common ground.
“It's not fair,” I said aloud.

“It never is, kiddo.”

 

I ended my relationship with Noah that very day. Not surprisingly, he didn't seem too distressed but expressed his concern for me. “You're going through so much right now, I know I haven't been a great source of support,” he said. “I'm sorry, but though I don't show it, I do worry about you. Don't slip away, Lindsay.”

“I'll be fine,” I told him with more confidence than I felt. “I've got good friends.” I wasn't sure that I could count Darcy among them at the moment, but I didn't want to go through all the sordid details with Noah. Chances were, he wasn't even aware of his own feelings for Darcy; though Noah was a master at interpreting other pieces, he was clueless when it came to reading the indicators and feelings in his own life.

I returned to the Hamptons that evening, fighting my way among the rush-hour throngs of passengers. Ma was asleep when I crept into the house, but Elle was in the living room, watching syndicated reruns of
Truth and Justice.

“I can barely stand it,” Elle said sadly, her legs folded like a pretzel on the Chinese rug. “What am I going to do? I love my job, but I can't keep working on that show with
him
in the same office. The whole damn show has his thumbprint on it, but I can't turn it off.”

I picked up the remote and turned to the Cartoon Network, where
Courage the Cowardly Dog
moaned for mercy. “I broke up with Noah today.”

Elle winced. “Oh, honey . . . what happened?”

I opened a bottle of wine and spilled my troubles to my friend.

“Now let me get this straight,” Elle said, cupping her wineglass to her chest. “You're giving Noah to Darcy?”

“I'm conceding graciously,” I said.

“And you're not pissed?” Elle's green eyes went wide. “She stole your man, girl!”

“He was never mine in the first place. Noah and I never had the rapport he seems to have with Darcy.”

“And you're not mad at her?” Elle shook her head. “Are you depressed, or just incredibly mature?”

“I'm not mad . . . well, maybe a little,” I admitted. “But I think this was just one of those things that snowballed out of control. That's the thing about love. It bites you in the ass when you least expect it.” It had been years since I had known how it felt to be in love . . . the sudden laughter, the spark of attraction, the resoundingly familiar echo of Bear's face. I'd memorized that face. A good thing, as the memory was the only trace of the only real love of my life.

“Yup.” Elle tipped the bottle into my wineglass. “Love certainly does bite.”

“Yeah,” I said, “and when it doesn't bite, well, that bites, too.” When the bottle was dry, we turned on the monitor connected to the porch, filed up the dark stairs, and fell into the two single beds in my old attic room.