Power Play (36 page)

“I think that can be arranged.”

Not what Monica had in mind, but she supposed it could be fun. Everything she did with Gloria was fun. Gloria was a good role model: no regrets, still open to new things. That's how Monica wanted to be in old age, with just one exception: she didn't want to squander her youth on love affairs. She wanted a relationship that was long, deep, and committed. And she knew who she wanted it with. She just needed to make the leap when the time was right.

 

“Here you go, boys.”

Eric noticed the quiver in his father's hand as he handed over two set of keys to the family home, one to him and one to Jason. Outside in the driveway sat a gleaming white RV. The barn was silent and empty, the farm equipment gone. It had been surreal doing a walk-through of the house and seeing it devoid of furniture. Yet it wasn't empty; there were memories everywhere he turned, which was both comforting and disconcerting.

Eric gave his father a big hug. “You did the right thing, Dad. And we won't let you down.”

His father pulled back, clasping him by the shoulders as he stared hard into his eyes. “Neither of you boys could ever let me down.”

Eric and his brother looked down at the dirt at the same time. Off in the near distance, Eric could hear his mother and Delilah chattering away like two magpies. His father might still be stoic, but his mother was rarin' to go. They'd put their furniture in storage; the plan was to travel, then come back to Flasher and buy a small house for the two of them near the farm.

“What's the first stop, Dad?” Jason asked.

“Your mother's goddamn sister Lucy in Kansas. Never liked me, and the feeling is mutual. At least we'll be able to sleep in the RV. The woman is the biggest slob I ever met.”

“And then it's on to—?” Eric prompted.

“Texas,” he said, looking happy for the first time in months. “I've always wanted to see the Alamo. And your mother wants to go to the beach.”

“Sounds great,” Eric and Jason said in unison. They turned and looked at each other. Whenever they were at the farm, their twin connection became especially strong.

Jane and Delilah wandered back to join their circle of three, the two of them looking happy. Jane squeezed Dick's arm. “You ready to roll, old man?”

“Who you calling old?” Dick shot back, his mouth curling into an affectionate smile. Eric felt relieved. If his dad could joke, he'd be okay.

His mother dug her sunglasses and a set of car keys out of her purse, swinging the keys on her index finger. “I'm driving.”

His father turned to Eric and Jason. “See how she bosses me around?”

They all laughed, but it was a thin, forced sound, covering up for deep emotion.

Jane took Eric's face in her hands, kissing him hard on the cheek. “Be a good boy. We'll be in touch.” She kissed Delilah in turn, then Jason. Dick hugged them all.

Eric watched as his mother hoisted herself up into the driver's seat of the RV.

“Jesus,” said Jason worriedly. “How the hell is she going to back that thing out of the driveway? You know reverse has never been Mom's best gear.”

Eric looked at his father's worried face through the windshield; he was obviously thinking the same thing as Jason. But his mother pulled it off.

“Good-bye, boys!” she called through the window, waving madly. “Good-bye, Delilah!”

“Good-bye!” Eric called along with Jason and Delilah as he watched his parents disappear in a cloud of dust.

“Ten bucks says they're only on the road ten minutes before Dad insists on driving,” said Eric.

“That's a given,” said Jason. He put an arm around Delilah's shoulder, squeezing tight. “Happy?”

She beamed up at him. “Very.”

Eric felt a surge of envy watching them.

Delilah kissed Jason's cheek. “I'm going to go inside the house, think about decor.”

“Go ahead.”

Eric turned to his brother. “I'm glad we did this.”

“Me, too.” Jason kicked at a patch of dirt on the ground. “Think you'll be bringing Monica back here at some point?”

“Yup,” said Eric.

He just wished he knew when.

THIRTY-ONE

“Miss Geary? There's some old guy down here named Monty who says he's a friend of yours. Should I send him up?”

Monica held down the intercom button in her apartment for a long moment, waiting for her incredulity to pass. In all the years Monica had known Monty, he'd only come to her apartment once: eight years ago when she threw him a birthday party. “Send him up.”

“Will do.”

Monty. Here. To see her. Apprehensive, she opened her apartment door to wait for him in the hallway. She was all too familiar with apprehension where Monty was concerned; it was the way she'd felt all those times he gave his weekly critique of her performance on
W and F
. This time it was different, though. Her anxiety was born of not having seen him in months, as well as her fear that he'd deteriorated. Masochistic, she knew that if he were in poor shape, she'd blame herself for pulling the plug on his financial and emotional support.

The elevator doors slid back, and out stepped Monty, his bearing as regal as ever, his trademark silk cravat around his neck. The man still had panache, even as he strolled toward her at a snail's pace. He lifted his hand in an uncertain greeting when he caught sight of Monica standing there. Monica lifted a hand in return, catching a whiff of Monty's cologne preceding him. Another surprise: she'd never known Monty to wear cologne in his life.

“Hello,” she said coolly as he reached the door. “This is a surprise.”

Monty looked at her uncertainly. “An unwelcome one?”

“I don't know yet.”

Monica ushered him inside, helping him off with his coat. The temperature outside was edging up into the high seventies, yet he was wearing a camel hair coat along with a V-neck sweater underneath.

Monty looked impressed as his gaze swept Monica's apartment. “I'd forgotten how lovely your home is.”

“Thank you.”

She gestured for him to sit on the couch.

“Can I get you anything?” she offered as he slowly lowered himself onto the plush cushions with a small grimace.

“No, no. I intend to be brief.”

Monica felt the old familiar knot in her gut return. She hated being wary of him, but that was his fault, not hers. Determined not to show her uneasiness, she sat down opposite him, her gaze as unnervingly direct as his had always been.

“What can I do for you?”

Monty cleared his throat. “I wish to apologize to you for all those years of belittling your career in daytime,” he said, his voice cracking slightly. “I've been thinking about it long and hard, and I've come to the conclusion I'm a raging jackass. I hope you can forgive me.”

Monica didn't know what to say. This was the first time she'd ever seen him display humility. “Go on.”

Monty took a deep, fortifying breath. “Dedication and talent is dedication and talent, no matter where it's practiced. Don't ever put down what you do. And don't ever let others put down what you do, either. You haven't squandered your talent, Monica. If anyone's done that, it's me. When I think of all the opportunities to act that I passed up over the years because I viewed anything commercial as ‘selling out,' I want to take my dear father's Luger out of the drawer and splatter my turtle-sized brain against the wall.

“I can't tell you how sorry I am.” His deep blue eyes became teary. “I hope you can forgive me. I hope we can be friends again.”

Monica's eyes welled up, too. “You can't imagine how much this means to me, Monty. Thank you.” She came to sit beside him, squeezing his hand. “I know that was hard for you to do.”

His smile was sentimental. “How well you know me.” Monica was shocked at how cold his hand was. “Of course it was hard for me. But it needed to be said. I must confess, I was fearful you'd think I was just flattering you falsely so you would”—his eyes darted away in embarrassment—“assist me with some of the various aspects of living.”

“You could never be that conniving.”

“True, but I could be that selfish.”

“
Are
you getting along okay?” Monica asked quietly.

“Perfectly fine. You'll be very pleased to know that I started auditioning again, and I've landed a small role in a sitcom pilot,
Her Majesty and Co
., based upon the queen. I'm playing her butler.”

“Monty! That's wonderful!”

“Yes, it is. But I never would have done it if weren't for you making me see the light. Take my advice: as long as you love what you're doing, keep doing it. That's it. End of speech.”

Between Gloria and Monty, Monica was beginning to feel like she was continually being visited by the Ghosts of Acting Future, warning her about how her life might turn out if she made some of the same mistakes they did. Monty looked weary, as if his speech had worn him out. Still, a flicker of hope burned in his eyes.

“Are we friends again?” he asked tentatively.

“Of course. I've missed you terribly.”

“I've missed you, too. I thought perhaps, to celebrate, I might take you out to lunch?”

“That would be lovely.” My, this
was
a new Monty, offering to pay for something.

“Good.” He rose slowly. “No chance of us running into the ogress, is there?”

“I don't know any ogresses,” said Monica, flashing him a warning look.

Monty sighed, offering Monica his arm. “Onward and upward, my dear girl,” he said, using the very same expression Gloria once had, which Monica found very telling. “Onward and upward.”

THIRTY-TWO

“Oh, God, this is torture,” Monica declared anxiously. “Pure torture.”

Monica and Gloria were parked in front of Monica's TV set, waiting for the Daytime Drama Awards to be announced. It was a ritual they'd followed ever since they started working together: Gloria would come to Monica's at six a.m. bearing bagels and lox, and they'd turn on the RBC's early morning show,
Wake Up, USA
, to watch the nominations being announced live. This year, Elizabeth Taylor, a longtime soap fan, was making the announcements. When the show's hosts announced they were cutting over to Elizabeth live at her home, where she was gracious enough to be awake at three a.m. to do the honors, both Monica and Gloria leaned forward eagerly.

“She's been nipped and tucked a bit,” Gloria snorted cattily.

“Ssh.”

“She never knew about the solace Burton sought with me, the sweet, sweet nights—”

“Gloria, please shut up.” Monica hated sounding irritated, but she didn't want to miss a word, and six a.m. was just too early to start listening to tales of Gloria's sexcapades.

“Someone hasn't had their coffee yet,” Gloria sniffed.

One by one, Elizabeth read out the nominees for a variety of categories.

Costume Design.

Direction.

Outstanding Writing. (For the first year ever,
W and F
wasn't nominated.)

Supporting Actor.

Supporting Actress. (“Sons of bitches,” Gloria proclaimed when her name wasn't announced.)

Outstanding Lead Actor in a Daytime Drama. (Royce was nominated. “Oh, please,” said Gloria. “A cardboard box has more ability than him. What are they
thinking
?”)

And then, finally, Outstanding Lead Actress in a Daytime Drama.

“Here it comes.” Monica bit down on her fist to stifle the scream she knew was coming if her name was announced—which it was. She screamed anyway.

“Thank you, God!” Monica began bouncing up and down on the couch.

“Ha, take that Christian Larkin, you little pissant! You, too, Chesty McTalentless!” Gloria cried. She threw her arms around Monica. “You deserve this, darling!”

“Wait, wait.” Monica forced herself to calm down. The nominations for the final award had yet to be announced.

Monica held still, despite the excitement careening through her body.

“The nominees for Outstanding Daytime Drama series are,” said Elizabeth Taylor in her tiny, breathless voice, “
Golden Days, Passionate Nights
. . .
The Heat and the Heart . . . Shadows and Horizons . . .
and
Reap the Wild Wind
.”

Monica and Gloria turned to each other, slack jawed.

“Disaster,” Gloria snapped. “
W and F
has never not been nominated. Never!”

“I know.” Monica was stunned. She was tempted to pick up the phone to call the show's former executive producer, Michael, to comfort him and make sure he knew it was completely the fault of his successor, Christian, but not everyone got up to watch the announcements live.

Monica's phone immediately began ringing. The first of what would be many congratulatory calls throughout the day.

Gloria stifled a yawn. “Go answer your phone and accept your kudos. I'm going home and going back to bed. Kiss, kiss.” She kissed the air and departed Monica's apartment with bagel in hand and a slightly despondent air.

By the time Monica hung up the phone hours later, her throat was sore from talking. She was about to crawl back into bed—she'd barely slept the night before, she was so keyed up about the nominations—when the biggest bouquet of red roses she'd ever seen in her life was delivered to her apartment. She fumbled eagerly to open the accompanying card. It read: “She shoots! She scores! Congrats on your nomination! Love, Eric.”