Pushing Upward (35 page)

Emma's flower!
I turned the light back on and grabbed the plastic box sitting brightly on the table, the flower still alive and luminous, though curling a bit around the edges. I hoisted my bags over my shoulders and returned the flower to the fridge, hoping that it would keep its shape for tomorrow. If not, I'd borrow some money and buy her a new one.

The balmy air brushed against my body as I came out the stage door into the night. Allen looked so proud, sitting in his white Porsche convertible, his dark hair riffling in the breeze, his arm resting casually along the seat.

“I'm glad you put the top down … it's such a beautiful night.”

He leaned over to open my door. “How do you feel?”

“Exhilarated, exhausted, ecstatic.”

“You captivated the audience.”

“Get out!”

“I'm serious.” He reached over and pulled me close. “You were wonderful. Didn't you see the standing ovation? Didn't you get hit by the flowers, and stampeded by reporters?” We kissed, and then he said, “Let's go.”

“Wait, I have to ask you something.”

He looked at me with such desire, I could hardly form the question. “I know the audience liked the show. But were
you
pleased with what I did?”

He laughed. “You went beyond my expectations, especially for opening night.”

“Seriously, was there anything that I didn't bring to the characters that you wanted me to bring? Was there anything that I—”

“Sandra, you were perfect. Even when you tripped over the telephone cord and fell on the chair, you stayed in character. The audience howled. I don't have to tell you how good you were. Didn't you feel it?”

“Yeah, I guess. I never felt so connected with an audience.”

“Then there's your answer. Can we go now?”

I leaned over and gave him another kiss, this time with a little more passion.

“Let's not go to the cast party,” Allen declared.

“What? You're the director. You have to
at least
make an appearance.”

“Do you have any idea how many cast parties I've been to?”

“That's not the point. People will expect you. And I want to go … we'll show our faces, have a drink, and leave.”
God, I thought I was impatient.

“If you insist.”

“I insist.”

Chapter 29

A young fox who as yet has not acquired …
caution goes ahead boldly …

It looked like Christmas. Tiny white lights framed the windows and doors of the producer's estate. Balloons and streamers hung from the ceiling, and Broadway playbills lined the walls. Detecting the scent of grilled fish and steak, Allen and I edged our way back toward the outside deck, smiling and hugging and taking in the stares from the cast and crew as we headed for the champagne.

All eyes were upon us as we walked toward the bar. Whispers and smiles, questioning stares, a few knowing glances. I smiled back, shyly, part of me apprehensive, part of me not caring what anyone thought. I was in love, I was with my man, and he was holding my hand. And as much as I wanted to know what had happened to Emma, I didn't want to think about her now. There was plenty of time for that.

Allen and I were both famished. Fortunately, a waiter walked by en route with hors d'oeuvres. There were stuffed mushrooms with crab, lobster on toast, and salmon with caviar. We decided to take one of each. The producer had opened his pocketbook for this gathering, and my stomach was grateful that he had.

We reached the bar and hugged the cast standing along the glossy wood counter. We all drank and laughed, recounted the evening, and danced and danced. Red wine, white wine, Dom Pérignon. We twisted and cha-cha'd and waltzed, until the house started to spin. And then I stopped to look, with my inebriated eyes, at all the lovely people swirling and dancing and laughing and hugging. We had done our job. The audience loved the play. We'd made a splash. Now all we had to do was see if the reviewers agreed, and keep it up night after night for the next four weeks.

Allen and I looked at each other, knowing we had more than accomplished our goal. We started to head out the door when Clifford Thorne, the playwright, stopped the music and toasted. “To the show's successful opening,” he trumpeted with great pride. “And to more standing ovations.” We were given more glasses of champagne to raise.

Then we left.

Like children, we snuck out and waited impatiently for the valet to bring Allen's car.

Like teenagers, we clasped hands on the stick shift as we drove to his house. The anticipation of being together was beyond … the beyond. Giddy, drunk on champagne and expectation, neither one of us could find a coherent word. So we sang out loud to whatever was on the radio, bellowing out tunes, whether we knew the words or not.

And then I remembered that my car was parked at the Windmill Theater. “Allen, my car is at the theater.” He quickly did a U-turn without even dropping the high note from “Carry On,” another one of my all-time favorite tunes.

I climbed into my Fiat and followed the Porsche back to his house. Watching him weave and ignore the yellow lines, traffic signs, and red lights would have on any other night made me a wreck. But I was just as spent myself.

Chapter 30

P
USHING
U
PWARD
has supreme success.

We staggered out of our cars and waited forever while he fumbled to unlock the door. Once inside, we kicked off our shoes and fell into each other's arms. Purse, jacket, and overnight bag were shed in a heap by the door. Allen gently pushed me against the wall and kissed me deeply, passionately. The plush carpet cradled our feet as we melted down the stairs—stair after stair, until we stopped midway to kiss again. Feeling his body pressed against mine made me weak. I could hardly stand.

Allen unbuttoned my sweater while I unbuttoned his jacket. His jacket cascaded down the steps, and we cascaded behind it, making slow headway toward his bedroom. My body was on fire. I wanted to go slowly—I wanted us to take our time, savor every second—but neither one of us was able to slow the pace.

In the bedroom, he gently peeled off my sweater, kissed my shoulders, unhooked my bra. I removed his T-shirt and unzipped his pants. We slipped off each other's underwear. Our naked bellies touched. I was lost. My mind stopped. His hands massaged my back, my breasts. As he kissed my nipples with such sweetness, my fingers caressed the length of his arms, his thighs, his erection. We kissed, and went on kissing as we toppled onto the bed. Our bodies throbbing with so much passion, I ached for him to be inside me.

We rolled across the sheets like playful cubs, coupling like serpents twined in knots. I moaned and ran my fingers through his hair, kissed his ears, his cheeks, his throat. I grabbed his hips to pull him further inside. I'd made love before, but never like this, never with this pulsating eagerness. I was so glad we'd waited. I knew this night was a reward for our patience. It was a night I'd remember for its passionate perfection. Why must wonderful experiences like this have to end?

Limp, exhausted, we lay there in each other's arms, falling effortlessly into a deep, peaceful sleep.

The sunlight peeked in from behind the curtains, warning me that morning had come. Allen was asleep, his burly body sprawled in abandon across the tangled sheets. I gazed admiringly at his fingers, so expressive and relaxed; his shoulders and arms softly clothed with downy hair; his mouth slightly open in a light snore, lips loose, supple as a baby's. I placed my arm over his stomach and rested my cheek against his back.

Lying there behind him, eyes closed, I could feel him breathe, and found myself contentedly synchronizing my breath with his. I had never felt so relaxed with a man, so at peace. I fantasized getting up every morning for the rest of my life like this, making love again as the sun slanted through the silk curtains. Preparing breakfast, sitting out on the deck, sipping coffee.

Enough, Sandra. Be here now!
I glanced at the clock sitting on his nightstand. It was seven. I wondered if the morning newspaper was here, if the editor had printed the review. Allen had said it might be out today. Carefully, quietly, so as not to disturb my sleeping bear, I slid out of bed, retrieved my scattered clothes from the carpet, and tiptoed into the bathroom to take a shower.

I was singing “Michelle,
ma belle
” as beads of hot water ran down my body and washed away the scent of Allen's cologne when the phone rang. I jumped, and spontaneously turned off the shower. I didn't know if the answering machine was off or on, or if Allen was awake. I bundled the towel around me and, without a second thought, picked up the bathroom phone.

Allen had answered. I was about to put down the receiver, but something inside me said,
Listen.

A woman's voice spoke seductively. “Good morning,” she said. “Interested in an early-morning rendezvous, along with some strawberry pancakes?”

Allen whispered back, “I'd love nothing better; only you'll have to subdue your passion until later.” Then he said matter-of-factly, “Can you wait until eleven or twelve?”

“Sure,” she replied, “you'll be worth the postponement. I'll just have to keep the pancakes warm until you get here.”

I eased the receiver quietly back onto its cradle. Stunned, dizzy, I sat down on the toilet seat. All feeling had left my body. I wasn't sure what to do. I wanted to climb out a window, but there wasn't one. I wanted to slide under the door, sneak out so Allen wouldn't see me, so I wouldn't have to face him.
Dear God, what have I done? Tell me what to do.

I struggled into my pants, my belt, my bra, my sweater, and thought about what I'd say to him once I opened the door. But there were too many thoughts spinning around for a coherent one to surface. I waited another moment until I was sure he'd hung up the phone. Then I gathered strength from I don't know where, took a breath, tried to compose myself, opened the door, and walked out of the bathroom.

Allen was lying there on the bed with a smile plastered on his face, motioning for me to join him. I stared at him.

“The, ah, phone?” I asked, choking out the words.

“My mother.” He chuckled. “She wants me over for brunch by eleven. Come here, star. It's only”—he looked at his clock radio—“seven-fifteen. We have almost four hours.”

I stood there shaking, worse than the day I'd met him at the audition, worse than the day I'd arrived in California scared to death because I didn't know a soul, worse than I'd felt remembering what Steven and Lenny had done to me all those years ago. There was nothing I could compare this feeling to, nothing. I only knew that I was not going to break down; I was not going to lose it. I was going to stay cool and reserved and see what he had to say.

“Is Mother making strawberry pancakes or French toast for breakfast?” I asked the master impostor.

“Well, to tell you the truth, she's—”

I didn't let him finish. “Oh yes,
do
tell me the truth.” So much for cool; I'd already lost it. I walked over to him ready to slap him across the face, throw him off the bed, kick him in his precious balls. But I knew I needed to save what little dignity I had left.
Reclaim what you've lost
.