The True Love Quilting Club (3 page)

Emma picked up her pace, almost running, pushing to escape fate.

Don’t let the old crone rattle you. She’s bitter. She’s washed up. She’s not like you. She’s not special. She’s not a star.

But the reassurance rang false. She could feel the lie of it deep inside her. She was the one who was bitter. She was washed up. She wasn’t special. She wasn’t a star. She’d been deceiving herself all along. Chasing a pipe dream. Trying to be something she had no hope of becoming. Her heart sank as all the old doubts collapsed, falling in on her like perfectly lined up dominoes.

Faster and faster she walked, breathless now, sweaty.

She passed a souvenir shop, heard Sinatra’s rendition of “New York, New York” playing from a Wurlitzer, assuring her that if she could make it here, she could make it anywhere.

“But what if you can’t make it here?” she muttered under her breath. “What happens then, Old Blue Eyes?” Sinatra had not sung a song about that eventuality. Great, now she was talking to herself. She was a shopping cart away from being homeless.

At her hip, her cell phone vibrated. Grateful to have a distraction, she whipped it off her waistband, flipped it open, saw the name on the caller ID. Hope muscled out despair. It was her agent, Myron Schmansky. Myron was seventy-five if he was a day, frequently forgot her name, and smelled of boiled cabbage and cheap cigars. But by God, he was an agent.

Then a terrifying thought occurred. What if he was dumping her?

Her spirits—which were already stuck to the bottom
of her sneakers—withered, turned brittle. Great, this was all she needed. Myron was going to add insult to injury. She didn’t want to answer, but ignoring reality wasn’t going to make it go away.

She caught her breath and pressed the phone to her ear. “Hello?”

“Anna,” Myron said in his raspy, on-the-verge-of-throat-cancer voice.

“Emma,” she corrected. “It’s Emma.”

“Emma, Anna, whatever your name is,” Myron grunted. “This is it, babe.”

“What’s it?” Emma asked, a sudden fear stomping on the hope. Had he called to dump her?

“Your big break.” Myron wheezed.

Her pulse slowed instantly, and she felt as if she was floating outside her body. The street shrank and Emma grew taller in some surreal Alice in Wonderland moment.

“You got an audition with Scott Miller at three
P.M
. this afternoon.” He gave her the address. “He’s casting for a supporting role in a new play, and he specifically asked for you. Said he caught your Munchkin role in
Oz
at the Half-Moon. Claimed you blew him out of the water. He raved about you. Wanted to know why someone else hadn’t plucked you from obscurity years ago.”

“Seriously?” Hope was back, dancing the hora inside her.

“Miller’s got a thing for natural redheads, capitalize on it.”

“Scott Miller?
The
Scott Miller?” Emma squeaked as all the air fled her lungs. She was so excited that she ignored the tiny little voice whispering at the back of her mind that Miller had a reputation as an aggressive
hound dog. She wasn’t much for gossip. Who knew if it was true or not?

“You know any other big-time Broadway producers named Scott Miller?”

Nausea beat out the glee surging through her. Oh God, what if she screwed this up? She couldn’t screw this up. She’d been working twelve long years for this moment.

“Don’t screw this up,” Myron said. “If you haven’t made it in this business by thirty, you might as well hang it up.”

“What about Morgan Freeman? He didn’t have a Broadway debut until he was in his thirties.”

“Well, you aren’t Morgan Freeman, are you?”

“No, but there’s no reason I couldn’t be.”

“It’s different for women and you know it.”

Emma had just turned thirty. He was right, and she just didn’t want to admit it. This was her last chance to become a star. “Thanks for the pep talk, Myron.”

“Don’t mention it. Go knock ’im into next week, kid.”

It took Emma an hour to decide what to wear to the audition. Finally she settled on the artsy look, donning a short black skirt with turquoise tights and a matching turquoise blouse that hung off one shoulder. She layered the look with a black leather belt, black ankle boots, and bright pink bracelets.

She was still having trouble believing this was really happening. Oh, she’d fantasized about it plenty. Most nights she lulled herself to sleep with visions of seeing her name in lights on a Broadway marquee. Whenever she got the blues and feared she was just another cliché, she’d head down Forty-fourth to Sardi’s and
sit at the bar. She’d order an old-fashioned, because, hey, it was old-fashioned, and she would stare at the framed caricatures on the wall—Katharine Hepburn, Marilyn Monroe, Clark Gable. Yes, these days Sardi’s was little more than a tourist hangout, but you could still feel the energy, and if you listened closely enough you could hear the ghosts from the past.

If she closed her eyes she could see the special watering hole the way it had been in its heyday. There sat Walter Winchell and his Cheese Club cronies at their table—joking, laughing, and telling newspaper stories. In that corner were Bette Davis and her friends, drinking highballs and trying to pretend they weren’t anxious about the impending reviews. Across the room, Eddie Fisher canoodled with Elizabeth Taylor.

A trip to Sardi’s never failed to snap Emma from her doldrums. After her audition she’d go there again, either to celebrate or to drown her sorrows, depending on how it went.

She arrived at the theater fifteen minutes early and was surprised to find no one else was there for the casting call. Surely she wasn’t the first to arrive. Had the audition been canceled? Had she gotten the time wrong? A bored-looking assistant, years younger than Emma, sat at the front desk. She was enrapt in an e-book reader and barely glanced up.

“I’m here to see Scott Miller,” Emma said, forcing a note of authority into her voice. “I’m auditioning for him at three.”

Without looking up, the assistant waved toward the door at the back of the theater. “Go on, he’s in his office.”

“We’re not auditioning in the theater?”

“You’re the only one who’s auditioning.”

Her heart lurched, and a ripple of apprehension ran through her, but she tamped it down. This was good, right? She’d never been the only one at an audition before. She wasn’t sure what it meant, but suddenly she felt like a fox in a trap. Mentally, she shoved aside the sensation and chanted the mantra she repeated in front of the mirror every single morning after she brushed her teeth.

You are a Broadway star, I am a Broadway star, Emma Parks is a Broadway star.

“Which way is his office?” she asked.

“Through the back corridor, past the black curtain, last door at the end of the hall.”

“Thanks.” Emma smiled, but it was for no one. The girl wasn’t even looking at her. She shouldered her handbag and moved forward, gliding past the stage entrance. How many times had she come to see plays in this very theater, sat in the back-row, nosebleed-cheap seats, and imagined herself up on that stage? Dozens for sure, maybe even fifty or more.

This is it. This is it. This is it. All your dreams are about to come true.

She eased down the corridor, following the assistant’s directions, and pushed back the dusty black velvet curtain. To Emma, the building smelled like years of stardom. Meryl Streep had performed here. She could almost feel Meryl walking with her toward the door at the end of the hall.

Not to put any pressure on you or anything, but don’t blow this.

Damn that naysaying voice. Purposefully channeling Meryl, Emma strode forward, knocked boldly.

“Come in,” rumbled a deep masculine voice.

Resisting the unexpected urge to run, Emma turned the knob and stepped inside.

The office was ordinary—desk, chairs, framed pictures on the wall. The man sitting on the burgundy leather couch was not. He was the most famed producer on Broadway, and he looked every inch the part.

Scott Miller styled his thick mane of gray hair combed back off his broad forehead and curling to his collar. It lent him a leonine mien. He wore a white button-down shirt with the top three buttons undone, revealing a mass of wiry gray hair, and he had the sleeves rolled up, showing off his muscular forearms. Even well into his sixties, he was in great physical shape. His wedding band was a wide chunk of gold interlaced with a sprinkling of small diamonds. He wore a Rolex at his left wrist and oozed an aura of pure money in spite of the faded black jeans with a tattered hole in one knee. He had on black loafers with no socks and a look of supreme ennui on his face. She resisted the urge to curtsy even as mental alarm bells went off.

His eyes lit on her. Miller sat up straighter and gave her a predatory smile. “Ah,” he said. “The Munchkin. Come on in, shut the door and lock it so we won’t be disturbed.”

Emma’s pulse pounded and her mouth went dry. Something inside her told her to run, but maybe it was simply because she was in the presence of greatness and she didn’t know how to handle it. She felt humbled and thrilled beyond measure. She closed the door, locked it, and turned back around to see that he’d gotten to his feet. He was tall, at least six feet. Standing beside him, Emma felt like a redheaded toadstool.

“You’re gorgeous,” he said, moving quickly across the floor to close the gap between them.

Okay, she’d taken extra care with her makeup and clothing, but gorgeous was not the initial response she usually got from men. Perky, yes. Cute, uh-huh. Adorable, yep. Gorgeous, not so much.

“I knew the minute I saw you that you were perfect for Addie, except you’re going to have to ditch the spiral perm.” He reached out to finger her Nicole Kidman curls.

“It’s not a perm. That’s the way my hair grows.”

“Then you’ll have to have it professionally straightened.”

“Okay,” she said, even though she had no idea how she’d pay for that. It was perilously close to sounding like he was seriously considering her for the part. Did she dare hope?

He stood so close she could feel his hot breath on the nape of her neck, and it was no secret he’d had garlic for lunch. Cloves of it, apparently.
Dude, ever heard of Tic Tacs?
Unnerved and a tad nauseous, she stepped away from him to study the pictures on the wall of Miller with a pretty, much younger woman and three kids in their late teens.

“Is this your family?” she asked, and turned back around to face him. “Your wife is beautiful and—”

“Yeah, yeah, that’s my wife and kids. Now take off your clothes.”

“Pardon?” It wasn’t that she hadn’t heard him; it was just that she couldn’t believe what she’d heard.

“Get naked.”

Her mind grappled with the situation. Was this really happening? Oh God, were the rumors really
true? Emma gulped. “My…Myron didn’t tell me the play involved nudity. I don’t do nude scenes.”

“The play doesn’t involve nudity.”

“Then why do I have to get undressed?”

“Honey, do you want the lead in a Broadway play or not?”

Anxiety slammed into her. This wasn’t happening. It couldn’t be happening. The biggest producer on Broadway wanted to have sex with her? “I do.”

“Then get those clothes off. I’m dying to see if the curtains match the carpet.”

She wasn’t naïve. She knew such things went on. She’d come up against a lot of sexual innuendo in this business, some inappropriate touching, and, yes, she’d even been propositioned. But nothing so blatant as “Give me sex and I’ll give you a job.”

“Come on,” Miller said, closing the gap between them. “Schmansky said you’d do anything for a part. I gotta see that red hair. He said you’re a natural.”

Inside her chest her heart was an engine, revving hot and fast. Was this really what she was going to have to do to make her dreams come true? Humiliation tasted soggy and sour, like laundry left too long in the washing machine.

Do you want the part?

Not like this. Please God, not like this.

Miller’s hands went to the snap of his jeans. His eyes were two lusty black dots. Spittle gleamed at the corner of his mouth. She realized he was standing between her and the door. Over his shoulder she could see the smiling face of his wife and kids. What a prince.

Emma straightened her spine, stitched together the scattered pieces of her courage. “I’m afraid there’s been a misunderstanding.”

“Yeah?” He slid his zipper down.

She knotted her fists. If she screamed, no one could hear her. She was five-foot-nothing and ninety pounds. Miller was over six feet and weighed at least two hundred. She didn’t stand a chance of fighting him. She tried to look haughty. “You’ve been misinformed.”

“How’s that?” He came toward her.

She inched backward, her longing gaze caressing the door. “Myron misspoke. There’s a lot of things I won’t do for a part.”

“Just a blow job then. Five minutes you’re done, the part is yours.” He stripped his pants to his ankles and stood there completely naked from the waist down, sporting a boner the size of Detroit. It made her hurt just looking at him.

“I…I…” She was so stunned she couldn’t breathe, much less talk.

Miller snaked out a hand and grabbed her by the waist. “Here, let me help you with those clothes.”

What happened next was pure reflex. She forgot he was big and she was small. Forgot he was the most famous producer on Broadway and she was a lowly struggling actress. Five years of Krav Maga training took over. She brought her knee to his crotch at the same time she jammed her fist up underneath his chin.

Miller’s head snapped back. He let out a blood-chilling shriek, clutched his testicles with both hands, and sank like a sack of salt to the floor.

Emma turned, leaped over his prostrate body, and ran for the door. She fumbled at the lock as Miller cursed her with every colorful word in his extensive vocabulary. “You’ll never work in this town again,” he screamed.

Feeling like the utter cliché she was, Emma stumbled down the corridor, staggered past the assistant who no longer looked so bored, and tumbled out onto the street.