The World is a Stage (35 page)

Rachel nodded and left, clutching the folder to her chest. But she didn’t open it. She couldn’t.

It was like a scab, festering on the car seat next to her as she drove away. Leave it alone or rip it open? It didn’t seem like it would heal either way.

Rachel pulled into the driveway of Eric’s house, trying not to let the sight of the scattered toys in the yard and the artwork taped to the front windows deter her from her goal. She tossed the envelope, unopened, under the seat and pulled open the car door. She didn’t need a professional file to tell her that Molly probably needed help right now. As much as Molly might like to pretend she was capable of instant-mother mode, there was a reason they didn’t have a dog and their household plants were taken care of by a gardening service. Things didn’t like to live in their house. It was as though they sensed the maternal instincts of the Hewitt women and simply gave up.

As she got closer to the house, she could hear screams—of delight or death, she wasn’t sure. But she didn’t bother knocking.

“Molly?” she called. The house had every sign of being a daycare, with toys and bright colors and homemade artwork everywhere. At each new indication of domesticity, Rachel’s shoulders dropped. “Hello?”

The younger of the two girls shot around the corner, latching on to Rachel’s legs and squealing. The sounds were delight, then. That, at least, was a relief.

“Don’t let him get me!” she cried. “Don’t let the big, bad monster get me!”

Rachel twisted and tried to free herself, but she heard the low rumble of a man’s voice coming around the corner.

“Fee, fi, fo, fum,” he called, stomping his foot in time to each word. “I smell the blood of a little one!”

The girl shot out like a bullet in the opposite direction, leaving Rachel standing there, feeling oddly bereft, as Michael turned the corner. He was hunched over and looked rather like a giant bent on consuming the flesh of little girls.

Then he saw Rachel. He straightened and scowled, transforming into a giant bent on consuming her flesh instead.

“What are you doing here?” they asked at the same time.

“I came to see if Molly needed help,” Rachel said, trying hard not to notice how unhappy Michael was to see her. It had to be the first time since they’d met that he’d offered her anything but that huge, charming grin of his.
 

It really was over between them.

“She did need help,” he replied tersely. “That’s why I’m here.”

“Oh.” There didn’t seem to be anything else to say.

“His case looks good, if you care at all.” Michael said. “It’s his first arrest, so they’re not even going to bother with the extradition.”

“Really?” Rachel was rooted to the spot. She was afraid of coming any closer.

“Yes, really. Assuming the bail goes through, Peterson should be home tomorrow.”

“That’s all?”

“Of course that’s all. Other than landing a few punches on a guy who had it coming, he didn’t do anything wrong. He was protecting his brother—you know, looking out for the people he cares about?” Michael’s tone mocked her earlier use of those words.

He loomed closer, and even though the childish squeals continued in the background, Rachel felt more frightened in his presence than she ever had before. She realized for the first time that he could really hurt her. Not physically—in spite of his big walk and bigger talk, there was a surprising gentleness in the way he touched a woman.

But emotionally—that was a different story. If he kept looking at her like that, she was well on the way to a broken heart.

Who was she kidding? She was already there.

“Why are you really here, Rachel? What do you want?”

The other girl came around the corner then, her joy having disappeared in less time than it took Rachel to blink. “Uncle Mike, when is Daddy coming home?” she asked. Her lower lip quivered, and Rachel felt her own starting to droop.

On the stage, this was what would be known as tugging at the audience’s heartstrings, playing their emotions through the cheapest trick imaginable. But Rachel very much doubted Sammy was doing anything other than being a six-year-old, feeling sad because her father was gone and some horrible monster of a lady was doing her best to keep him away.

“Soon, Monkey. And until then, you’re stuck with me and Miss Molly.” Michael struck a ridiculous pose and batted his eyes. “Who do you think is prettier—me or Molly?”

Distracted, Sammy went into peals of laughter, and Michael swept her into his arms and began flying her around the living room. It was as though Rachel ceased to exist, and only then could life continue.

And it was. It was continuing all around her, happy and filled with laughter.

This was what Molly was being offered—and this was what Rachel had been trying to wrest from her grip. And all in the name of protecting her.

“He was protecting his brother… He was looking out for the people he cared about.”

Rachel turned and left, shutting the door quietly behind her. Her shoulders began shaking before she reached the end of the front sidewalk, and by the time she reached the car, it had become difficult to see anything at all. She was only able to drive a block before she pulled the car over and ripped open the envelope tucked underneath the seat.

She needed to see her life through another person’s eyes, even if they were the cold and calculated eyes of a professional.

Because from where she stood, she seemed like the worst person on the face of the planet.

Chapter Twenty-Five

Man’s Ingratitude

The final performance was a welcome relief.

Michael suspected the last day of a show was a lot like the day after an orgy, when the lights came pouring in the windows and the alcohol daze ebbing away took all of the polish and shine with it. All of that sexual energy and excitement was gone, leaving a crew of tired actors looking forward to wearing all of their own clothes for a while.

“You’ll be back for the next run, right?” Jillian asked, breathlessly returning from her final bow out front. She’d taken on Molly’s role as Cleopatra’s attendant, and even with the near-naked outfit, it was hard to imagine he’d once mistaken this woman for Rachel. There was no one quite like Rachel—in clothes or out of them.

Jillian wasn’t the first one to ask him that question, and he was sure she wouldn’t be the last. Michael shook his head. “I’ve had fun, but it’s not for me,” was all he’d say.

There had been a moment there, a few months back, when it might have been a possibility. According to Dr. Monroe and his knee, he couldn’t be an athlete anymore, and he’d had a hard time reconciling himself to a life spent on the lentil farm, spitting sunflower seeds into a bucket next to Jennings.

But if he’d learned one thing these past few weeks, it was that the joy of acting had very little to do with being on the stage and a hell of a lot to do with being on the stage opposite Rachel.

It wasn’t the same now, and all the fun had gone. In fact, he might have argued that standing opposite her practically naked, preparing for a chaste kiss that was almost painful to perform, had become a form of torture.

He didn’t want to fake his feelings anymore. Rachel had crossed a line and betrayed him, Cleopatra up to the very end. She wasn’t sorry. She didn’t care. He’d be damned if he was going to up and die like Antony for a woman like that.

“Without you or Rachel next time, the production is going to seem so empty,” Jillian said. “I can’t say I’ve got a whole lot of love for that woman, but she sure added a touch of class. Dominic’s going crazy trying to convince her to stay.”

“She’s leaving?”

Jillian shrugged. “Didn’t you know? The Peter Bloom review was a real stroke of luck. I think she’s off to New York. God, I’m jealous. This is fun and all, but it’s hardly living the dream.”

Michael must have murmured something encouraging, because Jillian smiled and slipped her number into his pocket. But he was hardly aware of his surroundings, let alone what he might or might not have promised her.

It was easy to find Rachel after that. As everyone else wandered around, looking bereft of purpose and pouring tequila into the goblets they’d used as props, he followed the sound of Rachel Hewitt having an argument. It registered in him on a purely visceral level, his body attuned to the frequency of her shouts as though he was made to be their sole receiver.

“And that soul patch makes you look like a hipster twat, Dominic—did anyone ever tell you that? You can slap as much facial hair and tweed on as you want, but that still doesn’t elevate this crap to anything other than porn. Shakespearean porn, but
still
.”

Dominic’s reply, whatever the poor bastard had to say in his defense, was much more subdued. Michael lifted a hand and knocked on the door to the director’s office. Dominic offered a quick “come in”, while a more irate female voice instructed him what he could do with his ill-timed interference.

“Oh, it’s you,” she said quietly when she saw who it was coming in through the door. She’d changed from her costume into jeans and a T-shirt, her hair back in a ponytail, all of her makeup—stage and otherwise—washed off. She looked young and vulnerable and tired.

She’d never been more beautiful.

“If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go clear my stuff. You can forward my last paycheck, Dominic. The PO Box from before should still be valid.”

Michael let her go. All of him screamed to bar her exit from the room, force her to acknowledge that he still existed, that the something between them had been about more than passing the time.

But a man had his pride, after all, and Rachel Hewitt was the type of woman who feasted on it. Just look at Dominic, hunched over his desk, his hair hanging in a way that only served to highlight an unfortunate tendency toward male-pattern baldness.

“You can spare me the excuses,” Dominic said wearily. “You, at least, I only expected to stay through one run. Care for a drink?”

They’d never exactly been best friends, but Michael had slim pickings as far as drinking buddies went these days. Laura Bremerton had been right, and Peterson was out of jail, sentenced to a few weeks of community service. Even though they were talking, Peterson had made it clear that the last thing he wanted right now was to hit the town with Michael.

“Yeah. I’ll take whatever you’ve got.”

Dominic looked up, surprised but pleased. “I always keep champagne for the end of the show. Would it be weird if we shared a bottle of Henriot?”

“Not if we drink it without glasses.”

Dominic popped the cork and took a heavy pull from the bottle, hesitant for only a second. Michael did the same, his hesitation nowhere in sight.

“So what’s this about Rachel hitting the road?” he asked, hoping he sounded uninterested. “She’s heading to New York?”

Dominic shrugged helplessly. “So it seems. I thought for sure we had her for the year. That’s what she signed on for—it’s in the contract.”

Michael’s heart skipped a beat, which he promptly covered with another swig of champagne. “She’s contractually obligated to stay? Why the hell don’t you enforce it if you want her so badly?”

The look in Dominic’s eyes wasn’t one Michael much cared for. It was judgment and understanding all in one, the question unasked but still sitting there between them.
Why the hell didn’t Michael fight if he wanted the same?

Dominic sat back in his chair and steepled his fingers. “Did you know that Rachel and I used to date?”

“The thought had crossed my mind,” Michael confessed. He seemed like the type she would think was right for her—intellectual, soft-spoken…tweedy. Michael knew better. She didn’t need soft. She needed strong and hard and unyielding. She needed a man like
him
.

“Let me guess…she kicked you in the balls one too many times?”

Dominic’s eyes flew open. “Not literally.”

Well, obviously.
Michael busied himself by taking another drink.

“It was just that no matter what I’d suggest—where we went to dinner, what night I was free, where, ahem, it was better to stay the night—she always opposed me.”

“Fought you tooth and nail,” Michael said, nodding.

“Yes. Exactly.” Dominic ran his hand through his hair. “It was like she fought for the fun of it, for the fun of beating me…
you
know what I mean. I’ve been thinking for quite some time that if anyone can make her stay, it’s you. Can you?”

Yes.

Michael knew he was a confident man. Some might even call him cocky. God, he hoped they did. He loved that word. A large part of him was sure he could turn Rachel around, force her to acknowledge what she’d done was not only wrong, but mean. Cruel, even. The night she’d stopped by to help Molly, she knew she’d made a mistake—it was clear from the way her shoulders slumped and her face was wiped free of any of its usual tension. She was sorry and might even be willing to make amends. All it would have taken was one classic Michael joke, one beaming, toothy smile.

Another part of him was focused on this strange, tugging feeling right in the center of his chest that only expanded as the days progressed. She didn’t care, and she wouldn’t budge.