My cell phone rang, startling me. I turned the ringtone down and picked up the call.
“Hi Connie. What’s up? Where are you?”
“With Dimitri.”
“Keeping him calm?”
“Trying my best. I have a favor to ask. Can you pick Stewart up? He’s coming into South Station in an hour and has his stuff with him.”
“Sure. Where’s he staying?”
“Harry invited him to stay at his place.”
“With Harry?” And with me. Great.
My car was old but very functional, missing only a few accoutrements. One of them included being able to text through the car itself. I also was, for whatever reason, having trouble figuring out how to voice-text anyone. I looked forward to our new crop of interns, who could help me figure out how to navigate this new phone.
It was for that reason that I felt compelled to pull over and text Stewart that I’d be outside South Station to collect him. Keep in mind that “pulling over” in Boston sounds simpler than it is. For most Bostonians, it means double parking. But as an ex-cop, I didn’t allow myself to stop in the middle lane. Or, to be honest, I tried not to. The easiest way, then, for me to pull over was to park at a convenience store. So I used the opportunity to go in, grab drinks for Stewart and myself, and get a bag of almonds.
I was a list maker in all things. When I was a cop, I kept many running lists of questions I still had, things I knew, next steps. For my home, I kept a running list of things that needed to be fixed or renovated or repaired or replaced. That list was perpetual, since I lived in an old carriage house. For the theater I also had dozens of lists, ongoing, and moving up in levels of importance depending on where I was in the season. I was perpetually looking for a list maker app that followed my train of thought, but the only thing that worked for me was putting pen to paper, purging my brain, and then transferring that information into the Keep app, a system of blocks of text I could organize. I really did need to learn how to do voice recordings, because my brain was full and I couldn’t write and drive. If I didn’t write something down, I was afraid I would forget it.
I opened my soda and texted Stewart. Is your train here yet?
Twenty minutes away. Why, are you coming to get me?
I am. Come out to the Atlantic Ave side of the building. I’ll pull up.
Looking forward to it! Steward texted back.
I felt a tingle in my belly. So am I, I thought. What exactly that meant I pushed aside for the moment. I headed toward South Station, which was just a couple of miles away, but there was Boston traffic to navigate.
I did a slow crawl into the station, driving up behind the taxi line. Sure enough, Stewart was outside looking around, waiting for me. He was pulling his small black suitcase and wearing his gray knapsack. Under his arm he held a large loose-leaf notebook. I knew from having worked with him for years that this was his rehearsal bible, where he put his scripts, kept his notes, and stored research he found helpful. Stewart had his own system, and some of his research included things that might not make sense to anyone else but helped him build his characters. Maybe it was a picture of a place, or a costume, a meal, or sometimes even a character from a book or movie that helped spark his imagination and allowed him to get into the head of the character he was going to play.
Even when he explained his process to me, he could never explain the alchemy that gave him his brilliance. I imagined that the role of Capulet hadn’t been on his radar before, so I wondered what was in the notebook. Like many actors, Stewart had an ego that was both healthy and fragile. I suspected he still thought himself as more of a Romeo. I wondered if he’d ever played that role. He would have been great. Actors, male actors, could measure their careers in terms of Shakespeare’s characters: Romeo, then Macbeth, the Henrys, and finally Lear. Stewart wasn’t at the Lear stage of his life yet, but he was past his Romeo stage.
I tapped the horn once and Stewart turned to his left. I gave him a brief wave and got one of his dazzling smiles in return. He came over and threw his knapsack and suitcase into the back seat, then climbed into the front, automatically reaching down to push it all the way back. My front seats were always all the way back, but I understood Stewart’s rote reaction to getting into a car. Those of us blessed with long legs were always desperate for more room. He leaned across the console and gave me hello kiss on the lips. It was warm, gentle, and familiar. And lasted a little too long to be merely friendly. Someone behind us tapped his horn and Stewart leaned back.
“Sully, what a nice surprise your text was. When I heard Connie was going to Bay Rep to be with Dimitri, I wondered if you were coming down to join in on the fun.”
“Fun is one word for it,” I said. Driving around South Station was a little bit like playing bumper pool with lanes, and I focused on getting into the middle lane before I turned back to give him a smile. “I know they’ll all be glad to see you. Stewart to the rescue yet again.”
“I had some movie work last month. Not a big role, but the money was good. It kept me busy. But happily for all, including me, I have a stretch of time available. Glad to be here. You know me well enough, Sully—I love feeling wanted. Actors thrive on being wanted. Plus this does sound like quite the production. I’d rather be part of it than hear about it secondhand next summer when we’re all back at the Cliffside making magic.”
“Yeah, I stopped by the theater briefly this morning, but I suspect there will be stories,” I said. “This may end up being a new legend. Hopefully it will help us forget A Christmas Carol and all that happened then.”
“I look back on A Christmas Carol with great fondness,” Stewart said. I laughed, but he didn’t join me. “No, really, I do. When all was said and done, it was a helluva production. I’m proud to have been part of it.”
“Even though it landed you in the hospital?”
“A few bumps and bruises. Part of the story. I’m just glad that it ended up raising some money for the Cliffside.”
“Our Christmas Carol is always supposed to be a money stream for the upcoming summer season,” I said while looking over my left shoulder for a place to merge. Taking turns going into one lane wasn’t actually how merging worked in Boston. Rather, it consisted of winning the game of chicken with the other driver. I hadn’t lived in the city for a few years, but having driven in it for so long, my muscles were quick to remember. I merged into the lane and drove into the underpass.
“But you’re right—that last week of performances helped a lot,” I continued. “Especially that fundraising performance. It put us in a good place to start this building project for the summer.”
“Nice when it works,” Stewart said, opening the notebook on his lap. He took a highlighter out of the front pocket of the notebook and turned to the page in his script he’d put a Post-it note on.
“What are you doing, learning your lines already?”
“No, just marking them. Dimitri sent me a copy of the working script last night. I had the copy center run it for me this morning so I could bring it on the train. I’ve read it, and now I’m marking my lines so I can get a sense of the rhythm of this part.”
“Have you ever done Romeo and Juliet before?” I asked.
“As Romeo, yes, three times. It’s a pretty tough play to do, since it’s so well known. How do you raise the stakes? How do you tell the audiences this old story in a new way? How do you play the tragedy so that it’s really tragedy, not a stereotype? I’ve never played Capulet. Before now, never thought I was old enough. But I guess I’ve crossed that Rubicon to playing fathers.”
I glanced over at Stewart and noted that he was staring out the window with a faraway look on his face. “Hey, sweetheart, you’re here to help Dimitri,” I said. “Nobody who spends five minutes with you thinks you’re in the father stage of life, whatever that means. Besides, aren’t there some great father roles? More than for moth
ers, that’s for sure.”
“Yes, of course. You’re right. Being an aging male actor isn’t as hard as it is for other folks in the theater. I get it. But still, I can’t help but feel old. The roles they’re calling me in for these days aren’t the dashing leading men anymore. They’re the dads. When did I cross that line?”
“For TV?” I asked. Stewart nodded. “Listen, ages on TV are all screwed up. Don’t worry about that. As for this, Dimitri needs somebody he can count on, a leader to help with the rest of the cast. Since he’s thrown Harry into the role of Romeo, Harry needs your help too. I think the ages of this entire production are all over the place. But that’s the least of the problems.” I told Stewart about the white concept, and he laughed. Sort of laughed. It was more of a horrified laugh than a “boy is that funny” laugh.
“I know Connie’s a magician, and the Bay Rep has money, but this sounds like it’s going to take a little bit of a miracle to pull off,” he said.
“Stewart, if I’ve learned one thing working at the Cliffside it’s this: all of theater is a miracle. Really. Getting all these people together and focused on one goal, opening night, working with budgets, personalities, space issues, and every other challenge. Making the director’s dream come true. There’s a point during every production when I’m convinced that this is the show where we won’t be able to pull it off, but then I sit in the theater on opening night, with people in the audience, and actors walk onstage fully dressed, on a set, in lights, speaking words that make sense and that everyone can hear. That moment of realizing we pulled it off ? That’s magic to me. Don’t laugh.”
“I’m not laughing,” Stewart said. “I just love that you still feel like this, and you help me remember what the magic is.”
“To know your lines, not be naked onstage, and have lights on?”
“That, and trust the process.”
“Well, if I was going to sum it up, I would say that’s the challenge for this production. To get trust back in the process. I know you’ll help Dimitri with that. You helped on A Christmas Carol, and you’ll help with this. I’m glad you’re here.”
“I am too. Terrified, but glad. So, Harry tells me I’m going to be staying with him on Beacon Hill? Are we going there first? Or straight to the theater?”
“I’m staying there too. We can go there and drop your stuff off, give you a chance to freshen up. Or I can bring you right to the theater and I’ll take your stuff to the apartment. Which do you prefer?”
“If you don’t mind, I prefer going right to the theater. I’d rather get started sooner than later. But I’ll see you in a bit?”
“Absolutely. To the theater we go.” I glanced over at Stewart. He was looking down at his script again, highlighter in hand, searching for his lines. He was breathtakingly handsome, and had that spark of personality that gave him special powers onstage. That spark was both exciting and trouble. Good trouble, but trouble nonetheless.
I texted Emma, letting her know I was on my way back to the apartment with Stewart’s bag. She texted back that Stewart would be staying in Amelia’s apartment, unless I wanted to move down there and let Stewart stay with Harry. I was fine with staying with Harry. Besides, Max was settled in.
So I wasn’t going to stay in the same apartment as Stewart after all. Just as well. I found a space on Charles Street and brought his belongings in, leaving them outside the front door of Amelia’s apartment. I took the car back to the garage and went to the market on my walk back to get coffee, fruit, eggs, and some more bread for the morning. I tossed in some cookies and chocolate while waiting in the checkout line. The day had gotten away from me and I needed to get ready for tonight. I texted Holly and Connie to let them know I wasn’t coming back to the theater today but would be reachable by text or cell.
I half expected to see Emma when I let myself into the apartment, but Max was the only one home. Am I all set to be your plus one tonight? I texted Emma.
All set. Crazy day, will fill you in later. I’ll need to meet you at the University Club. 7 p.m. Tonight is dressy and/or business dress. You have something to wear? Emma texted.
I do, I replied. And I did, but it needed to be ironed. That was the story of my life: rumpled but ready. I pulled out my serviceable black suit, a houndstooth shirt, some tights, and my black boots. I’d wear my mother’s triple strand of pearls and some diamond and pearl earrings Gus had given me as a wedding gift. I fingered the earrings. I loved them, but hadn’t worn them for a long while after our divorce. Now that there was a bit of a détente, I’d started wearing them again. I tried not to read too much into that. I put a brooch in my pocket just in case I needed to fancy it up a little. I went in to take a quick shower and brought the suit with me. Maybe the steam would let me forgo the iron.
Raising money had started off as the least favorite part of my job, but I’d moved it up to the “don’t mind” level. You never just outright asked for a donation. Instead, you developed a relationship with a potential funder and figured out when to make the ask. And if to ask, since sometimes donors weren’t a great fit. Basically, it involved being nice, schmoozing, and remembering details. I’d learned how to be nice from my mother, how to schmooze from my father, and how to remember details from my days as a cop. They all served me well while raising funds.
I didn’t differentiate between big donors and small ones, since for an organization our size, every little bit counted. But the Cunninghams and their foundation were bigger than big money. For the Cliffside, the money could change our whole operation. Making improvements while not going into the crazy debt that hobbled so many theaters who’d added space—that was my goal. It was a leap for the company in many ways, and I was determined to make it happen. I ran my hands down my legs and took a deep breath. Today was about touching base and starting to build a relationship.
I looked at my cell phone. I was doing fine for time, so I put the kettle on for tea. I felt a head-butt at the back of my knees and looked down. Max came around and gave me a plaintive meow. Less of an “I’m starving” and more of a “since you’re feeding yourself, how about feeding me too?” I squatted down and lifted his front end up so that I could kiss the top of his head. Max obliged for a second, but then he scooted backward, out of reach.
“Okay, buddy, I’ll give you an early dinner. Not sure what time I’ll be home, but don’t try to sweet-talk Harry if he gets home before I do. You’re good at getting double fed when we’ve got company.”
Max put on his best innocent look, complete with the sideward tilt of his head.
“Don’t give me that look. I’m on to you.” I bent down and rubbed behind both his ears. I went into the refrigerator and got his wet food, put a tablespoon into a dish, and set it down for him. I added a bit more dry food to his bowl. The wet food was gone in no time, but I left the plate on the floor, hoping that Harry would understand that the cat had already been fed if he got home before I did. The vet had given me the “Max needs to lose some weight” talk, and I was doing my best. We both had gained some winter weight, and I needed to do what I could do to help us both lose it.
I took out my laptop and put it on the kitchen table. This was probably verboten most of the time, but living alone had given me bad habits, which included working while I ate. The battery was running low, so I plugged the laptop in and sat down to do some web surfing. I logged into my Boston Globe account and put in the words “Martin Samuel.”
He’d had a long, high-profile career, and there were a lot of articles about him. Since the return was so overwhelming, I simply read the titles of the articles for several pages. But these headlines, along with the type of press he’d garnered, were enough to give me a sense of who he was as a person.
I hit the images button, and a man I could vaguely recognize filled the screen. Martin Samuel was a large man, not fat but definitely a presence. Brush-top hair styles for years, the only variance being the
color and the hairline. Sometimes he wore a goatee, other times he was barefaced. He rarely wore a smile. Hal Maxwell had been the public face of their marketing firm, schmoozing customers and prospective clients. But Martin had had a role to play, and I thought about that role. Was he more of the creative force behind Maxwell and Samuel?
I got up and poured the tea water into my mug. I thought about eating something but my stomach was in knots. I always felt this way before an event. Work would help. I went back to the list of articles on the Globe site and added the word “disappearance” to the search. These articles I didn’t go through as quickly. I started with ones from a year before, when the boat accident first happened, and moved to the present. I actually didn’t need to move quickly, since there were so few articles. Then I went on to the web itself and put in the same search terms. Not much more than what the Globe had displayed. Only that Martin Samuel had been with a group of friends on a boat tour of the Caribbean, there’d been a party, and at some point during that night he’d left the boat.
I had to wonder if anyone was looking for him. Someone must have been, right? Looking either for Martin or his body. Like so many topics I explored, this really was none of my business. But it did make me curious, and I’d learned the hard way that to ignore my curiosity was only to help it grow.
I took my notebook out of my bag and started a new page. I wrote the initials M.S. at the top and added three questions: Who was on the boat with him? What happened? Who was looking for him?
I had nothing more to add. But at least now that it was written down, Martin wouldn’t be rattling around in my brain.
At the front of my notebook I had an index. I added M.S. to the table of contents, along with the hand-numbered page I’d started my list on. Then I looked at my entries for the Cunninghams and went to those pages. I reread all my notes. For some, many, who were looking at prospective donors, my notes wouldn’t make much sense. Alongside who else they’d funded, what else they owned, and any other altruistic facts I needed to know, I always added in as many personality details as I could find, either by meeting the donors or by doing some research.
With a Kiss I Die Page 7
