by Gigi Blume
‘A love of the most exquisite kind. The kind of which people do not admit even to themselves.’
So with a quick caress of the lips, I covered her mouth with mine and let the music play its sweet melody into the next scene. The kiss was slow and tentative, asking permission. Asking she not pull my hair. Asking for this to be real. Beth was a superb actress. And a superb kisser. If this kiss was an act, she had me fooled. Her performance was flawless in every other way. Why should this kiss be any different? I kept telling myself to get in line with reality. We were in the middle of a scene. She was acting. Right?
But I ignored the pesky voice in my head that so annoyingly reminded me she wouldn’t pull my hair in front of an audience of Hollywood gatekeepers—no matter how much she wanted to. At least, I hoped she didn’t want to. And maybe I was a fool to believe it for the few short moments we had to transition into the next sequence. If this were the only chance I would ever have to feel her lips on mine, I would take it and chance the consequences. I wasn’t all that attached to my hair anyway. The Hair Song wasn’t even in my vocal range.
27
Lights, Cookies, Snoopy
Beth
Oh. My. Bard.
All I could think was wow. We didn’t rehearse the song this way. And even if we’d rehearsed the kiss a thousand times, it wouldn’t have been half as good. The applause echoed around us and lingered into the next part of the scene. My little heart (let’s call her Kitty) clapped too, probably giving the performance a standing ovation. “Bravo!” Kitty exclaimed enthusiastically. “Encore.”
An encore would be nice actually. Good idea, Kitty. I’ll speak with the management.
In the meantime, we had work to do, and Will was singing the recitative into Oh Here is Love. Kitty was still applauding, and I had to tell her to pipe down, so I could sing the next part with some breath left for the high notes. There I was, playing Mabel, declaring my love to the man playing opposite me. I didn’t loathe him anymore—far from it. But were the lyrics so close to home?
Here is love, here is truth.
Was it though? I didn’t know what the truth was anymore. That kiss sure was a zinger. I knew that. But… was I falling for Will? It had to be the wine, or the Yorkshire pudding, or the love song we sang. A love song that was a campy comedy. Story of my life. The audience laughed because it was rather funny—and also because I liked to milk the comedy whenever I had the opportunity. Leading roles were usually quite boring, so if I could spice it up a little and get a few laughs, I called it a win. But even without the laughs, getting to kiss Will, even though it was make believe—I called that a definite win. And so did Kitty.
My inner critic (let’s call him Jeff) was the one heckling and throwing tomatoes and ruining it for everybody like the two old men on the Muppet Show. He’d say, “It’s a stage kiss. Get over it.” or “He does this for a living, you moron.”
At which point, I thought to myself, ‘A falling chandelier would come in handy right about now.’
Anyway. The show must go on regardless of hecklers or standing ovations or falling chandeliers because Will was brilliant. By the look in his eyes, I wasn’t too shabby either. Our voices just melded well. It was a good blend. Who said oil and vinegar didn’t mix? What the heck was salad dressing made out of for crying out loud? All it needed was a binding agent like honey and voila! Magic.
So what was the binding agent Will and I had? Music? Theatre? The ‘L’ word? (Laughter).
Here is food for joyous laughter. He will be faithful to his sooth ‘til we are wed and even after.
Such a silly song. Such a silly show. And so much fun. We faced each other, holding hands and singing our hearts out. Will’s face shone. He was in his element. Don’t get me wrong—he was mighty hot on the big screen, but I could tell he really loved the stage. “I love it too.” I tried to express with my eyes. “This is what I live for.”
Maybe he understood me, or maybe we were just caught up in the moment, but at the climax of the song, when the high notes rang out, and every emotion was at a heightened state, his lips crashed into mine. And my racing pulse and the crescendo of the piano and the applause of the audience rang out in one final chord.
I mentally gave Kitty a high five because she got her encore. I wasn’t complaining either. It was the opposite of complaining, in fact. It was two thumbs up. Five stars. One hundred and ten percent on Rotten Tomatoes. It was the Oscars and the Tonys and the Golden Globes all rolled into one. It won all the awards. Take that, Jeff.
I almost forgot there was an audience at all until the swell of hands clapping died down, and Will reluctantly broke the kiss. His eyes flashed to mine, and he spoke a thousand words in a single smile before disengaging from our embrace to bow gratefully for the crowd. He gestured to me, and I also bowed. Then we drew the attention to Fitz who stood from the piano bench and gave a nod. More applause. Then Stella returned to the stage, and that’s when everyone stood. A few hoots and whistles echoed before Stella took the handheld mic and hushed the audience. It was more of the same speech about the Arts Fellowship and to come see Pirates of Penzance in a week, show dates, etcetera. But Will and I didn’t stick around to listen to any more. He squeezed my hand, which he had yet to let go of, and pulled me backstage. We ran through the back, out of the tent and away from the stuffy party. The winter air was cool, but the stage lights and the song made us so warm, the crisp air was refreshing, and we laughed all the way to the tennis courts. It was a wild, exhilarating experience. Like we’d just crashed a party and took over the entertainment but had to make a run for it before getting caught. I couldn’t wipe off the smile plastered to my face.
“So,” I said, out of breath. “That just happened.”
“Yeah. It did, didn’t it?”
His features were lit with an enchantment. Were we talking about the performance? Or the kiss? Scratch that. Two kisses. He was still holding my hand. Gah!
“Yeah,” I replied. “You were really good.”
“So were you,” he said softly. His voice was laced with desire—gentle, coaxing. And I panicked. If he were to kiss me again, it was about to get real. And that scared me a little. I couldn’t rationalize why. It just did.
“Everybody was good,” I blurted, slipping my hand from his grasp. “Stella, Fitz… and did you hear Francesca hit that E six? Incredible.”
He stepped away, just one tiny step, but it might as well have been a mile. Something akin to disappointment washed over his features, but he remained smiling.
“Was that an E six?” he said. “I’ll bet you could hit that note.”
“Ehhh, I can work up to it on a good day,” I admitted. “But not like Jane. She owns that note.”
I smiled at the thought of Jane with her coloratura voice. But Will’s brow furrowed, and he seemed deep in thought when he asked, “How is Jane?”
“She’s fine,” I said. “Better than fine. She’s in New York, actually. Probably impressing the socks off all of Broadway’s casting directors.”
“So she’s auditioning?” he said. “Glad to hear it.” He nodded to himself and returned silently to whatever thought lived behind those dark brows, his expression far away and inaccessible. I supposed that was where the magic ended. At any moment, he would go back into that big house of his, and I’d have to look for Enrique to take me home. Was Enrique even around anymore? I couldn’t imagine he’d hang out waiting in that limo just to give me a ride. Maybe it was a one-way trip, and I’d have to Uber it back to my apartment. I’d have to get my little backpack purse which was still inside the guest room. My TJ Maxx special. The little golden clutch that matched my dress was currently next to Georgia’s piano where I set it before dinner. My cell phone was in there, along with the lip stain for touchups. I didn’t need any touchups, though. Julie was right about that. I blushed at the thought. The color-stay did come in handy—for all the kissing.
There was a length of silence that could have been awkward, but remarkably
, it wasn’t. Then he suggested we take a ‘tour of the grounds,’ as he put it. I laughed inwardly because that was an incredibly posh thing to say, but it came out so casually, like he was asking if I’d like a beer or to watch TV. With an offer like that, how could a girl refuse? So, he led me past the tennis courts, down a stone path, and to a crest overlooking the city lights. He had some avocado and citrus trees and a few quiet places to sit along the way that I fantasized would be great places to read a book or maybe do something creative like draw. I wondered if he did stuff like that. I would if I lived in a house like that.
As we meandered the ‘grounds,’ we talked about nothing in particular, laughing at the light and breezy banter we exchanged so easily. He gave me his coat when the warmth of our adrenaline wore off and told me about things like his first film. I admitted I’d seen it. Then I unabashedly admitted I kind of sort of binge watched his Fast and Dangerous movies, imputing it to research or some other nonsense. He raised one brow.
“Research, huh?”
“Yeah. Whatever.”
He asked about my family, and I told him about my practical father, my overbearing mother, and my holier-than-thou but somewhat shy little sister. We discussed things like my college experience, shows I’d done, the long hours of his youth spent on set with his dad, or getting into trouble snooping around backstage at the Gardiner. I was surprised to learn how familiar he was to the ins and outs of the theatre. He was practically brought up there.
As we trailed the perimeter and found the path back to the house, I made an off-the-cuff comment about the size of his property.
“This is a lot of house for one and a half residents,” I said brightly.
I didn’t mean to imply anything, just a joke really. But a shadow overcame his features, and his tone grew serious.
“It was my dad’s intention to fill this house with a large family.” He slowed his pace and snapped a twig from a bush. “But after my sister was born, my mom got ovarian cancer. So that was that.”
“I’m sorry,” I whispered even though I knew it was a lame reaction. I’m sure he’d heard it all in the sympathy department. Who knows why he was even telling me all this but once he began, it was like he couldn’t stop.
He told me about how hard his dad took it when his mother died. He was so lost without her, he remarried a few, short years later. Blindly. Everybody, including Stella, advised him against it. And for good reason, too. The woman was a gold digger, and Martin Darcy didn’t believe in a prenup.
“The house was in my mother’s name, but she got everything else,” he said with a trace of regret. He shrugged it off and smiled brightly. “We probably missed dessert.”
“That’s okay,” I said. “I’m more of a savory treat kind of gal.”
“Like pork rinds?”
“Eww. No.”
“I’m just kidding.” He laughed. His laugh was contagious. I decided I could probably laugh myself silly over nothing at all as long as he was laughing too. I think we were a little slap happy to own the truth. I was so lost in the mirth of it all, I lost my footing, and the heel of the ludicrously expensive shoes I wore, wobbled under my weight, and I tumbled over, nearly falling on my face. Will’s arms swiftly broke my fall. The warmth of his body enveloped me as he caught me around the waist, but not before my ankle did something wonky, and a tearing sensation shot through my ligaments.
“Brother Jeremiah!” I cried. I could already feel the swelling. But the dull pain was nothing compared to the embarrassment of injuring myself in front of Will—again. I lifted my eyes to his with the intention of sucking it up to save face. Like it was no big deal. I guess I expected him to at least pretend to be concerned. But his eyes were stunned wide, and he had the goofiest grin frozen on his face.
“Why am I getting a crazy clown vibe from you?” I asked suspiciously. “Are you okay?”
He should have been asking me if I was okay. I was the one with a gimpy ankle. But his grin widened, and he shook his head.
“It’s your Something Rotten day.”
“Ummm… yeah?”
“Something Rotten,” he repeated as if it was a wonderful thing. “That’s why…”
His words tapered off into internal thoughts.
“That’s why what?” I questioned. Unfinished sentences were one of my pet peeves.
“Nothing.” He shrugged and made a meh face. “Never mind.”
Grrr. A meh face. Impossible! I was poised to pounce—figuratively. But he remembered to be a gentleman and carried me into the house and got me some ice from his wet bar, so I overlooked the offense.
“Are you comfortable?” he asked with genuine concern. “Can I get you anything else?”
I was more than comfortable. I could happily die on the sofa I was lounging on, like floating on clouds. And no wonder. It wasn’t a new fancy, designer sofa. This particular piece of furniture, like the rest in the room, had character and was worn with age.
We were in the den by the looks of it. This room had Will’s signature written all over it. A big-screen TV with video game consoles attached haphazardly, books on every surface, strewn about in a way that proved they weren’t just for show. The wet bar where he’d gotten ice for my ankle and a cozy fireplace he lit while I rested.
“Actually,” I replied, “I wouldn’t mind if you’d bring me my clutch.” I gave him my pretty please face and told him where to find it. I didn’t think anyone would be interested in my stuff in this place, but I still felt more comfortable having it near me. I remember being so swept away with Georgia’s performance, I forgot to take it with me into dinner. No wonder she was at Juilliard. The piano was a Christmas gift from Will. She said something about it being the finest piano manufacturer in the world and was custom crafted in Italy. That was some Christmas present.
Will swiftly left my side like a man on an urgent mission. I thought I heard quick footsteps, like he was running. With the room to myself, I had an opportunity to take in my surroundings a little better.
This was probably where he spent most of his time. A large, fluffy dog bed caught my eye next to a ratty recliner. I imagined Will reading one of those books with his feet up and his free hand hanging over the side of the chair while Lady was the happy recipient of his scratches.
A pair of tennis shoes was strewn under the coffee table, and countless framed photos covered the mantel, side tables, and shelves.
But the most striking thing of all was a quaint (normal sized) Douglas Fir adorned with crafty decorations made by a child’s hands. I got up to admire it up close. My ice compress gave me some comfort, enough to hobble over through the dull pain. There wasn’t a designer ornament in sight. Every single piece hanging from that tree must have held some kind of sentimental value. Most of them looked homemade. And all of them had a year printed on them, either etched or written in permanent marker. Baby’s first Christmas, Will in second grade, Georgia’s little face cut out of a photo and glued to a clay gingerbread figure adorned with beads and glitter. Some of the beads had fallen off. She must have been in preschool or kindergarten at the time. A few of the year bulbs were dated over thirty years ago. It was the most colorful hodgepodge of Christmas ornaments and mismatched ribbons and lights I’d ever seen. A far cry from the fancy tree in the foyer.
“Your bag has been buzzing non-stop since I picked it up.”
Will held my bag over his head as he entered the room but halted when he saw me by the tree. “How’s your ankle?”
“A little better, thanks.”
He joined me by the tree and handed me my clutch. The entire thing buzzed relentlessly.
“See what I mean?” he said.
“It’s probably my notifications,” I said dismissively. “I’ll check on them later.” I waved the little, gold bag like a glitzy maraca. “I probably should have left it upstairs.”
I put my phone in the clutch because I’d wanted to take some pictures, but with the excitement of the evening, I totally forgot. Maybe I
was just nervous about the duet.
“Well, it matches the dress,” he said. “I have to admit, when the packages came in for you last week, I didn’t know what Stella was up to. But I have to say, I really like the results.”
His eyes swept over me in open assessment, and the heat from his stare could have melted down the gold from my dress. I could almost feel it dripping hot and molten on my skin. It took me a moment to register what he’d said.
“Wait, what?” I said. “Last week?”
“Yeah. Imagine my reaction when I saw your name on those delivery boxes.”
“You mean this isn’t a rental?”
My thoughts raced to dinner, and the carefully planned-out seating arrangement with Anne and the super-hot, non-peanut-eating African-American man. Then to all the little comments Stella had been making lately, discouraging me from getting too close to Jorge, inviting me to the charity, the limo, the dress, the duet.
“Is this all part of some elaborate machination? The dress, the shoes, the bag, Bing cancelling tonight…” I used air quotes on the word cancelling. “the teenager with the slushy…?”
Will laughed from somewhere deep inside. It was a belly laugh. “Stella’s pretty ambitious, but I think that’s a stretch even for her.”
“Okay, maybe not the slushy.” I had to admit it was hilarious, and Will’s laugh, as I mentioned earlier, was unavoidably contagious.
“I’ll tell you what I do think,” he said with mirth. “Once Stella has it in her head she wants to do something, she’ll take every opportunity to make it happen. And the funny thing is, she’s one of those rare individuals that the stars align for. It’s her special kind of magic.”
“And what do you suppose she has in her head now?”
His eyes flashed over my features with awareness. There was an answer hanging in the air, just lingering there, perched on his lips. He opened his mouth to speak, or maybe for some other useful occupation that involved my lips, too. But then he froze like he just realized he’d been duped into eating mind-altering lotus flowers and turned his attention to the tree.
