The Full Moon Bride
Page 14
“Oh yeah? Those flowers were meant for that?” He took a small sip of his beer and used a napkin to gently wipe the line of foam that settled over his upper lip. It served to draw my attention to his mouth, a sensuous mouth that had my head swimming with fantasies.
“They were,” I replied. Without giving away confidential information and too many details, I found myself telling him all about Vasudev Rao. “He was the devil to deal with, but I think I convinced him to see reason,” I concluded and raised my glass in a salute to myself.
Roger raised his own glass and tapped it against mine. “Excellent job, Counselor. I’m proud of you.” He took another sip. “In a sense we’re both celebrating victories, aren’t we?”
My puzzled look must have been obvious because he said, “I have an investor in my play and you won your legal battle. This is a joint celebration.”
On my empty stomach the wine was beginning to go straight to my head, and the mellow feeling was marvelous. I nodded and raised my glass once again. “To a joint celebration.”
What was I drinking to? Toasting Roger’s upcoming engagement to a rich girl? His pending nuptials to some slim beauty while I fantasized over how he could heat my blood to smoking point? “So how’s the play coming along?”
Roger offered me a pleased smile, turning my already weak legs to jelly. “It’s coming along well. Auditions are over and my cast and crew are in place. Rehearsals have started. It’s hard work and it’s tougher than I’d imagined, but it’s exciting. Being a writer, producer, director, and gopher-cum-janitor is difficult, sometimes frustrating, but I’m happy. It’s what I’ve always wanted to do.”
“So, who’s the girl that’s responsible for your good fortune?” I knew I was setting myself up for a major stab of jealousy and a painful wound—but I had to know.
His expression turned serious, his jaw tight and tense. It seemed like he’d neither anticipated nor appreciated my question. “What makes you think it’s a girl?”
“You’re looking for a rich woman to support your dream, aren’t you?”
“I’m capable of finding a legitimate source of business capital, you know.” He fixed me with a piercing look, the bedroom eyes not nearly as friendly as they usually were. Right now they seemed to be shooting twin arrows right into my irises. Ouch!
This was the first time I’d seen Roger actually looking angry. I’d apparently hit a nerve. “I’m sorry. I just assumed it was a girl since you’d told me that you were looking for a wealthy wife.”
“Since that wasn’t happening, I took an offer from a venture capitalist. I have a huge debt hanging over my head, but I’m confident I can repay it.”
“I see.” I felt like a first-class heel. “Does your father know about this?”
He gave me a measured look. “I don’t keep secrets from my family.”
I wondered if it was a mild dig at me for lying to my mother earlier. “I wish you lots of luck, then,” I said.
“Thanks, Soorya. I appreciate that,” he said, leaning forward, his voice once again reverting to that silk-and-sand, intimate quality that disturbed me so much.
With that we reached some sort of truce. I marveled at Roger’s easy way of forgiving people. I was forced to admit he was very, very likeable. In about two minutes, despite his unconventional getup, he’d charmed Sandy no end. And it wasn’t easy to hoodwink Sandy.
Roger and I could be friends, I concluded. And why not? He was charming, excellent company—and he was paying for the meal for a change. The tables around us slowly started to fill up. A multitude of voices chattering around us and the strong scent of Indian cuisine in the air were satisfying. The wine began to taste better and better.
Our food arrived—grilled tandoori chicken, lamb roghan josh curry, and saffron rice for Roger. And for me, palak paneer —a spinach and cubed cheese dish with white rice. It was a quiet and pleasant meal.
He told me about his play. It appeared that things were moving along briskly. He was talking about opening Mumbai to Manhattan within the next three or four months.
“That soon? I didn’t realize a major production could be put on stage that quickly.” I plunged my fork into the last of the delicious palak paneer and long grains of Basmati rice.
“It’s not a musical and I don’t have a large cast,” he explained, fork held in midair. “Musicals can take years to produce with the choruses and the orchestras and the costumes. Mine is a straightforward drama compared to those. Besides, I had started laying the groundwork before I actually started the project. Remember I’d told you about my trips to New York to meet with theater people?”
“Mm-hmm. So, am I going to get a peek at the preview?” I teased gently, watching him bite into a succulent grilled chicken drumstick and chew the meat slowly and thoroughly. It had been a while since I’d sunk my teeth into anything resembling poultry.
“Of course you’ll get a preview. I don’t have friends in the city yet. You’re it at the moment.”
I chuckled and sipped my wine. “With your personality I thought you’d have at least a dozen friends by now.”
“Some of my cast members are certainly nice and friendly, and I am making some new friends.”
“Mostly cute females, I gather?” The wine was giving me a buzz, and it felt good to sit there and rib Roger. Since we were both tall, our knees were touching under the small table and it felt right. God knows why, but it felt right. He was a fellow desi, that’s why, I told myself.
“One or two cute ones,” he replied. “Why don’t you come to one of my rehearsals and find out for yourself?” His grin was wicked.
“You don’t mind my watching a rehearsal?”
“Not at all. In fact, you may be able to look at it objectively and give me some constructive feedback.”
“Okay.” It pleased me no end that he wanted me to give him feedback—me, a woman who knew nothing about show business. “Tell me when.”
He mentioned a day the following week when he’d scheduled an evening rehearsal and I promptly entered it into my planner. We lingered over Roger’s dessert, almond kulfi, a rich frozen concoction, chock full of crushed almonds.
Since it was white and vegetarian, I ventured to try a spoonful. The sweet, icy creaminess was heaven on my tongue, but I refused a second spoonful despite Roger’s efforts to entice me. It was with a sense of pride that I watched Roger pay for our meal with a shiny gold Visa card. The Broadway-bound Roger was making his way in the world.
In that moment I wished him success with all my heart.
He walked me to the train station and just before my train pulled in he surprised me with a hug. “Thanks for going to dinner with me, Soorya. I needed the company.”
“My pleasure,” I said, feeling breathless from the close contact. Despite the casual look, he smelled clean, with that vaguely familiar, citrusy cologne. I liked the feel of his hard chest against mine and the sandpaper coarseness of his stubble on my temple.
The train pulled in and I stepped out of his arms with great reluctance. “Thanks again for dinner, Roger. See you next week at the rehearsal . . . maybe.”
A warm burst of something spread inside me. I’d never felt like that before, so I couldn’t identify it. It had to be a result of the hug from Roger. That much I knew. And it was nicer, much more heart-wrenching than what I’d felt when Lou had touched me. That had been a purely physical reaction, whereas this was all-encompassing. Sweet.
As the train pulled out of the station, I turned around and saw Roger walking away, hands in his pockets.
I felt a baffling urge to break out of the train and catch up with him, ask him to hold me again.
Chapter 16
On the day I was scheduled to attend Roger’s rehearsal, I was swamped with work. One of Mac’s assistant attorneys was in the hospital with an emergency and Mac needed my help on a case that was coming up for a hearing soon. Since the Seattle case had gone so well, Mac had been requesting my assistance more and more.
To make matters worse, Sandy had a dental appointment and I had to find files, folders, and miscellaneous pieces of information on my own. Although I knew our filing system well, it still took me time to locate things. I realized what a gem Sandy was. I always knew that, but then why did most of us recognize a person’s worth only when they were absent?
I made a note in my planner to have yellow roses, Sandy’s favorite flowers, delivered for her birthday coming up in a few months.
At precisely 6:09 P.M. I shut down my computer. Before I took a trip to the ladies’ room to freshen up, I called Mom to tell her not to hold dinner for me. I wondered if Roger would mention going out to eat again. The last time we’d shared that meal at the Indian restaurant was so pleasant, I’d hoped to recapture it.
This time I meant to treat him—the poor guy was probably on a shoestring budget. How sadly ironic to have a rich father and yet have to watch one’s pennies. Oh well, it was probably a valuable lesson in living for the carefree Roger—one he perhaps badly needed.
Once again, I used the business dinner excuse with Mom. Despite her naïveté Mom was smart and probably wondered if I had a boyfriend tucked away somewhere. It was only a matter of time before she started to question why I suddenly had these business dinners taking up my evenings. And if she didn’t figure it out, Dad certainly would.
I was too tired to walk to the subway station, so I hailed a cab. Besides, my suede pumps and heavy briefcase were not made for walking. I asked the cabbie to take me uptown, to an area bordering Harlem. Roger and his crew were conducting rehearsals in some theater there. The traffic was heavy and the ride took over thirty minutes.
When I paid the cab driver and faced the building, I sucked my breath in. It looked decrepit, with the paint faded and the once-ornate cornice chipped in various places. I shivered in the cold wind that had picked up in the last hour. Although it was only mid-fall, it felt like approaching snow in the air. I was glad I’d chosen to wear a long wool coat.
I studied the surroundings. The small grocery store across the street was open. An Oriental man was unloading a crate of broccoli on the curbside display. He threw a cautious glance at me and returned to his task. A group of youths stood on the sidewalk half a block down and laughed about something, making my skin prickle.
Although there was a fair amount of pedestrian traffic as well as automobiles, it wasn’t like the more upscale areas of Manhattan. A deli two doors down had a giant submarine sandwich displayed in neon lights in its window. A bar-restaurant at the end of the block was playing soft, soulful music.
The aroma of fried food met my nose, thrusting my diet weary stomach into overdrive.
Although this block looked like a typical urban street scene, there was a seediness about it that made me uneasy. Why had Roger picked this place for rehearsals? Probably because the rent was cheap.
Once again I looked at the building before me. It didn’t look like a theater. Wondering if I’d ended up at the wrong address, I checked my piece of paper. It was the right place. The young men laughing on the corner started walking toward me.
Panic flooded my brain. I didn’t want to get mugged or gang raped or something. I marched quickly and resolutely up to the front door. Thankfully it was unlocked, so I let myself in. My heart was thumping as I shut the door behind me.
I listened for approaching footsteps, wondering if those street punks had decided to follow me. When I heard nothing, I opened the door a crack and peered outside. They had sauntered past the building. Their voices began to fade.
Taking a deep breath, I let my guard down and looked around. The foyer must have been lovely at one time. The building had to be a hundred years old. An antique chandelier hung from the tall ceiling, but it looked dusty, and barely half the lightbulbs were lit.
I tried the single door in front of me and found it locked. Hearing muffled voices coming from below, I followed them down the narrow staircase toward the cold basement. A door to the right of the concrete landing had a sign that read AUDITORIUM.
Very carefully I opened the door. The voices grew louder and it felt warm inside. My eyes went straight to the raised and brightly lit stage at the far end and the people standing on it. The rest of the room was dark. It looked like I was in the right place after all.
Stepping inside, I stood for a moment, trying to discern things nearer to where I stood. This was probably some sort of amateur theater. There had to be a place to sit somewhere. As my eyes adjusted to the dark, the rows of chairs became visible. Gingerly placing my hand against the wall nearest me, I felt my way to about halfway down the auditorium and found an aisle seat for myself.
Throwing my briefcase in the adjoining chair, I sat down, suddenly feeling very weary. At least it was safe in here. The scene outside had been disquieting.
I noticed Roger on the stage, standing with his hands on his hips, giving orders to the cast. After some conferring and instructing he took the steps leading down to the seating area and parked himself in the front row. Then he yelled, “All right, once again, let’s start from the beginning. I don’t want any tomfoolery this time. Understand?”
They all nodded—two women, three young men, and an older man.
Roger hadn’t noticed me sitting in the dark, several rows behind him. I wanted to keep it that way. It was fun to observe in secret the enigmatic writer, producer, and director at work. I was surprised at how forceful he was and how much in command. This was a new Roger, firmly in control of his cast and crew.
The actors took their places, ready for the scene. The lights dimmed, spooky background music reminiscent of the suspenseful scenes in Jaws and Psycho began to play, and suddenly the stage took on the atmosphere of a dark and menacing place. Shots rang out and a woman screamed—a bloodcurdling sound that echoed in the ancient theater.
I liked the mood created, the eerie quality of it that stirred fear inside me, like a good murder drama should.
The scene continued for a while, with a young Indian man running toward the fallen woman, pulling out his cell phone and calling 911. A dark, skulking figure watched them from some distance, then tiptoed away. The killer, I presumed. I knew the outline of the story since Roger had mentioned it the day we’d first met. But this wasn’t just any ordinary thriller—there were some supernatural elements in it, a touch of voodoo and a mysterious clairvoyant who could communicate with dead people.
Roger’s voice rang out. “Stop right there! Carrie, let’s get a realistic fall. The scream sounded good, but your fall looked fake, like you were afraid of getting hurt. Shots from a gun slam into a person. I want you to portray that—the unexpectedness . . . the shock. The audience should feel it, okay?” Carrie nodded. “Now go.”
The scene started all over again. Several times Roger cut the scene short and had them do it over and over again until he was satisfied. Eventually, after several attempts, I had to admit it came out looking and sounding good after Roger had his way. Gosh, what a lot of work for one little scene.
Sirens sounded in the background after that and one of the young men and the older man appeared on stage. Cops. Several other scenes were played out, but more often than not Roger seemed dissatisfied and had them reenact the sequence until they got it right.
However, he wasn’t always the drill sergeant. He also applauded and praised the players when things went well, instructed when he thought he needed to intervene, yelled often at the person providing the background sounds, climbed onto the stage to get involved when they seemed confused.
More impressed by Roger’s stance than by the scenes enacted, which by the way looked excellent to me, I smiled to myself. Who would have thought he’d be this no-nonsense, take-cha
rge kind of guy?
No matter how much I resisted the notion, Roger was beginning to grow on me like a fungus. Except this one wasn’t likely to be cured by antifungal medication.
At one point, when Roger was up on the stage, I noticed the young lady playing the murder victim giggle and put her hand around Roger’s waist. “Wasn’t that last run pretty damn good, Raj?”
In turn he placed his long arm on her shoulder and smiled at her, his eyes totally focused on hers. “Sure was. More of that kind of acting and we won’t have to practice this late, eh? If you focus just a tad more, you’ll make it straight to Broadway.”
She nodded enthusiastically, her hair bouncing. Pretty woman, I decided, if one liked the sort. She wore hip-hugging jeans and a pale pink cropped shirt that exposed her midriff. A belly button ring glinted in the light every time she moved. Her shoulder-length hair looked coppery red under the stage lights. She was tall and slim and shapely. The smile she sent Roger was radiant.
The woman was flirting with Roger and he seemed to be enjoying it, returning that sweet look. I had the rare urge to march onto that stage and yank out that belly button ring and draw some blood. When I felt like I wanted to drive a fist into Roger’s smug face, I skidded to a stop with my violent thoughts.
What was Roger doing to my brain? Why was I allowing him to do it? Closing my eyes, I told myself to get a grip on my emotions.
When I looked up, Roger still had his arm loosely hanging on the woman’s shoulder. And to think he’d given me this song and dance about having no friends in this town. For a guy with no friends, he seemed to be doing well. If he had the redhead to play with, why had he invited me here?
I couldn’t understand my irritation at some actress coming on to Roger. It was none of my business. He was only my friend. He meant nothing more to me. Hadn’t I made that clear to him and to myself? Besides, he hadn’t invited me here for a date. He’d asked me to observe the rehearsal and give him some constructive feedback. And constructive feedback was exactly what I’d give him.