Mating Theory

by Skye Warren

  “But call me when it does.”

  “I’m literally never going to call you again, because nothing is going to happen.”

  “Okay,” she says, not believing me for a second. “Talk to you tomorrow.”

  I hang up with an exasperated smile, tossing the phone onto the nightstand. I’m feeling a little punchy without any of my supplies with me, but I don’t want to make a trip to the art store.

  For one thing I don’t think the concierge would take kindly to me splashing oil-based paint all over their antique furniture and old wallpaper. I also don’t want to imply, even to myself, that I’ll be staying in Tanglewood for longer than a few days. I’ll sort out the issue with the Tanglewood Historical Society and be back in LA with my mother and her new treatment and my brushes.

  The only thing of interest in the hotel room is the book on Cleopatra, which is more interesting than the cover could possibly imply. There’s intrigue in here about her life, going beyond her experiences with Julius and Antony. Chapters and chapters from before she was ever a glint in their eyes. The making of a powerful woman, through the only means available to her.

  Those men, who wanted her for her body. And her mind?

  Did they think they were in love with her?

  She was more than a pretty face to them, this much we know. They used her, and she used them back. And in the end she outlasted them both, so maybe that’s the moral of the story.

  It ended in tragedy for all three of them, though.

  Maybe that’s the true moral of the story.

  The Grand fits its name with a gorgeous fountain in the front and ornate carving along the front that’s been lovingly repaired with plaster. Old trees surround the property like an embrace. A thick red carpet covers the cobblestone close to the entrance.

  “See?” I tell Sutton, who looks ridiculously handsome in a suit. “This is how you treat a place with history. You don’t blow it up into a million pieces.”

  “We aren’t going to blow up the library,” he says, that rough voice underlaid with amusement. “And besides, I don’t think this is the example we should follow. The Grand used to be a strip club.”

  Through an arched doorway I can see gilded wood box seats and a wide stage. “And you know this by rumor only, I’m sure. It’s not that you would have gone to a strip club yourself.”

  He laughs in a fully masculine way that does not confirm or deny anything. “I work with the construction company that did some of the restoration.”

  It’s almost impossible to believe that this place was anything but a theater. It’s cleaner and more elegant than some of the theaters I’ve been to on Broadway, which maybe isn’t saying much. “Some businesspeople clearly value culture.”

  “Ivan Tabakov values beautiful women,” Sutton says. “Especially the beautiful woman he married, who was herself a stripper until they converted it to a theater. Or back to a theater, I should say, since that’s how it started.”

  “That’s what the mall would be,” I say, quiet so only he can hear.

  “A strip club?”

  “I’m not judging the women who worked here, but there’s a reason they converted it back. Because desperation and money and sex are not the answer.”

  “Hey,” he says, laughing silently. “Leave sex out of this.”

  I look at the ceiling, at the dark wood beams and the faded pink textured wallpaper. They’re original to this place; I can feel it in my bones. “I’m not bashing malls or strip clubs,” I say, still looking up. “I’m not even bashing money, but it’s a problem when you have to destroy something beautiful to have them.”

  When I glance back at Sutton, his expression is grave. “What other beautiful things have you seen destroyed?” he asks softly.

  I don’t answer him, but I think he already knows. My mother’s dignity. My own innocence. The better question is, what beautiful things does money not destroy? It touches everything with its dirty hands, marking us, leaving us weaker than before.

  “There they are,” he murmurs, nodding toward a box to the right of the stage.

  It’s the one with the best view, of course. The best view of both the stage and the rest of the theater. Seats fit for royalty. Penny transformed from a bartender in a crisp white button-down to a gorgeous asymmetrical lilac gown of different textures. The man beside her must be Damon Scott, the angles of his face severe as he surveys the crowd.

  And beside them is Christopher, murmuring softly to Damon. Probably making a backroom deal. That’s why men come to these things, isn’t it? It’s an excuse to do business.

  Of course I can’t blame the gender, since that’s why I’m here.

  “Wait,” I say, when Sutton moves to escort me toward the stairs. Half the seats are full with people settled in, chatting and flipping through the program. The other half of the seats are still empty, waiting for the people who are milling around or still out with their glasses of champagne.

  It takes a few minutes, but finally I spot Mrs. Rosemont when she turns to glance up at the balcony. She’s sitting with an older man who I’m guessing is her husband. They have seats right up front. Not quite as glamorous as the box seats, but definitely expensive.

  Sutton gives me a curious look but lets me lead us down the row toward them. Maybe he thinks I’m going to sit down and have a chat with her about the library in the ten minutes before the curtain rises, but I’m about two percent more subtle than that. Instead I stand in the aisle, half turned away, flipping through the program they gave us at the door.

  Finally the couple beside the Rosemonts stands and makes their way to the exit, probably taking a potty break so they don’t have to stand in a monumentally long line during intermission.

  “Excuse me,” I say when they reach us, sounding nervous and flushed, which isn’t that difficult since I’m trembling. “I know this is forward of me, but my brother’s in the show tonight.”

  I spin a story of my brother, the understudy, who’s been part of the cast since they started touring. But this will be his first show. They gave us seats, of course, but they’re all the way up in the boxes. I want him to be able to see me when he looks out at the audience. There are little touches I pulled from the program—a name of an understudy and the part he’ll play.

  The woman looks only a few years older than me, and not particularly pleased at the idea of switching seats. She seems the suspicious sort, which is reasonable considering I’m conning them. It’s when the husband sees exactly which box they’d be in that things change.

  “Is that Damon Scott?” he says, trying to hide his excitement.

  “Oh, he’s very kind. He’s the one who gave us the seats. But my brother will be disappointed if he can’t see me in the audience. I promised to wave at him.”

  So that’s how we end up sitting next to the Rosemonts.

  I can feel Sutton shaking with laughter beside me, but he manages to hold any words inside. “You hired me to do a job,” I tell him under my breath. “I’m doing a job.”

  “I have no complaints,” he murmurs, his hand finding mine.

  I let him hold my hand because that’s the part we’re playing for Tanglewood society right now. Not because it feels warm and comforting for him to rest my palm against his. Not because it’s strangely sensual for him to rub his thumb along the outer edge of my hand.

  The lights dim without me exchanging a single word with Mrs. Rosemont. We watch the show, which I fully intend to enjoy since I haven’t seen it yet. The rave reviews are fully deserved, and I’m laughing and gasping along with the rest of the audience.

  She notices me first during intermission, but I’m careful not to look her way. I feel her think about saying something to me two different times. Didn’t we meet at the gala? she would ask.

  But she’s silent and so I don’t say anything either. Patience.

  It’s in the final act that things really progress, and by that I mean—I cried. Twice. The show is a gorgeous tragedy, and there are t
ears streaming down my face. The program is clenched in my hands, almost torn apart by the strength of my emotion. Sutton looks stoic beside me, but I know he’s moved by the way he holds my hand.

  Mrs. Rosemont is crying, too. When the curtain falls and the actors take their bows, she and I are among the first to rise to our feet, clapping our hands as hard as we can, trying to convey everything we felt and lost and learned in such a basic, universal sound.

  It’s only when the lights go up again, and everyone streams out the doors, that she turns to me. “You’re the one who wants to tear down the library,” she says, her eyes tinged red.

  “I don’t.” Lying works well for getting someone to switch seats with you. For something like this, honesty is the only way. “I’d love to restore the library, to see it in its glory.”

  “Then how can you…” She glances at Sutton but must think better of what she’s going to say about him. He sits with his ankle over his knee, looking supremely relaxed and confident in a theater. He would look this way in a stable or a boardroom. That’s because it comes from inside him, that certainty that he’s right where he needs to be.

  “I love the library, but it’s not doing anyone any good with all the books molding and the wood rotting. And no one, not Bardot and Mayfair, not the city of Tanglewood, is going to pay the small fortune it would cost to repair it.”

  She sniffs. “That doesn’t mean I’m going to condone a mall.”

  “What I’m proposing is something that will benefit the city of Tanglewood, the history of Tanglewood, more than an abandoned building ever could.”

  The wrinkles around her eyes deepen. “What is your plan?”

  “We go through the books. Find the ones that are worth keeping and the ones that aren’t. Donate the ones of value to the Tanglewood library system for distribution or display.”

  “That’s not enough.”

  This feels like more than an interest in historical restoration. It feels personal. “Tell me why,” I say. “Tell me why the library is so important to you.”

  She studies the velvet curtain, clearly deciding how much to tell me. Secrets are a form of currency. “I went to that library as a child.” A pause. “It was more than a place for books, you understand. It was the place you could learn things, no matter what family you came from. No matter how much money you had.”

  “There are other libraries.” It’s strange feeling to argue against myself.

  “Not like that one.”

  “Not like that one,” I have to concede. “But the books can be restored and find new homes in libraries around the city. Bardot and Mayfair would be honored to fund restoration of some of the best pieces, for better preservation and display.”

  She mulls that over, her shrewd eyes on the curtained stage, probably imagining how it would look. Not only the value, but the fact that the Tanglewood Historical Society had managed to secure it for the city. It would be a win. “I’ll have to talk about it with some of the others. I’m not making any promises.”

  “There was a library I went to,” I tell her, cashing in my own secrets. The times between husbands. “We mostly wouldn’t talk to the librarians unless the computers broke. The machines told us where to find books. Then one day I went in and there was a brand new book about Leonora Carrington, the glue still tacky where they’d put the library label on. I could barely find a few lines and one photo of her work in the other books.”

  “An artist?” Sutton asks, his voice soft.

  “A painter. A surrealist.” None of those words accurately convey what she meant to me. “She painted mythological creatures, but they’re… they’re these radical statement about existence, about transformation, about sexuality. She’s the reason I believed I could be a painter.”

  Sutton makes a small sound and squeezes my hand.

  “But there was nothing—no store where you could walk in and buy a book about her or a print of one of her paintings. It was like, in the world of money and power, she never existed.”

  I don’t share that she was expelled from multiple schools for wild behavior. That she was a revolutionary and a vocal feminist. Her family never understood her desire to be an artist.

  Sometimes it’s an act of rebellion to simply exist.

  “My father was a carpenter,” Mrs. Rosemont says, her throat working. “Kitchen cabinets and basic furniture, that kind of thing. He never made anything artistic at home. I wouldn’t have known it was even inside him, if it weren’t for the library.”

  A thump in my heart. “He made the wall?”

  “They paid him twenty dollars for the whole project.”

  “Oh my God. I can’t believe your father made that. It’s incredible.”

  She shakes her head. “It broke my heart when they shut down the library. But it’s always been there. Waiting, I think. Waiting for someone who cares enough.”

  I look at Sutton, who’s watching me with unreadable blue eyes. He’s waiting for someone who cares enough, maybe. Waiting for me. We might not be able to save the whole library, but we can save the wall. And it will be better—much better to preserve it properly than let it sit in that dusty, abandoned space, exposed to the elements through the broken glass dome.

  “As it happens the extraction and transportation of walls has been a subject of particular interest to me. And Sutton’s a carpenter, too. I’m sure we can find a way to pull them off the building and move them… ” Where? “Maybe a museum.”

  “City hall,” Mrs. Rosemont says, and I know we’ve won.

  Sutton gives me a small nod of agreement. We still have to convince Christopher, who I think will be less amenable, but I have to believe I can do it. There’s a cost to what I’m proposing, but nothing in life is free. Being a stated supporter of the society will mean the project has their backing. It might even help smooth along some of the red tape.

  This is the way business is done.

  Like Christopher said, I am my father’s daughter.

  Mrs. Rosemont nods once. “I still have to discuss it with the other members, but this might be the best option. We’ll be in touch with some specifics.”

  That’s a nice way of saying she’s going to make us bleed through the nose for some expensive book restorations, but I can’t really blame her. My job is far from done. There will be more negotiations, but this is a solid start.

  Sutton stands. “Shall we?”

  He helps me up, but my foot has fallen asleep from sitting too long. I stumble a little against the chairs in front of me. It’s Sutton who helps pull me upright, Sutton who keeps me that way when my leg threatens to give out again. Sutton who leans down so that his face is only an inch away from mine, an intimate pose considering we’re sitting in one of the front rows of the theater.

  Most of the seats are empty now anyway, but there’s one man at the back. In the shadows. Of course he would be there. I recognize his silhouette immediately. Christopher must have come down from the box seat and waited for us.

  I lean on Sutton as we make our way to the back.

  Vaguely I’m aware of Mrs. Rosemont and her husband trailing after us up the long carpeted aisle. We’re almost completely alone in such a large space. The stage is silent after being so full of life for the past three hours. Through the archway I can hear the buzz of voices, people excited and a little tipsy, but they seem far away.

  Even a few feet away from Christopher, he’s too dark to read. I can feel the tension radiating off him. Is he worried I said something wrong? He steps forward, only half a foot, and I can see his black eyes flash with fury.

  “Christopher?” I say, suddenly uncertain. It had felt so natural to make a deal with Mrs. Rosemont with Sutton beside me. This is what I would have done for my father, if he had lived long enough to use me for this. It’s what I was born to do.

  “I’ll take you home,” he says, his voice so low it’s almost guttural. The sound of a cello in the orchestra pit, foreboding and grave. It means the main actor is in troubl
e.

  Sutton’s hand tightens on me, and I realize what this is. Another one of their damn pissing matches. I’m not even sure it matters who I am—it could be anything they’re pulling between them. “I’ve got her,” he says, nice and quiet. Lethal in a different way.

  “This wasn’t a date,” I whisper. “I’m not going home with either of you.”

  Christopher looks away, his jaw ticking. “Of course. We can go to the office instead. You can give me the rundown of what you promised Mrs. Rosemont.”

  I take a step back, stung. “We can do that tomorrow morning. And hopefully by then you’ll have cooled down enough not to speak to me like I’m a child.”

  A dark gaze slides down my body. The emerald wrap dress suddenly feels like nothing. “You’re not a child, Harper. You know exactly what you’re doing.”

  The man was saying a thousand things with the innuendo in his voice, none of it good. I’m struck speechless a moment, wondering how I got to this place. Wondering how I can say anything at all when my throat itches and burns like I might start crying—for a third time tonight.

  It’s Sutton who steps forward. “I don’t know what the hell’s wrong with you right now, but you’re going to walk away before I remind you how to speak to a woman.”

  There’s nothing leashed about the violence in his voice. He’s about one second from punching his business partner in a public place, even if we’re mostly alone.

  Mostly, except where’s Mrs. Rosemont? Is she seeing this?

  “Let’s go,” I manage in a harsh mutter, though I’m not sure whether I’m talking to Sutton or Christopher. Maybe I’m only talking to myself. “Let’s just get out of here.”

  “Hell,” Christopher says softly. “I’m sorry, Harper.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” I lie, because it does. There’s a hole in my heart that proves it does. “We can talk about the library tomorrow.”

  He gives a hard shake of his head. “Not that. I’m sorry about the trust fund. I should have let you do whatever the fuck you wanted with it. I shouldn’t have let a dead man control you.”