by Dee Ernst
Diane licked the taste of lemon from her lips and turned to look at Michael. “London?”
Seth stopped laughing. Michael was looking closely at the backs of his hands.
Michael cleared his throat. “London. Prescott called this morning. His daughter starts school in a few weeks, so he’s doing all his post-production work there instead of Toronto. We’ll do all the sessions for the soundtrack as well as all the scoring in London. He’s got the studio. He wants us there Tuesday.”
“London?” Diane repeated. Michael did not look at her. She turned to Seth. His eyes were large and round, sober now.
Diane reached over and took Michael’s hand, pulling him out of the chair. She led him back to the house and to the end of the terrace, where the sliding doors to his bedroom were open. She pushed him into the room, and carefully shut the doors. She reached and pulled the pale gray drapes closed. His room was very quiet.
She took a deep breath and turned around. He was sitting on the edge of his bed, leaning forward, his head in his hands.
“How long, do you think?” Diane asked softly.
He shrugged. “Prescott is a ball-buster. You know what he’s been like.” He lifted his head and looked at her. “The print that he sent me, the one I’ve been working on for three fucking weeks, he now says has to be re-cut. Again. That means new music to be written. David left this morning, right after Prescott called, to get everything set up that he’s going to need, lining up musicians, all the shit that I know nothing about. Toronto was going to suck, but at least it was close, at least the same fucking continent. I could have come down for a night or a day. Not now.” He shook his head. “I hate this. I am going to miss you more than you can imagine.”
Diane was shaking her head. “I can’t believe this, I mean, Marianne and I were just talking about this, how things were going to be so different. Once the girls were back, and school started, it was going to be hard, you know, not being able to see you whenever I wanted. This makes it easier for me, really.” She was watching Michael’s face, seeing his expression soften and change.
“I wasn’t even sure how I was going to tell the girls about us, you know? I’ve been going crazy about this, how I was going to get up to Toronto, the whole thing was going to be such a mess. So I guess this kind of solves everything, doesn’t it?”
“Yes,” he said, very quietly. “I guess it does.”
He stood up and reached to hold her, but she stepped back from him. He watched her as she took a deep, ragged breath, dragging her hands through her hair, closing her eyes tightly. He covered his face with his hands, exhaled slowly, and when he pulled them away seconds later, she was calm, her breath slow, hands falling away. When she looked at him, her eyes were shiny with tears.
She did not want him to go. Suddenly faced with the long and dark days and nights that stretched out ahead of her, she wanted to ask him to stay with her. But she knew that this movie was more than just a new and different project for him. This was something that could help define him as a musician, as a composer. This was something that would take him from being a just another guy in a band and put him someplace else, not necessarily better, but someplace different. She knew he wanted it. She knew how badly he wanted more.
“I’m going to miss you, too,” she said simply. “Terribly.” She tried to smile. “Is this where we pledge undying loyalty and devotion?”
His eyes were very big. “Do you think we need to? You know I love you.”
“Yes. “
“Forever, Diane. I will love you forever.”
She looked at him. “Michael, think about what you’re saying. You and I will never grow old together. You know that. There is no forever with us.”
“Of course there is,” he said softly. “We aren’t like everybody else, you and I. You know that. We’ll have a different kind of forever.”
She moved then, and they fell back onto his bed, fierce, hungry, and she was aware of every hard line of muscle, each inch of familiar flesh. She tore at his clothes, her mouth closing on him, her hands stroking, coaxing, bringing him to the edge then pulling back, until he was gasping, breathless, and she straddled him and rode him, her hair falling around his face. His hands were on her breasts, then down around her waist, pulling her, arching deep inside her, and she wanted to brand him somehow, to make sure he would remember this day, above all the other days; because this was the day she did not try to stop him from leaving her. She climaxed, and he came an instant later, and she fell forward, panting, tears coming, and he held her until the sobbing had stopped and she lay quiet and still in his arms.
And then he was gone, and the girls came back, and the rhythm of her life began again, almost, but not quite, as it had been before she had met him.
CHAPTER TEN
EMILY WAS IN her senior year. She had worked during the summer as a waitress and she had saved some money. For her car, she announced. After all, she was getting her license in March, and she didn’t think she’d be happy sharing the Subaru, she wanted to use the money she made for her own car.
Diane sighed. “What about insurance? How are you going to pay for that?”
Emily shrugged. “Just add me to your policy,” she said.
Diane raised her eyebrows. “What makes you think I can afford to add you? Do you have any idea how much that’s going to cost?” Emily sighed and went upstairs without answering. Diane felt a headache coming on.
Megan decided not to go to France after all. She had met a boy while at the shore, Stan, a year older, a junior at a neighboring high school. She was in love, and didn’t want to leave him next spring. Diane was relieved that it was no longer an issue, and did not mention to her daughter the possibility that Stan would be only a memory by next year.
Diane had one less class to teach that fall. Marianne had taken away her freshman comp class, to free time for the graduate class that she would begin in January. Rehearsals for her play were every day. Her part of the process was technically over, but she still was there two or three evenings a week, just to watch.
It was during one of those evenings, early in September, that Quinn Harris slipped into the back row of the auditorium and sat through a rehearsal. Diane did not notice him. The cast was getting through a complicated, funny scene in Act 1, and, when Sam called it a night, Quinn rose from his seat, clapping his hands.
Diane was surprised and happy to see him. He greeted her warmly, giving her a hug and a dry kiss on her cheek. He congratulated the cast, who were slightly star-struck in his presence. He and Sam began an immediate discussion of the scene. Diane listened, fascinated. Quinn had an intimate knowledge of all things theatrical. His passion for his work was one of the things she had loved about him
She watched him closely. He had not changed. He was a tall, slightly stoop-shouldered man, well-made and graceful. He was around fifty, with thinning hair and surprising green eyes. He had a nervous energy and seemed constantly in motion, his hands moving through the air as he spoke, his foot moving back and forth. He was shy, quiet with strangers, but dynamic and charming when talking about his craft, or among friends.
She was grateful for the small flurry of butterflies in her stomach. She was afraid she would react badly on seeing him again, afraid that all the old feelings would come back in a painful rush. She had worried about it, a small, constant nag that had been following her since classes had started. Now there was just a shimmer of nervousness, no icy palms, no rush of blood to her temples. She took a long slow breath. She really was over him.
He turned to Diane. “I would love to talk to you about this, both of you. Can you get away for a drink? Sam?” Sam was agreeable. Diane accepted gratefully. She was feeling anxious about the way the play was going, and knew that Quinn would give a sound, honest opinion.
They went down to the campus pub, drank coffee, and talked about her play until the place closed. He had gotten a copy of the play from Sam a week before, and had read it carefully. He thought it was wonde
rful. He was pleased to see that Sam was keeping the actors light and fresh. It was a positive discussion, and as they left the pub, Diane was grateful for his input.
Sam said good-night, and Quinn walked her to her car. His hands were in his pants pockets, shoulders hunched.
“Would you like to have dinner, say, tomorrow night?” he asked, as she knew he would. When she hesitated, he hurried on. “Or the night after, or lunch, if that would be better.”
“No, tomorrow would be fine. I’ve got a late class. I could meet you somewhere.”
“Alright. Wonderful. Name the place.”
“Where are you staying?”
“I’m in Manhattan, actually. I’ve got a flat up on West 82nd.”
“Oh.” She thought a minute. “Do you drive in?”
“Oh, good Lord, no. Train. Drops you right at the end of the lane here. Do you really think I’m idiot enough to try to drive through the Lincoln Tunnel?”
She smiled. “No, of course not. There’s a great place, about three blocks from here. O’Briens. Ask for directions at the station. Around six thirty?”
“Lovely.” He kissed her again, on her forehead. “Good night.”
She got home late, too late for any work. She did not go on her computer, although Michael e-mailed her almost every day. He sent her bits and pieces of his life, the weather, Prescott’s tantrum, Seth’s adventures. She returned in kind, the girls, the play, her students. They did not say they missed one another. They did not talk about seeing each other again.
She had thrown herself into work, reworking her current classes, fine-tuning the graduate class to begin that spring. Emily had basketball practice almost every night. Megan became involved in the high school play, and was at her own rehearsals every night. Diane was pulled in too many directions, and she knew she had spread herself too thinly, but it filled the hours that had once been filled with Michael. She missed him unbearably. There were nights that her body ached for him. There were countless things each day, small, funny, moments that she would file in the back of her head so she could tell him, until she remembered he was not around. Every time it happened, it hurt her cruelly. She kept waiting for the feeling to dull. So far, it had not.
She met Quinn the following night with no expectations. She was lonely, and he was going to be pleasant company. He was waiting for her in the bar, ordered her a vodka martini without her having to remind him what she drank, and placed his hand on her arm as they walked to their table. He was impeccably dressed in a suit and tie. He was drinking scotch, neat, and immediately asked about her daughters, remembering their names, ages, and even the fact that Rachel had wanted to be in the theater. Diane answered his questions, flattered, smiling. What a lovely man, she kept thinking.
“So tell me,” she finally said. “ ‘Present Laughter’ is coming this spring? This is so great, Quinn. I’d heard it got raves on the West End.”
“Well, we’re casting now. Derek Shore is coming over, reprising his role. He was just knighted, did you know? Thank God we signed his contract before that whole affair. Sir Derek would have come at quite a premium, apparently. We’ve found a few girls, all lovely, we’ll decide next week. We’re opening in February. It’s a limited run, so I’m not concerned about all that Tony Award madness that everyone seems to be so frantic about. We’ve got a young set designer, really brilliant. Should be quite a good time.”
“That all sounds wonderful, Quinn. Is your daughter here with you?” Diane asked. Quinn’s only child was in her twenties, and often traveled with him.
“No,” he said shortly. “She’s madly in love with a soap opera star and won’t leave London.”
“And you’ve divorced your wife?” she asked casually.
“Yes. It was a long time coming, actually.” He was tapping his finger on the arm of his chair. “I really wish I had done it sooner.”
Diane straightened her silverware. “I never thought you would do it. Get a divorce.”
Quinn studied her. “I told you I would. I told you I was in love with you.”
“Yes, I know you did, but after – I mean, I broke things off and then you went back to England and I didn’t hear from you again, and I thought – I just didn’t think you would. That’s all.”
“Yes. Well, the first piece of advice I received from my solicitor was to not give my wife any ammunition. If she thought for a moment there was someone else, she would have fought like a tiger. As it was, she dragged her heels for as long as she could.” He leaned forward. “I won’t be so presumptuous to ask you to pick up where we left off two years ago, but would you consider starting over? I could tempt you with flowers and bad poetry to start.”
“Oh.” Diane sat back in her chair and felt the blood drain from her face. “Oh, Quinn. I’ve met someone. Rather recently, in fact. It was quite unexpected. I’m still getting used to the whole idea, actually. He’s younger, and a musician. But he’s – “ She licked her lips and felt a sting of tears behind her eyes. “He’s unlike anyone I’ve ever met. And he’s in love with me.”
“Well.” Quinn frowned for a moment, then shrugged. “Does he mind you having dinner with a man who once had designs on your body?”
“He’s in London now, scoring a movie. He’s been gone a few weeks. But even if he were here, he wouldn’t mind.”
“A movie?” The waiter served salads, and Quinn ordered another scotch. “Who’s he working with?”
“Gordon Prescott.” Diane ate some salad. “Michael says he’s a lunatic.”
“Good Lord. Yes, in fact, Gordon is a lunatic. Your musician must be very talented. Gordon only works with the best. Unfortunately, he has a tendency to chew his people up, suck them dry, then spit them back out. Very few people work with him a second time. He’s brilliant, of course, but brutal.” He was watching her. “You do seem very happy. And you look splendid. He’s a lucky man.”
“Thank you for saying that. But I’m the one who feels lucky.”
He sighed. “Well, here’s the thing. There’s a dinner in a couple of weeks, welcoming Derek the Great to New York. It’s a black tie thing, at the Pierre, very posh. I was rather hoping you’d come with me. I’m in need of a date, apparently, and you can make decent small-talk, know the right fork to use, that sort of thing.” Diane smiled. “The food will probably be dreadful,” he went on, “but you’ll get to meet some very notorious theater people.”
Diane thought a moment. “That would probably be a great evening. I’d love to come with you.”
“Excellent. I’ll call you, and let you know everything, times and so forth.” He held up his half-empty glass. “Here’s to being friends then, I suppose.”
“Yes.” She touched his glass with hers. “That would be good. Friends.”
Rachel came to a rehearsal one night the following week, and she and Diane went out to dinner afterwards. As Rachel praised her mother, Diane looked at her skeptically.
“Thank you, my darling daughter, but I know your taste. You have little patience for comedy, unless of course it’s combined with blazing satire or in protest of some massive government plot to subvert the masses. You probably think my play is trite.”
“Mom.” Rachel’s hair was still long, and she wore it in a braid over one shoulder. She had attracted several looks as they entered the restaurant, her legs endless under a short skirt. Now she took a sip of her water. “Mom, not everything I like is avant-garde. I love some of the old stuff. In fact, I’m dying to see your old lover-boy, Harris, and his Coward thing. Next spring, I hear. Have you seen him?”
Diane nodded.” Yes. I’m going with him to a dinner for Sir Derek Shore.”
“You’re going on a date with him?” Rachel set down her glass, hard, spilling water. “Mom, what happened to Michael?”
Diane looked at Rachel, puzzled. “Nothing happened to Michael. He’s having a miserable time. We e-mail just about every day.” Diane narrowed her eyes. “When did you become my watchdog, anyway?”
Ra
chel shrugged. “I kind of got to like Michael, Mom, you know that. I just remember back when Quinn was in the picture. You were ga-ga over him.”
Diane looked at her daughter. “No, I wasn’t ga-ga. That was you.”
Rachel looked at her severely. “No shit, you were ga-ga, okay? I was waiting for the two you to live happily ever after so he could cast me in his next play.”
“Rachel!” Diane exclaimed. “What a thing to say.”
“So you two are, what, just friends now? Invite him to see me.”
Diane stared. “See you? When?”
“Saturday, Mom? You said you were coming.” The company that Rachel was involved in, the 13th Street Chorus, was finished with Shakespeare and working through George Bernard Shaw. They were doing three abridged versions of his work in one show, and Diane had said she would try to go.
“Oh, come on,” Rachel urged her. “It’s the least you can do. It’s not like I’m asking you to sleep with him to advance my career.”
“God, Rachel.”
Rachel rolled her eyes. “He wanted to, didn’t he?”
Diane looked at her daughter, undecided, then nodded. “Yes. How do you know I didn’t?”
Rachel sighed. “He was married then, wasn’t he? And you did raise me. I know you wouldn’t fool around with a married man. Not even Quinn Harris.”
Diane’s mouth dropped open. “I can’t believe it. I actually made a moral impression here. My mission as a mother has been successful.”
“Don’t get sloppy on me, Mom.” Rachel shrugged. “But yeah, you were a good mother.”
“Tell your sister, Emily, for me, would you please? She hates me so much right now.”
“What is it this time?”
Diane shrugged. “The same thing it’s been for weeks.”
Rachel looked thoughtful. “The car thing? Dad says he’s going to take care of all that, didn’t you know?”
Diane was surprised. “No. I didn’t know. Then why is she so angry at me?”
