A Different Kind Of Forever

by Dee Ernst

  Rachel shrugged. “Who knows? With her it could be anything.”

  “You’re right.” She shook her head. “So, on another subject, how do you like your new half-sister?” Kevin’s wife had delivered a baby girl two weeks before. Rachel launched into a story about her father and his second round of diaper changing. Diane half-listened, her mind wandering. She was worried about Emily. She thought about Quinn. Mostly, she missed Michael.

  Indian summer returned on the Saturday night that Quinn and Diane went to see Rachel’s show. Quinn met her in the seedy little theater, where they sat on folding chairs and the air conditioning did not work. But the house was full. The little troupe was developing something of a reputation. They whizzed through three of G.B.Shaw’s finest in a little over ninety minutes. Quinn and Diane laughed along with the rest of the audience. The writing was very good. Rachel was in all three bits, playing a man each time, her bad makeup and ill-fitting wig, along with a shabby costume that did nothing to disguise her lovely figure, all part of the gag.

  Afterwards, Quinn took the whole cast to a corner bar and bought them round after round. Rachel’s cast-mates were all young and obviously impressed with Quinn Harris. This was Quinn in his element, telling stories of his own early days, dissecting scenes and speeches with people as passionate about theater as he was. Rachel and her crowd were enthralled. Diane was charmed.

  The impromptu party broke up after one in the morning, and since Diane did not want to take the train home so late, she stayed with Rachel. Her daughter had a studio that once sat in the shadow of the Twin Towers. She had been there a little over a year, and loved living in Chinatown. The next morning, they had breakfast together, and Diane didn’t get home until Sunday afternoon. Megan had called to say she and Emily were staying at their father’s another night, and wouldn’t be back until Monday after school. Diane went outside and spent the warm afternoon raking leaves. Then she went inside and sat alone, waiting for Michael to come home.

  Diane had the perfect dress for the Pierre Hotel. She had found it in a vintage clothing shop, black satin, strapless. She tried it on at a whim, with Sue Griffen egging her on, and it had fit perfectly, sewn-in bones lifting her breasts beneath the shimmering fabric. Sue insisted she buy it, saying that, someday, she would need a dress like that. It hung in the closet for two years, but she took it out Saturday night. Quinn sent a limo for her, against her protests. He was co-hosting the event, and had to stay at the hotel. So the car, black and tasteful, picked her up and dropped her at Central Park East, and as she swept into the elegant, private room, a murmur ran through the crowd. She looked stunning. She was a new face. People buzzed.

  Quinn was delighted to see her, kissing her coolly on the cheek. He stayed at her side through the cocktail hour, introducing her, his hand on her back. She knew he hated these events. He disliked meeting strangers, and was not at ease in crowds. He was restless, nervous, drinking club soda and being polite. Diane was having fun. The people there she had seen on stage or read about in magazines.

  Sir Derek Shore was larger than life, a handsome, towering man, openly homosexual, whose long and distinguished career ranged from Greek tragedy to musical comedy. An icon in England, he was rarely seen on an American stage, and he was milking this event for all it was worth.

  When Quinn introduced him to Diane, he threw out a dazzling smile and put his arm around her shoulders and drew her close.

  “Thank God, somebody I don’t know. These people bore, bore, bore me to death. You’d think the New World could come up with some new faces. And I do love a woman with glorious tits. I may be a sad old pouf, but I have excellent taste. Quinn, are you sleeping with her? You should, dear boy, after that dreary ex-wife of yours. May I steal her? I need to be protected. That bitch from the Mirror is here, and I if I’m with a woman, she won’t bother with a photograph.” He steered Diane in the direction of the bar, ordering scotch for himself. Diane was sipping champagne, and Derek looked her up and down closely.

  “So tell me, Diane, who-no-one-has-heard-of, you know our Quinn? He does deserve someone rich and juicy. Did you ever meet the famous ex-wife?”

  Diane shook her head. “No.”

  “Such a slut - really. I say that about a lot of people, I know, but with her it’s the truth. She actually gave head to a male nurse while in hospital after giving birth to her daughter. She slept around for years. That’s why it was such a shock when she fought the divorce. So ugly. Fleet Street went onto mourning when the whole thing was finally over. She really raped him. Financially of course.”

  “Is that so?” Diane asked faintly.

  “Oh, it was such a bad show. And then the daughter turns against Quinn and sides with the mother. What a spoiled little cunt. After all Quinn has done for her. He worshipped her, and she hasn’t spoken to him in months. That’s the buzz, anyway. I feel terrible for him. He’s one of my favorite people, you know.”

  Diane downed the rest of her champagne. “Why did he finally divorce her, do you think?”

  “Well, everyone was looking for The Other Woman, but there was none to be found. There were lots of short term things, of course. I mean, he is a healthy, normal man, isn’t he? He had to be getting something from someone. But no young thing tucked away, making demands. I suppose he finally decided to live his life on his own terms.” He lifted his eyebrows. “He’s a fine person. So if you are after him, you’ve got no one standing in your way. He’d be easy to catch, really.”

  “We’re just friends. But he is a kind and gentle soul, isn’t he?”

  “Yes. And that’s rare in this business. He actually believes in encouraging his actors instead of beating them into submission. Last year I did Ibsen with Gordon Prescott, and I was suicidal. Truly. Without the support of a lovely little bike messenger named Geoffrey, I would have succumbed.”

  “A friend of mine is working with Prescott now.” Diane said. “He says Prescott is a madman.”

  Derek looked interested. “Gordon’s finishing his film right now. They say there’s smoke rolling out of the studio windows. Who do you know? I can tell you all the gossip.”

  “Michael Carlucci. He’s doing the score.” Derek looked blank. “Mickey Flynn?” Diane prompted.

  “Oh?” Derek put his arm around her shoulder again. “Yes, I know all about him. A ‘friend’ did you say? He’s quite scrumptious. The other one, Joe somebody, is getting most of the attention, especially since his wife has left our rainy isle for sunnier climes. But I know all about your little genius. He’s created quite a stir. Of course our tabloids are such a load of crap.” Derek leaned down, speaking into her ear. “If he’s fucked half the people they claimed, he wouldn’t have time to take a decent shit, let alone work for Prescott. Gordon is such a beast, really. But you, my dear,” he stepped back and looked her up and down again, eyebrows arched, “you and Mickey Flynn? Well. I can see why Quinn hasn’t got a chance. American rock stars are so exciting. Our British boys are mostly old, married and boring, or complete junkies. I saw him in the luscious flesh, you know, at some publicity thing, just last week He was being stalked by some bulimic blonde who couldn’t keep her tongue out of his ear. Of course, I prefer my boy toys a bit taller. Pure logistics, you know. You two must be a good match, though. He wouldn’t have to stoop. Ah, Harris.” Quinn had come up, placing his empty glass on the bar. “I was just telling the delightful Diane here about her boyfriends’ exploits in Londontown.”

  “And if she has a lick of sense, which I know she does, she won’t believe a word.” Quinn took Diane’s hand and patted it. “He’s a terrible liar and an incorrigible trouble-maker. Please ignore everything he said. They’re serving. Shall we go in?”

  The rest of the evening was a pleasant blur. Diane put Derek’s words out of her head. The food turned out to be delicious, and after the dinner was finished, and the official part of the evening was over, Diane followed Quinn into a small, dark lounge, where she sat and listened to Quinn, Derek, and a few other
s talk about the theater. It was her favorite kind of conversation, the insiders dish. It was almost two in the morning before she even realized it.

  “Quinn, what about the car?” She asked, shamefaced. “I’ve been sitting in here making that poor man wait.”

  “It’s his job to wait,” Quinn said mildly. “He’ll take you home now. Unless you’d rather stay? We could get you a room, I’m sure.” His hand had been resting lightly on her upper arm. Now, he touched her cheek. “Or we could just take a cab to my place.”

  Diane shook her head slowly. “No, Quinn.”

  He took her chin in his hand and kissed her lips. “You’re beautiful tonight, Diane. It would be such a lovely end of a lovely evening.”

  Her lips were tingling, and she felt a slow rise of heat in the pit of her stomach. Her body was remembering another touch, Michaels’ soft mouth. She could feel herself starting to blush.

  Quinn kissed her again, longer this time, but she stepped back, away from him. “No, Quinn. Please.”

  Quinn pursed his lips, and put his hands in his pants pockets. He jingled the coins in his pockets nervously. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to presume.”

  “I think I should go home now.” Diane said quietly, and Quinn walked her through the hotel doors, and waited silently with her until the car came up to take her home.

  Derek Shore came down the steps and stood beside Quinn, lighting a cigarette. “Is she the reason?” he asked casually.

  Quinn glanced at him briefly. “What do you mean?”

  “Oh, come now. I know we’re not close friends, but we’re in the same brotherhood. Surely I’m entitled to a few confidences.”

  Quinn raised his eyebrows. “Brotherhood?”

  “Yes.” Derek took a long drag. “We’re one of the select few in theater who have worked with your ex-wife in the past five years without actually fucking her.”

  Quinn let out a short laugh. “Yes.” He glanced at Derek again. “I met her two years ago. We fell in love. I thought it would be easy, getting the divorce. Who knew there’d be such a fight? And now it appears I’ve returned too late.”

  “Ah, yes. She and I were talking about him. I’ve met him, you see.”

  “He’s younger, apparently.”

  “Much. And quite charming. Rather attractive too, if you like the Drop-Dead-Gorgeous-Blue-Eyes type.” He stubbed out his cigarette. “Is she in love with him?”

  Quinn thought. “She never said. He’s in love with her, apparently.”

  “Well, that’s not the same thing at all, is it? You’ve got the upper hand here, my friend.”

  “Really? And what’s that?”

  “Well, you’re here and he’s not, and you know what they say about love. Location, location, location.”

  Quinn chuckled. “I thought that was real estate.”

  “It’s all the same, isn’t it? Every time you take the plunge, you hope it will be a perfect fit and you’ll stay forever. With real estate you pay up front, of course. With love, you pay for the rest of your life.”

  “Ah, there’s that old cynicism. I thought for a moment you were getting romantic on me.”

  “If you want her, make her remember. Don’t be such a bloody gentleman.”

  Derek walked back into the hotel. Quinn stood outside for a long time, looking into the darkness.

  Angela stopped her in the hallway on Monday. Diane was hurrying to Sam’s office, her mind racing, and she went right past Angela, only stopping at the sound of her name being called. She turned, saw who it was, and broke into a tired smile.

  “Angela. I’m so sorry. I’m in another world.” She kissed Angela’s cheek. “How are you?”

  “I’m great, but you look so tired. Is everything okay?”

  Diane shrugged. “The play. It’s taking up a lot of time.”

  “Yes, I’m sure it is. I hear that Quinn Harris has taken an interest.”

  Diane raised her eyebrows and looked at Angela in surprise. “What?”

  “In the play.” Angela said quickly. Then she tightened her lips. “But of course, there are all sorts of other things flying around.” Angela shrugged. “You know Merriweather. It’s like a small town. Rumors, you know?”

  Diane looked at her closely. “What kind of rumors, Angela?”

  “About you and Quinn. About why he’s spending so much time here.” Angela was looking at Diane steadily. Diane swallowed a rising anger.

  “Don’t believe everything you hear, Angela. Quinn and I have had dinner a couple of times. That’s all.”

  Angela threw up her hands. “Okay. I believe you. But you should know what’s going around.”

  “Well, it’s not true.”

  “Fine. I didn’t mean to upset you, Diane.”

  Diane sighed. “I’m sorry. I hadn’t heard, but then, I wouldn’t, right? Thanks for telling me.” Diane squeezed Angela’s arm. “I’ve got to go. Tell everyone I said hello.”

  “Okay. I will. I’ll see you later.”

  Angela went back down the hall, and Diane stood, staring after her. Rumors about her and Quinn? Sam would know.

  But Sam claimed ignorance. He hadn’t heard a thing, and he was in the thick of it all. Besides, why pay attention to all that anyway? He patted Diane’s shoulder and urged her to sit. There was going to be a champagne reception after the first performance. He had just found out. Since most tickets for the first performance were usually given away to faculty, important alumni, press and guests of the cast and crew, he was able to talk the hospitality committee into springing for a rather lavish spread.

  Diane tried to get excited, but she was feeling uneasy about what Angela had said. She left his office determined not to see Quinn again.

  Rachel called her a few days later. “Mom,” she said cautiously, “did you ever tell Emily or Meg that you and Michael were, well, together?”

  Diane was startled. “No. He left for England before they came back up from the shore. Why?”

  Rachel sighed. “There was a thing - on the Internet.”

  “What kind of thing?” Diane asked, concerned.

  “On one of the sites. Do you know who Moira MacCauley is?”

  “No. Should I?”

  “I guess not. She’s a singer,” Rachel explained, “kind of New Age-y. Anyway, there was a thing, and this Moira had an interview. She said that all the English women were shit out of luck when it came to Mickey Flynn, because he was madly in love with some older woman back in the States. She knew you lived in his hometown. And that you taught at a local college.”

  Diane was stunned. “How did she know any of that?”

  “I don’t know, Mom. Maybe somebody else from the band. Who knows? You two didn’t exactly keep things a secret, you know?”

  “Oh, God.” Diane felt sick. “Do you think Emily or Meg have seen it?”

  “I don’t know. Remember Chloe? From the group? She read it, I don’t know where, and asked if it was about you. You and Michael came to see us a couple of times, remember? She was just curious, since you had just been there with Quinn.”

  Diane ran her fingers through her hair. “Can you talk to Emily, please?” she asked. “Just to try to find out if she knows. If she does, I’ve got to explain.”

  “Sure. You were going to tell them anyway, right, when he came back?”

  “Of course. I just didn’t think anyone would - shit, I’ve been so stupid. Of course, something was bound to come out. I just figured if he was over there, I wouldn’t have to worry just yet.”

  “So, is he really madly in love with you?”

  Diane took a breath. “Yes, actually.”

  “Oh, Mom. That’s amazing. So then, what’s with Quinn?”

  “Nothing, Rachel. I told you, we’re friends. It’s possible, you know, for men and women to be just friends.”

  Rachel was quiet on the phone, and then sighed. “I bet this whole thing really sucks, him being away so long. It’s been over a month. Do you ever, like, talk to each other on
the phone? Like normal people?”

  “No,” Diane said softly. “It would be very hard for me, hearing his voice. It’s easier when he’s just a few words on a computer screen. Then missing him is not, I don’t know, as real.”

  “I’m sorry, Mom,” Rachel said. “Look, I’ll try to see if I can get anything out of Em. I don’t think Megan would really care that much, but with Emily, well, you know.”

  “Yes. I know.” Diane hung up, suddenly worried.

  That Saturday, Diane answered the door, and Ed, looking large and embarrassed, stood at her door with a stocky, disapproving-looking woman.

  “Remember, me?” Ed asked. “Mike sent me out here back in May?”

  “Yes, Ed. How are you?”

  He grinned. “Good. So. Mike called, from England I guess. This is Mrs. Whitmire. She’s from the New Jersey Rose Society.”

  Diane looked at the woman with interest. “I didn’t know there was a Rose Society in New Jersey.” Diane said.

  Mrs. Whitmire puckered her lips. ‘Yes. Apparently you need a lesson in pruning your roses and preparing them for the winter?” Her voice was shrill and condescending.

  Diane looked at Ed, who was trying to keep a straight face. “Well, of course I’d be grateful for any advice. Come in.”

  She led them through the house and into her back yard. Leaves had begun to fall, and things were looking shabby and tired. Mrs. Whitmire walked through Diane’s small rose garden, turning over leaves and clucking to herself. Diane looked sideways at Ed.

  “What did Michael tell you to do, find a Rose Nazi?”

  Ed cleared his throat. “He said to find an expert. If I’d known she’d be the one, I’d have grabbed the little guy from the garden department at Walmart.”

  Mrs. Whitmire came up to them, shaking her head disapprovingly. “Black spot, of course. Didn’t you spray? No Japanese beetle, thank heaven, and your Louise Odier is suffering from iron deficiency. But, on the whole, they should survive. You have an interesting assortment.” Mrs. Whitmire looked vaguely displeased. “Most people try to select roses that have some common trait.”