by Dee Ernst
Kevin was sitting at the dining room table, working at his laptop. He looked relieved as Diane came in.
“Emily’s upstairs.” he told her. “You’ll have to ask her to come back, and I think she might say no, but keep asking. She wants to be back here, okay?”
Diane nodded and walked upstairs slowly. Emily’s door was closed. Diane knocked once, and immediately Emily opened it. Diane folded her arms across her chest and waited.
“Mom, I’m sorry.” Emily said in a small voice. “I was really upset and I didn’t mean to say those things to you about Michael. You were right. If I’m supposed to be grown-up, I’ve got to stop being so selfish and stupid about stuff. I was mad ‘cause I thought he should like me better.” Emily had been looking at the floor, twisting her hands together. She looked up at her mother. “So, I apologize.”
Diane pressed her lips in a thin line. “Sit down, honey,” she said.
Emily sat on her bed, legs crossed Indian-style. Diane stood over her, arms still folded.
“If I see Michael, again, will there be a problem?”
Emily shrugged. “No. I wouldn’t like it if you hated my boyfriend, so I’ll be fine. Really.”
“Oh, great. So you’ve just guilted me out of all objections to any future boyfriends you may have in this life and the next, is that it?”
Emily’s mouth twitched. “No, Mom.” Pause. “So you’ll be seeing him again? Megan said he was in London.”
“Yes. He’s in London. I don’t know when he’ll be back.”
“Oh.” Emily looked up shyly. “Did you go to his house?”
Diane sat down next to her on the bed. “Yes, I’ve been to his house.”
“What’s it like?”
“Long. Elegant. He has very sleek furniture, no knick-knacks. He lives on a lake and it’s beautiful. He has a studio, with a glassed-off sound booth, and all this ridiculously sophisticated equipment. He collects Japanese art.”
“You like Japanese art,” Emily said.
“Yes. We have lots of things in common.”
“Is he really in love with you?”
“Yes, honey, he really is.”
“Are you in love with him?”
“Yes. I am. I wasn’t sure, for a long time, if I was or not. But I do love him. Very much.”
Emily looked at her mother sideways. “Are you going to get married?”
“Honey, I don’t think I want to get married again.”
“Can we go to the Grammys?”
“What?”
“The Grammy Awards. Do you think we can go?”
Diane bit back laughter. “I don’t know, honey. Why don’t we wait on that one?”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
Diane took in a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I should have told you from the beginning, but I was afraid you’d have, uh, expectations, and I wasn’t sure we were going to last. I was going to wait for him to come back, invite him over, and just kind of let you get used to the idea. It was a mistake. I’m sorry. You shouldn’t have had to find out about this over the Web.” Diane gave her a hug. “Are you ready to come home? Rachel is coming in early on Friday, and we were all going to get dressed together and see the play. Stay here. You’ll be back at your fathers’ that night anyway. Stay and see the play with us.”
Emily shrugged again. “Yeah, okay, that sounds like fun”
Diane exhaled silently. “Okay, then. I’ll tell your Dad.” She went downstairs, thanking the gods. Kevin was packing his briefcase.
“She’s staying.” She hugged her ex-husband tightly. ‘Thank you so much. I don’t know what you did or said, but thank you.”
Kevin kissed her forehead affectionately. “I didn’t do anything. Really. I think she just figured it out for herself.” He shrugged into his jacket. “This guy she was talking about.” He looked at her with interest. “He’s in a rock band? I mean, I don’t care who you date, you know that. And I want you to be happy, Diane, I really do. But how old is this guy?”
“About three years younger than your wife,” Diane said dryly. Kevin had the grace to color slightly.
“Well, I hope he’s worth it. I know what these past few weeks have cost you. I’ll bring the rest of her stuff tomorrow. And I’m seeing your play on Friday. I’ll take the girls with me from there. Break a leg, or whatever.”
“Thanks again.” Diane closed the door behind him. Megan would be home from Becca’s soon. It was time to make dinner. Emily was back home. Quinn had proposed. All in all, a good day’s work.
Friday afternoon, Diane raced home to get ready for her play. Rachel was waiting for her as Diane emerged from her shower. Her daughter was wearing a long, flowing dress, obviously vintage. Diane looked at her suspiciously.
“I think I wore that same dress in 1986. To a fraternity dance.” Diane said slowly.
Rachel looked shocked. “You went to a fraternity dance?” she asked, horrified.
Diane shrugged. “Hey, times were different then. It was free beer. You look terrific.”
Rachel rolled her eyes. “So, what are you wearing? I hope you bought something incredible for your premier.”
Diane pulled out a black pants suit, the jacket cut to look like a man’s tuxedo, the pants wide and comfortable. Rachel examined the outfit critically.
“Are you at least wearing hot lacy underwear underneath?” she asked at last.
Diane’s shoulders slumped. “Rach, why would it matter what I was wearing underneath?”
“Mom,” she explained patiently. “You are about to become a playwright. This is big. Exciting. You need to dress as though you can take on the world. You’re going to look like a maitre’d at a lesbian nightclub in this outfit. You should at least have exciting underwear. And spiky, sexy shoes. Besides,” she asked casually, “isn’t Michael going to be here?”
Diane shook out the pants carefully without looking at her. “I haven’t heard from Michael in weeks.”
“Oh. I’m sorry.”
“Me too. Actually, I was thinking about socks and sneakers, but I think maybe just plain black flats. I am going to be an absolute wreck tonight, I know it. The least I can do is be comfortable.”
Rachel was shaking her head. “Mom, how boring. Wait, what about your hair? I brought my chopsticks. We can put your hair into a French twist. You’ll look amazing.” Rachel started combing out her mother’s hair, pulling it tight.
“Listen, Rachel,” Diane said, “About tonight. You’ll be sitting with your dad, right?”
“Yeah.” Rachel twisted up Diane’s hair and stuck in one of the chopsticks. They were standing in front of her dresser. Diane met her daughter’s eyes in the mirror.
“What’s going on, Mom?”
“Well, Quinn Harris is kind of my date.”
Rachel worked another chopstick through Diane’s hair, then put in some hair pins. She pulled a few strands of hair around her mother’s face. When she was done, she kissed her cheek. “You look beautiful, Mom. I just want you to be happy, okay? Quinn is a neat guy, really. I like him a lot. If he’s here for you, that’s what really counts, you know?”
Diane nodded. She felt strong, glamorous. She got dressed and went out into the living room, where Emily and Megan applauded as Diane spun around, balancing on the tips of her shoes. There were roses in the living room, a massive bouquet from Quinn. She picked one, snapped the stem, and pinned it carefully to her satin lapel, then they all piled into the Subaru and drove off to Merriweather.
The curtain went up at 7:30. By ten after eight, Diane knew they were a success. The crowd laughed in all the right places, listened carefully when the dialog was serious, and half a dozen times had burst into applause. By the intermission, she was on cloud nine.
Quinn was right there, his arm tight around her waist, pushing her through the crowd in the lobby. He left her side only to bring them champagne from the tiny bar. He was incredibly proud of her, and of her obvious triumph. Sam French was ecstatic. He came
running from backstage to kiss Diane repeatedly on both cheeks.
“What do you think, Quinn?” Sam asked, “Are we going places, or what?”
Quinn smiled and drew Diane closer. “There are some people here who are going to want to talk to you both,” he said. “Sam Levinson from the New School has already given me the high sign. Make sure you see him after the curtain.”
Sam flittered away, and Diane leaned against Quinn. Her daughters were coming toward her, happy and excited.
“Mom, this is so cool,” Megan said.
“Yes, it is. How do you like it so far?”
Rachel was beaming. “It’s funny, Mom. The people here are loving it. Congratulations.”
The lights blinked. The second act was beginning. They filed back in, and the rest of the show went off beautifully. After the final curtain, Sam French came on stage for a bow, and called up Diane. She ran up the steps of the stage, heart pounding, and her eyes blurred with tears as the audience rose to their feet. She beamed, bowed, and saw Quinn in the third row, smiling and applauding.
Afterwards, the crowd lingered in the lobby, where a long table of champagne glasses and hors de oeuvres was set up. Diane was bowled over by the response of the audience. Quinn stayed beside her as people she had never seen before told her how wonderful she was, how talented, how much they had enjoyed the evening.
Diane didn’t need alcohol to feel drunk. She was giddy with power and triumph. Every nerve was alive, every sense heightened. Quinn was more than a shadow behind her. She could feel every touch of his hand, every movement of his against her skin. She looked into his eyes and saw openly, for the first time, desire. Something akin in her answered. This is why, she thought fleetingly, men must make love after war, why victory must be answered with sex. She wanted Michael so badly the ache in her groin felt like a lead weight. Every time she turned and saw Quinn, his green eyes alive and smoldering, she felt her throat tighten.
It was midnight before the crowd thinned. Her daughters all had kissed her goodbye. Faculty and friends were beginning to leave. The cast had joined them from changing backstage and there began a serious discussion of the show, the mistakes, the triumphs. The press was still there, and a few other theater people, including Sam Levinson who began to talk to Diane about bringing her play to the New School, just as a round table reading at first, but after that, who knew?
She had turned away from Levinson for a moment, and saw, just through the glass doors that opened to the courtyard, a figure standing, backlit by the lampposts outside. A man, his breath a cloud in the cold October air. Diane knew the set of his shoulders, the tilt of his head.
“Michael.” She said his name aloud, in disbelief. The night was wide and black behind him. He was wearing a black leather coat, long, almost to the ground. His hair spilled over his collar, and his face was white, haggard. He stared at her, saw her mouth frame his name. He did not smile or move toward her. He stood. Watching.
“Michael,” Diane said again, her eyes not leaving Michael’s face. Levinson said something, and she looked at him, her face frozen. “I’m sorry. I’ll be right back.” She smiled automatically. Beyond Levinson she could see Quinn, talking to someone, glancing at her, smiling, turning away. Diane looked back to Michael, but he was gone. Her eyes searched frantically, and she went across the lobby and pushed the heavy glass doors open, running out into the courtyard. She caught a flash of black and saw him, in the dimly lit building across from her, walking down an empty corridor. She ran after him, through the doors and down the hallway. Her shoes echoed against the tile floor as she half-ran into the semi-darkness. She drew a deep breath. The hallway was empty.
“Michael?”
He stepped out from a doorway, and she ran to him, heart pounding. As he caught her his mouth took hers, and everything melted away, all the weeks of darkness and loneliness. He pushed her against the slick wood of the door, and he was cold, the rough cotton of his sweater, the leather coat, but her hands were beneath his clothes, and his skin was hot and smooth.
“Michael, where were you?” She whispered roughly, hoarse with wanting. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
His eyes were close, burning. “I didn’t know if I’d make it.” His voice was strained. “I literally ran to the airport in London. I called Angela from the plane and had her leave her ticket for me at the window. I didn’t want to tell you. I wanted to surprise you.” His hands were on her face, tracing the line of her lips, smoothing back her hair from her forehead. “God, I missed you so much,” he murmured, burying his face into the soft of her hair.
She reached for the doorknob and turned, the door fell open, and she pulled him inside. He pushed the door shut, and reached under her clothes. He had her tight against the wall and the zipper of her pants slid open and his hands pushed her clothing away and it fell, down around her feet, and she stepped out of them to wrap her leg around his hip. She could feel him, stiff beneath his jeans, hard against her. They were silent, frantic, and her fingers fumbled as she released him, sweetly alive in her hands. His breath was ragged, their mouths locked together. Then he gripped her around her waist and lifted her, her legs came around him as he plunged into her, and a cry leapt from her, and in seconds she was coming, biting the leather shoulder of his coat. He was making a noise, deep, guttural, as he pushed her against the rough cinderblock wall, and he climaxed suddenly, a hard, violent shudder. They leaned against each other, breathing harsh and unsteady, and Diane loosened her legs and her feet touched the hard tile floor, and as she tightened her arms around his neck, she felt the warm stickiness of him trickle down the inside of her leg.
The only light in the room came through the open blinds at the window, a streetlight, and she strained to see his face. She kissed his lips, and felt tears on his cheeks.
“Did I hurt you?” he asked, his voice shaking. “Did I?”
“No. Oh Michael, no.” She kissed him again, her lips against his mouth.
“The play was wonderful,” he whispered. “It was so great, they loved it. I am so proud of you. I was afraid I’d miss the curtain. I raced over from Kennedy. I almost didn’t make it.”
She pushed his head away, trying to see into his eyes. “You saw the play?” she asked. “You were here all along? Michael, why didn’t you find me? At intermission? I’ve been out there, all this time, talking to all those people, and you didn’t try to find me?”
He stepped away from her then, and she felt the cold air rush in against her bare skin.
“Why didn’t you tell me you were here, Michael?”
She could see him in the pale light, not his face, but the shrug of his shoulders.
“You were busy,” he said quietly, and he turned away from her, out through the door.
She leaned back against the wall, stunned and frightened. He was leaving. She bent down and felt for her clothes, pulling them up, and she ran out after him. She felt her hair falling around her face, and she pulled out Rachel’s chopsticks, flinging away the hair pins as she ran down the hall. He was at the glass doors, going back outside into the courtyard, and she followed, fear crowding with sudden anger. How could he leave?
She pushed through the glass doors after him, running, and called his name sharply. He stopped and turned, and a breeze caught his coat and it billowed around him, and the light behind him threw his face into sharp relief. He looked dark and beautiful, a fallen archangel, and her heart leapt to her throat, but she was angry now, wounded and afraid, and she stopped within a foot of him, her body shivering in the sudden cold.
“What the hell was that?” she lashed out. “Is that what you flew all the way over here for? Couldn’t you find anybody to fuck while you were in England?”
“No,” he shot back, “but apparently you could.”
“What?” She was incredulous. “What did you say?”
She heard her name, and she glanced away from Michael to see Quinn, running toward her.
“Diane. Are you all right?” As he
reached her, he took her by the shoulders, his hands gentle as they touched her face, pushing away her tousled hair. “You look a fright. Are you hurt? What happened?” He turned to Michael, angry, challenging. “Who the bloody hell are you?”
Michael pushed his hands into the pockets of his coat and squared his shoulders.
“I’m Michael.”
Quinn looked back at Diane, saw the flushed cheeks, the wildness in her eye, and he knew, in that moment, that he had lost her.
“Ah. Well.” He took a deep breath. “Diane, Levinson wants to know. Next summer? Will that be all right with you?”
Diane nodded.
“Fine. I’ll tell him. There are some people back there, though, you should say good-bye to.”
“I know, Quinn. I will. Just give me a minute, okay?”
“Yes.” He looked at her, shivering, her teeth beginning to chatter from the cold. “Look, take my jacket –“
“No, Quinn.” She crossed her arms, hugging herself. “I’m fine.”
He turned and walked quickly back into the building. Diane watched him go, and heard Michael’s voice, cold and calm.
“Well, isn’t he protective?”
She turned to him. His face had closed down, click, a blank page.
“The tabloids in London were full of you two. They ran an item about the great Quinn Harris at a theater on 13th Street. You took him to see Rachel, didn’t you? They didn’t know who you were. Then there was a dinner, for Derek Shore. They had a picture. They still didn’t know who you were. They said you were the woman Quinn Harris was kissing at two in the morning in the lobby of the Pierre Hotel. They said you were the reason he wasn’t spending his time in Manhattan, working on his play. I didn’t believe it. Angela told me all the rumors, but she said you denied everything. I believed you, of course. Even after you told me you couldn’t come to England, I believed you.”
