by Mindy Klasky
The edge of my elation frayed.
Before I could wonder what had happened, before I could worry that Timothy had somehow missed the show, the door opened at the back of the theater. Over the orchestra pit, across the audience, with the stage lights in my eyes, I couldn’t begin to make out who slipped into the house. I only caught a glimpse of an usher’s flashlight, of some late-arriving patron being whisked to the side.
There was someone else, though. Someone who didn’t seek a seat in the crowded audience. Someone who stood just inside the door, perfectly still, silhouetted against the cool, blue light of the lobby, in the heartbeat before the door whispered closed.
I knew that shape. I’d seen it first, in the courtyard of Garden Variety. I could almost smell the Earl Grey tea that Timothy had drunk that night, the first time that I had entered his restaurant domain.
Timothy was in the theater. He stood at the back of the house, eschewing a seat, but he was there. To see me. To support me. To watch me play the role of my life.
The audience’s applause had faded. The stagehands had changed the set; I was supposed to be offstage, in the wings, listening as Amanda and Tom fought another of their endless scorpion battles. Any instant now, the lights would come up, my mistake would be revealed. One of the stagehands hissed my name; she beckoned toward me from the shadows offstage.
I shook my head to clear it, casting off the sudden, choking joy that had rooted me to my spot. Timothy was there. And the play must go on. Tennessee Williams’s tragic words flowed into another musical number.
The next two hours flew by. I wanted the play to last forever. I wanted to be on that stage, wanted to feel Laura’s strangled emotions, wanted to convey her hopeless passion, forever and ever and ever.
But the finale came all too soon—the song, the dance, the cathartic liberation inside Laura’s tortured mind. Before I’d fully absorbed the fact that the show was ending, I stepped forward for my bow during the curtain call. The entire cast was clapping behind me, breaking decorum to congratulate me for the job that I had done. The curtain came swooping down, and I was mobbed by my fellow performers. Ken joined the chaos, actually jumping up and down in his excitement. Everyone was quoting lines from the play, reciting stage directions, recounting every single second of the instant classic we had just performed.
“Erin!” Amy’s voice cut through the clamor. I ran toward her, throwing my arms around her, laughing and crying as she told me how wonderful all of us had been.
Justin gave me a tight hug and said, “Aunt Erin, that was the best play I’ve ever seen.” His eyes were huge as he made his pronouncement, and I didn’t have the heart to point out that it was also the only play he’d ever seen.
Dr. Teel stepped forward, a grin lighting up his face, accenting his salt-and-pepper hair. It would have been the most natural thing in the world for me to let him hug me, to let him kiss me, to let him deliver another one of those soul-searing lip-locks that had confused me in the past.
I stepped back smoothly, though, settling a hand on his arm. To anyone else in the room, it would look like I was greeting a friend, a little overcome, perhaps, by the intensity of the acting experience I’d just completed. Only a flash in Teel’s eyes let me know that he recognized something else, that he understood more about the gesture. He knew that I was making a statement. That I was declaring a path for myself.
I made myself laugh, and then I looked behind the three of them. “Where’s Timothy?” I asked.
Amy’s frown disappeared almost before it could place a divot between her eyebrows. “Timothy? We haven’t seen him. Our bus was late getting to Port Authority. We only got to the theater about two minutes before the show started.”
Two minutes. That must have been why the house manager gave my third ticket over to Teel. But I knew I’d seen Timothy at the back of the house. I was certain that he’d been there.
I glanced around, feeling helpless. I didn’t have a chance to worry about Timothy for long, though. Actors swirled across the stage, crushing my family and Teel close. All of a sudden, someone announced that we were going to meet at the bar around the corner—everyone was going for a drink. Amy and Teel agreed to come along; Justin was excited at his chance to be with us grown-ups. I suspected that ninety-five percent of his enthusiasm stemmed from the fact that it was several hours after his bedtime. The other five percent grew out of anticipation for the inevitable maraschino cherry that would adorn his Roy Rogers drink.
I excused myself to wash my face, to change into street clothes. Every step I took toward the dressing room, I was stopped by another person associated with the show. Their giddiness was contagious—I was laughing like a starling by the time I grabbed my tote, by the time we all finally swarmed down the sidewalk.
Teel ordered a round of drinks for everyone. I saw him extract a billfold from the pocket of his impeccably tailored jacket. I suspected that the wallet was empty before he reached in, but he managed to manifest several large bills to underwrite his largesse.
I didn’t waste time, though, worrying about the counterfeit nature of genie money. Instead, I raised a glass with my fellow actors. I laughed about our success. I toasted Ken, and the choreographer, and the ghost of Tennessee Williams.
And I almost convinced myself that I wasn’t keeping an eye on the door, wasn’t waiting, hoping, praying, that Timothy Brennan would come join in the celebration. He didn’t, though. Not even after I phoned him again. Four times, before the night was through. Timothy Brennan was nowhere to be found.
CHAPTER 16
THE NEXT MORNING, I PULLED MYSELF OUT OF BED JUST before sunrise, and I immediately fired up my computer. It took me about thirty seconds to scout out early reviews of the show. The big names—the New York Times, the Washington Post—they wouldn’t get their notices up until the following week.
But there were plenty of other comments out there. My first stop was ShowTalk. I logged in automatically, just as I did every day, to check on gossip, to get ideas for new auditions. That morning, though, I was typing with my eyes closed. I was terrified to see what my fellow professionals had thought of Menagerie!
Fortifying myself with a deep breath, I forced myself to look at the computer screen. And there it was, in black-and-white, comment after comment after comment—they loved the show. They loved the show, they loved the concept, they loved the execution, and most of all, they loved me.
I caught a little shriek at the back of my throat. Obviously, I wasn’t quiet enough, because Tabitha came galloping into the room to see what potential prey she had missed. I scooped her onto my lap and continued reading through the pages.
Several people mentioned that I’d been a last-minute fill-in, an understudy called up on the last possible day. A few folks said that they couldn’t tell, that they’d never seen a blockbuster musical preview so strongly. One person, who was destined to become my best friend forever, said that I was the best thing onstage in New York the night before, in a straight play or a musical, on Broadway or off.
I blushed. And I kept on reading.
Other sites were complimentary, as well. The play had a way of reaching out and touching people, of raising up lifelong memories of being an outcast. Almost everyone who posted talked about a time when they’d been marginalized, when they’d been excluded from some group that had meant the world to them. People waxed eloquent about their own tangled family relationships, about challenges they’d faced with parents and siblings who just hadn’t understood. They reminisced about their past loves, their failed romances.
Menagerie! was real. It worked. Even with Martina-inspired tweaks to dialog, Menagerie! grabbed its audience members, and refused to let them go. And I was part of the reason why.
I read until eight o’clock, until I could head out to Garden Variety, track Timothy down in person. I was worried about him, worried about how he had completely disappeared.
Once I had set aside the dreamy aftermath of Internet theatrical success,
I barely had the patience to wait for the Bentley’s elevator. Out on the street, people were stirring—the city was waking up for a hot summer Friday. I could already feel the heat rolling off the black asphalt of the street; it was going to be a scorcher before sunset.
Nevertheless, I walked toward Garden Variety as fast as I could, stopping just short of breaking into a run. I smiled when I got to the sign that pointed down the alley. It looked like an old friend, like a welcoming hand, beckoning me in the right direction.
The courtyard was quiet. Dusty. It felt empty, bare, and it took me a minute to realize that the outside tables were missing. Not pushed to the side. Not chained together to prevent theft. Missing.
As I moved closer, I saw a sign posted in the window. For Rent, it said, in stern letters. Restaurant Kitchen. A phone number shouted from the bottom of the placard.
I actually staggered backward.
I wanted to shake my head. I wanted to palm open the door, to pluck the sign from the window, argue that the restaurant couldn’t be for rent—it was under lease to Timothy. But then I remembered the date.
August 1.
The days had flown by as I prepared for Menagerie!’s premiere. When had I last been here? Three weeks before? Timothy had been drowning in Amy’s papers then, floundering in the business plan that she had drawn up just for him. I closed my eyes, recalling that conversation. He’d been tired. Frustrated.
But he’d had lots of ideas. Lots of possibilities. Lots of dreams. There’d been plenty of time for him to implement the new vision for his restaurant. Plenty of time for him to beat his landlord’s ultimatum.
Even as I gibbered my protest, though, I corrected myself. There would have been plenty of time. But Timothy had spent his days at the theater. He’d stuck around for our rehearsals. He’d brought us unparalleled food and drink, and then he’d hung out to watch the show. To watch me.
All of a sudden, I realized why he hadn’t taken a seat in the audience the night before. He had lurked in the back of the house the way he had during rehearsal, day after day, so that he could hurry back to Garden Variety. The entire time that Teel was buying rounds after the show, the entire time that Amy and I were laughing, that Justin was curled up sleeping on the hard bench of a restaurant booth—Timothy had been here alone, working.
While we’d been singing show tunes, Timothy had been shutting down his restaurant, once and for all. He’d been burying his dream.
I flew across the courtyard and jiggled the doorknob, but it didn’t give a millimeter. I pounded on the door, using the palm of my hand against the glass. “Timothy!” I shouted.
Of course he didn’t answer. He wasn’t inside. He didn’t have any right to be inside anymore.
I put my face up against the window, cupping my hands around my eyes to cut out the glare behind me. All of the familiar tables were pushed against the walls, bare of their customary butcher paper. Chairs were stacked haphazardly. One had fallen to the ground, and it sprawled like a body in the middle of the room.
“Timothy!” I shouted again, knowing my cry was useless. I turned around and slumped against the door, sliding down until I was sitting on the flagstone step in front of the defunct restaurant.
For weeks, I’d been too focused on myself. I’d been too wrapped up in my own drama. I’d held the Master Plan between Timothy and me, manipulated it like a shield. I’d told myself not to think about him, not to dwell on anything he did, because I was all wrapped up in my miserable dating history, in my lousy track record with guys, in my stupid, selfish needs.
I didn’t deserve Timothy.
As I stared at my knees, a glimmer of light caught my attention. For a second, I thought that it was the flash of an insect, an iridescent wing hovering at the edge of my sight. It wasn’t, though.
My attention had been caught by my flame tattoo, by the featherlight markings on my right forefinger and thumb.
I knew all the reasons why I should continue to keep a wish in abeyance. Justin was only five years old; there was no telling what danger he could get into. Derek was still overseas; who knew what horrors his military service might bring? Freeing Teel might bring back the demon child inside my nephew.
There were dozens of reasons to hold on to my fourth wish. But, suddenly, not one of them mattered.
I pressed my thumb and forefinger together and said, “Teel!”
The shimmer of light was immediate. The entire courtyard filled with jewels, with minute shards of ruby and silver, sapphire and gold. Without consciously thinking, I expected to see them coalesce into Dr. Teel. I wasn’t disappointed.
“Erin,” Teel said, almost before the thrumming energy had subsided. His baritone thrummed with vitality, with power. He glanced over my head, taking in the locked restaurant door, the sign in the window. “If Garden Variety’s closed, there are plenty of other places to get breakfast. You don’t need a genie to find a decent restaurant in this town.”
“Ha, ha,” I said.
He sauntered over to the step where I huddled disconsolately. He hitched up his trouser legs and slid down to take a seat beside me.
“So,” he said. “Hunger isn’t the diagnosis.”
I grimaced at the medical word. “Not exactly.”
“Let me guess, then.” He held the back of his hand against my forehead, as if he were taking my temperature. He folded his lean fingers around my wrist, nodding as he pretended to count my pulse. When he tried to peer into my eyes, though, I squirmed away, sighing in exasperation. He merely shook his head, muttering, “Patient shows distinct dysphoria upon examination.”
“I’m not your patient,” I snapped. “And you’re not a doctor.”
He shrugged. “That hasn’t really bothered you until now.”
The words were heavily laden with suggestion. I blushed, immediately thinking of the narrow bed we’d shared in the hospital. Even now, I could feel the magic of his kiss, the purity of sensation that had coursed from my lips to my fingertips, to the very ends of my toes. Dr. Teel defined charisma. He emanated pure, unadulterated male power.
I caught myself leaning toward him. My breath stuttered in my throat as I thought about the fire of his lips against my own. I was swimming in pure temptation.
But Teel had used his magic to make himself alluring. He’d fashioned his guise of the doctor because he wanted to get his own way. He wanted entrance into the Garden, and he’d thought that he would get it sooner if he created a bond with me. An emotional attachment. An obligation.
And for far too long, I’d played along with his game. I’d fallen back on that idiotic Master Plan, told myself that whatever happened between Teel and me was outside the real world. Immaterial to my real life. To my real obligations.
Besides, it had been fun kissing him.
I swallowed hard, and when I looked at him again, whatever spell he’d been building between us was shattered. Sure, he was still gorgeous. Certainly, I could remember how his kisses had reached inside me, had turned me over, had seared me in ways no human man had ever done.
But that was it. He wasn’t human—and he never would be. He didn’t play by anyone’s rules but his own. He didn’t show up at my apartment, carrying eggs and cheese for a midnight omelet. He didn’t sacrifice his own welfare for mine.
I sighed and asked, “Is Jaze still in the Garden?”
A bolt of energy shot through Teel. All of a sudden, he seemed to understand why I’d summoned him. What I was asking. He nodded an affirmative answer to my question, but he didn’t speak. I hadn’t realized that he could be overwhelmed by emotion, that he could be knocked speechless.
“Good,” I said. I tested my next words inside my head. I needed to make them perfect. If I screwed up, I wouldn’t have any chance to correct them, any chance to make them right. I’d have no more wishes in abeyance, no more options for straightening out the crazy chaos of my life.
I stared into Teel’s astonishing blue eyes, and I said, “I wish that Garden Variety was a
wildly successful restaurant, true to every one of Timothy’s ideals and secure from any interference by his landlord.”
“That’s it?” Teel asked.
I wondered if I should add more. Should I force Timothy to include me in his vision of success? Should I make him love me, once he had all the professional satisfaction he’d ever dreamed of? Should I bind him to me, now and forever, before Teel disappeared for good?
I shook my head. Timothy had already proven himself to me. He’d already done what was right. Every step of the way, he’d been there with a steady goodwill, with a constant respect for my idiotic rules and restrictions. I realized that he’d believed in me, even when I’d been at my most insane. He’d trusted me to come to my senses. The least I could do was trust that he’d do the same.
“Yes,” I said to Teel. “That’s it.”
He nodded and clambered to his feet. He held out a hand to me, and I felt like a medieval queen, being attended by a knight. “The lamp,” he said, when I was standing in front of him. “If you pass it on while I’m in the Garden, the magic won’t work.”
“How long will you be there?”
“Measuring in your time? I can’t say.”
“But how will I know when you’re out? When it’s time to pass the lamp on to the next wisher?”
“If the brass is still polished, then I’m—” he interrupted himself, clearing his throat “—otherwise engaged. It will be tarnished when I’m available to grant wishes again.”
“Fine,” I said. I could picture the brass lamp, nestled in the box that Becca had given me so many months before. I had no idea what I was going to do with it, whom I would give it to. I suspected that, by the time I made up my mind, Teel and Jaze would both be back in the world at large.
Teel took a step back. He raised his hand to his ear.
“Wait!” I said. “Thank you. Thank you for everything you did. For me. For Amy.”
