by Gigi Blume
“Oh, I am more strategic than that, young padawan,” she chirped with a wide grin. “The position to her right is much better situated for an unobstructed view of her features.”
The gentleman to her right was presently engaged in a conversation with the previously mentioned gentleman to her left. Anne was stuck in the middle of whatever robust conversation they might be having and smiling timidly with her Bloody Richard. The young man, likewise, had the same hideous drink. He was a broad, tall man who reminded me of a young Denzel Washington, and he practically towered over Anne’s tiny, delicate form. Also, he wore a blue bowtie almost the exact shade of Anne’s dress.
“His name is Garret Townsend,” said Stella, “and he is someone to keep an eye on.”
“Oh? How so?”
“He’s a genius,” added Georgia. “He’s developing groundbreaking advancements in artificial intelligence. Plus, he’s righthanded.”
Great. Not my sister, too. Was Stella running some kind of matchmaking apprenticeship?
“What does being righthanded have to do with anything?” Beth asked innocently. She’d just joined the conversation after talking to Francesca for a while.
“Anne is lefthanded,” answered Georgia. “They’ll be practically facing each other all throughout dinner.”
Stella nodded vehemently. “That’s true, and she’s sitting right between his line of sight and the stage.”
“You think of everything,” I said, silently noting Beth’s position in relation to mine. To my left. In my line of sight to the stage. She wasn’t lefthanded as far as I knew. But I didn’t need any of those tricks to notice her. A man would have to be blind not to notice her. She lit up the room with her glowing luminosity.
“We haven’t told you the best part,” said Georgia, bubbling over with excitement.
I exchanged a look with Beth. She was just as amused as I was, but much more tolerant.
“Oh?” I said. I wished this silly conversation could be over already. Actually, I wished the whole night could fast forward to when I could give Beth a goodnight kiss.
Goals.
“Garret’s brother has a peanut allergy,” replied Stella.
Beth’s little nose scrunched up, and she asked, “How is that the best part?”
I answered her with a soft reply in her ear, “Anne is highly allergic.”
Her beautiful mouth formed an O, and she nodded silently.
“Garret, out of habit, won’t come within a ten-mile radius of a tree nut,” said Stella. “But since he’s adopted, he doesn’t share his brother’s DNA, so there’s a good chance the allergy won’t be passed down to any potential offspring.”
Francesca, who silently listened next to Beth, almost did a spit-take with her water and coughed. Georgia got up and rubbed her back, which does absolutely nothing for a choking person, but she likely didn’t know what else to do to be helpful.
“I’m okay.” Francesca held up a hand in the universal sign that means ‘chill.’ “Went down the wrong pipe, that’s all.”
When she had recovered, Beth asked, “Is that sort of thing passed down? Peanut allergies?”
“Oh yes,” replied Stella with energy. “There’s research that pinpoints a region in the human genome associated with allergies. It’s like anything else—hair color, artistic talent, terrible taste in fashion…”
“Wow,” Beth replied. “You certainly have done your research.”
“I always do.”
Stella grinned and took a long pull of her wine, volleying her eyes between Beth and me. She’d done her research, all right. This whole thing with Beth was no accident. It was highly orchestrated. Somehow, I had the suspicion my sister was in on it, too.
“Sorry I’m late.” Clay Tilney pulled out the sixth chair at our table and slid into it, smiling apologetically. “I had to run home and change, and traffic was… well, you know. It’s L.A.”
Stella assured him there were no apologies needed and introduced him to everyone at the table. Clay Tilney was the heir to Northanger Productions, a famous but has-been film company. I honestly couldn’t tell you what they’d done in the past ten years. In Hollywood, that was an eternity.
But Clay was a cool-enough guy. I wondered what Stella had planned for that poor soul. Currently, he sat where Bing would have, had he not left us hanging.
Dinner turned out to be good—what I ate of it. My stomach was tied up in knots with the proximity of Beth quietly nibbling at her meal. It was a traditional English roast. I noted with some amusement the Yorkshire pudding was way off the dietary restriction wagon. Not a tree nut in sight, though, which was good. I was so distracted with my own thoughts, I didn’t notice until halfway through dinner that neither Clay nor Francesca ate any meat. Vegetarians. That was the one I’d forgotten on my list earlier. I stole a glance at Stella and my sister to gauge their involvement in this particular seating arrangement. But they were watching Clay and Francesca all throughout dinner, conspiring and shaking their heads as if to say, No, this will never work.
Hmmm. So there was a vetting process? What on earth did Beth and I have in common? Nothing—except pride and prejudice. And those weren’t good virtues with which to begin a relationship. Still… perhaps we were beyond all that.
I had to kick myself for thinking in those terms. This was no relationship. Whatever it was between Beth and me was anything but. I’d be wise to remember that.
Coffee and tea were served, a few people had aperitifs sent from the bar, a few speeches were made, and Francesca announced the Hershel Gardiner Endowment awards. I didn’t even notice when she got up from the table. It was all a blur. All my attention was focused on the woman to my left, the exquisite creature in gold.
At one point, we were ushered off backstage, and Francesca sang a song about hair. ‘Hair, hair, hair’ were all the lyrics that registered to me. It must have been a comedic piece because the audience laughed throughout the song, and when she hit a ridiculously high note at the end, the room erupted in thunderous applause. Beth certainly was impressed, watching from the wings and smiling brightly at the performance. My hands were too sweaty to pay attention to much of anything beyond my breathing. What had gotten into me? I never had stage fright. Never had I been nervous before a performance in my entire life until now. I told myself it was the material. It wasn’t exactly opera, but the score from Pirates of Penzance was way more legit than contemporary musicals. I’d only learned the song a few hours ago. Also, my dinner was still digesting. I preferred to sing on an empty stomach. And that there were colleagues in the audience that didn’t see me as a song and dance man. To them, I was an action star and nothing more.
I told myself those things, but none of them were true. The woman within an arm’s reach, a woman with whom I was about to sing a love duet, caused my disquiet.
Stella gave her sales pitch now. Fitz came backstage to get a sip of water and hang out with us while we waited for Stella to finish. If he spoke to me, I don’t remember. I probably nodded and laughed at a joke I didn’t hear. My eyes must have glazed over and maybe lost consciousness (if that’s possible while standing), because Fitz snapped his fingers in my face amidst the distant sound of applause. The kind of applause that’s a cue to go on stage. Stella was in the spotlight, waiting like the timeless star she was, and suddenly, I snapped into performance mode.
The piano clanged into the fierce intro to Oh! False One, and I sprang upon those operatic notes without looking back. Stella, of course, was brilliant in her usual Stella way. She got a few laughs from the comedic moments in the song. Clearly, her character stole the show. I much preferred playing a gullible pirate than a male ingenue. A… mangenue? Bing was better suited for the role of Frederic. In many ways, he shared some of the same qualities. Young. Wholesome. Naive.
And easily influenced by the Pirate King. Me. It was right there in the lyrics. You have deceived me. I who trusted so.
Yep. I royally messed with things I shouldn’t have. Bi
ng wasn’t my sister or my father. I didn’t need to protect him. And I had no place to interfere.
I was a dirtbag.
The song ended with robust applause, and Stella did her little bit where she ran in circles before making her dramatic exit. And there I was alone on the stage, feeling crappy. But it was the perfect emotion for the recitative Beth sang as she entered. “My Frederic in tears? It cannot be that lion-heart quails at the coming conflict.”
Yes. A terrible disclosure has just been made. I’m a dirtbag.
I did my best to struggle the music out of my lungs through the sting of that damning epiphany. Even Beth’s lines echoed the sentiment.
“Oh, horrible! Catastrophe appalling.”
It wasn’t a far cry from the things she had said on New Year’s Eve. But her voice was bright and lyrical, and she took my hands in hers and sang, “Stay.”
Stay. No shadow of a shame will fall upon thy name. Stay.
And her eyes! It was as though she secretly told me nothing mattered anymore because she knew me now. And even though I deserved the painful hair pulling and all those names she’d called me, she realized I had good intentions. Albeit in a messed-up, egotistical way, but good intentions, nonetheless.
And then, like a nightingale, she softened her tone and let her voice linger in light, flittering notes. “Ah, leave me not to pine alone and desolate.” It was mesmerizing. I almost forgot to sing my part when the time came. But never before were lyrics so apt when I echoed, “He loves thee.”
At that point, once we had sung our gentle harmonies, there was a lull in the music. Usually during this time, the pause allowed the audience to applause and the actors transitioned into the next section of music. We’d rehearsed it holding hands as we now were, and I was supposed to plant a soft kiss on her knuckles before bravely declaring my long-suffering fidelity while serving the Pirate King until 1940. It was a funny line because the show took place during the Victorian era. But I wasn’t ready to go there yet. I couldn’t bring myself to let go of her hands. Our eyes were locked in a heavy-lidded gaze—and let’s be real here—it was probably not as long as it seemed. Fitz embellished the accompaniment tastefully and effortlessly. The audience most likely didn’t notice the few extra seconds at all, but Beth’s expression was pure tenderness and longing, and I could have stared at her forever. My chest swelled with an overwhelming desire to care for something outside my self—beyond the duty of family or even my name. It was every cheesy fairytale, the heartbeat in every single novel—even horror, a common theme in all the classics…
‘A love of the most exquisite kind. The kind of which people do not admit even to themselves.’
So with a quick caress of the lips, I covered her mouth with mine and let the music play its sweet melody into the next scene. The kiss was slow and tentative, asking permission. Asking she not pull my hair. Asking for this to be real. Beth was a superb actress. And a superb kisser. If this kiss was an act, she had me fooled. Her performance was flawless in every other way. Why should this kiss be any different? I kept telling myself to get in line with reality. We were in the middle of a scene. She was acting. Right?
But I ignored the pesky voice in my head that so annoyingly reminded me she wouldn’t pull my hair in front of an audience of Hollywood gatekeepers—no matter how much she wanted to. At least, I hoped she didn’t want to. And maybe I was a fool to believe it for the few short moments we had to transition into the next sequence. If this were the only chance I would ever have to feel her lips on mine, I would take it and chance the consequences. I wasn’t all that attached to my hair anyway. The Hair Song wasn’t even in my vocal range.
27
Lights, Cookies, Snoopy
Beth
Oh. My. Bard.
All I could think was wow. We didn’t rehearse the song this way. And even if we’d rehearsed the kiss a thousand times, it wouldn’t have been half as good. The applause echoed around us and lingered into the next part of the scene. My little heart (let’s call her Kitty) clapped too, probably giving the performance a standing ovation. “Bravo!” Kitty exclaimed enthusiastically. “Encore.”
An encore would be nice actually. Good idea, Kitty. I’ll speak with the management.
In the meantime, we had work to do, and Will was singing the recitative into Oh Here is Love. Kitty was still applauding, and I had to tell her to pipe down, so I could sing the next part with some breath left for the high notes. There I was, playing Mabel, declaring my love to the man playing opposite me. I didn’t loathe him anymore—far from it. But were the lyrics so close to home?
Here is love, here is truth.
Was it though? I didn’t know what the truth was anymore. That kiss sure was a zinger. I knew that. But… was I falling for Will? It had to be the wine, or the Yorkshire pudding, or the love song we sang. A love song that was a campy comedy. Story of my life. The audience laughed because it was rather funny—and also because I liked to milk the comedy whenever I had the opportunity. Leading roles were usually quite boring, so if I could spice it up a little and get a few laughs, I called it a win. But even without the laughs, getting to kiss Will, even though it was make believe—I called that a definite win. And so did Kitty.
My inner critic (let’s call him Jeff) was the one heckling and throwing tomatoes and ruining it for everybody like the two old men on the Muppet Show. He’d say, “It’s a stage kiss. Get over it.” or “He does this for a living, you moron.”
At which point, I thought to myself, ‘A falling chandelier would come in handy right about now.’
Anyway. The show must go on regardless of hecklers or standing ovations or falling chandeliers because Will was brilliant. By the look in his eyes, I wasn’t too shabby either. Our voices just melded well. It was a good blend. Who said oil and vinegar didn’t mix? What the heck was salad dressing made out of for crying out loud? All it needed was a binding agent like honey and voila! Magic.
So what was the binding agent Will and I had? Music? Theatre? The ‘L’ word? (Laughter).
Here is food for joyous laughter. He will be faithful to his sooth ‘til we are wed and even after.
Such a silly song. Such a silly show. And so much fun. We faced each other, holding hands and singing our hearts out. Will’s face shone. He was in his element. Don’t get me wrong—he was mighty hot on the big screen, but I could tell he really loved the stage. “I love it too.” I tried to express with my eyes. “This is what I live for.”
Maybe he understood me, or maybe we were just caught up in the moment, but at the climax of the song, when the high notes rang out, and every emotion was at a heightened state, his lips crashed into mine. And my racing pulse and the crescendo of the piano and the applause of the audience rang out in one final chord.
I mentally gave Kitty a high five because she got her encore. I wasn’t complaining either. It was the opposite of complaining, in fact. It was two thumbs up. Five stars. One hundred and ten percent on Rotten Tomatoes. It was the Oscars and the Tonys and the Golden Globes all rolled into one. It won all the awards. Take that, Jeff.
I almost forgot there was an audience at all until the swell of hands clapping died down, and Will reluctantly broke the kiss. His eyes flashed to mine, and he spoke a thousand words in a single smile before disengaging from our embrace to bow gratefully for the crowd. He gestured to me, and I also bowed. Then we drew the attention to Fitz who stood from the piano bench and gave a nod. More applause. Then Stella returned to the stage, and that’s when everyone stood. A few hoots and whistles echoed before Stella took the handheld mic and hushed the audience. It was more of the same speech about the Arts Fellowship and to come see Pirates of Penzance in a week, show dates, etcetera. But Will and I didn’t stick around to listen to any more. He squeezed my hand, which he had yet to let go of, and pulled me backstage. We ran through the back, out of the tent and away from the stuffy party. The winter air was cool, but the stage lights and the song made us so warm, the crisp air was refresh
ing, and we laughed all the way to the tennis courts. It was a wild, exhilarating experience. Like we’d just crashed a party and took over the entertainment but had to make a run for it before getting caught. I couldn’t wipe off the smile plastered to my face.
“So,” I said, out of breath. “That just happened.”
“Yeah. It did, didn’t it?”
His features were lit with an enchantment. Were we talking about the performance? Or the kiss? Scratch that. Two kisses. He was still holding my hand. Gah!
“Yeah,” I replied. “You were really good.”
“So were you,” he said softly. His voice was laced with desire—gentle, coaxing. And I panicked. If he were to kiss me again, it was about to get real. And that scared me a little. I couldn’t rationalize why. It just did.
“Everybody was good,” I blurted, slipping my hand from his grasp. “Stella, Fitz… and did you hear Francesca hit that E six? Incredible.”
He stepped away, just one tiny step, but it might as well have been a mile. Something akin to disappointment washed over his features, but he remained smiling.
“Was that an E six?” he said. “I’ll bet you could hit that note.”
“Ehhh, I can work up to it on a good day,” I admitted. “But not like Jane. She owns that note.”
I smiled at the thought of Jane with her coloratura voice. But Will’s brow furrowed, and he seemed deep in thought when he asked, “How is Jane?”
“She’s fine,” I said. “Better than fine. She’s in New York, actually. Probably impressing the socks off all of Broadway’s casting directors.”
“So she’s auditioning?” he said. “Glad to hear it.” He nodded to himself and returned silently to whatever thought lived behind those dark brows, his expression far away and inaccessible. I supposed that was where the magic ended. At any moment, he would go back into that big house of his, and I’d have to look for Enrique to take me home. Was Enrique even around anymore? I couldn’t imagine he’d hang out waiting in that limo just to give me a ride. Maybe it was a one-way trip, and I’d have to Uber it back to my apartment. I’d have to get my little backpack purse which was still inside the guest room. My TJ Maxx special. The little golden clutch that matched my dress was currently next to Georgia’s piano where I set it before dinner. My cell phone was in there, along with the lip stain for touchups. I didn’t need any touchups, though. Julie was right about that. I blushed at the thought. The color-stay did come in handy—for all the kissing.
