Scheming and Dreaming in Los Angeles

by Donna Del Oro

  He turned his back and shrugged on a pair of well-worn jeans, the hems ragged and the knees torn. “Forget it, I’m not taking your money.” A t-shirt went on next, then his sandals.

  Confused, she grabbed his arm. “Wait, why not? I want to be an investor in the play.”

  He whipped around and seized both her arms. His face contorted with a myriad of emotions that she couldn’t decipher.

  “I won’t take it, Tess. The play’s not happening. The other investors—we couldn’t get them to commit until after premiere night. I don’t have enough to cover rehearsals. I can’t ask people to put in the time and energy if there’s no pay—”

  “Yes, you can. I’ll do it for no pay. The others might, too.”

  “Tess, union musicians and Equity actors—if they worked for nothing, they’d be kicked out of their unions. No, it’s over… the whole, damned fucking thing…you signed on with a loser, baby.”

  “Don’t you dare say that!” Her lifeline, her savior was now walking out of the room, wearing a stormy expression bereft of hope. “Where’re you going?”

  “To do what you want me to do, to meet Pat and tell her how lucky she is that I’m out of her life!”

  He slammed the front door.

  * * * *

  Three hours later, he returned. He stumbled into the small living room, where she sat on the tattered sofa in her sweats. Stewing over why it was taking him so long to tell his latest casual sex partner that it was over, Tess sprang to her feet. He fell on her and took her into his arms, his breath smelling of beer and peanuts.

  “Aw, Tess, forgive me. I was a jerk. I know what it cost you to offer me that money. You believe in me, in the play, in my music. You don’t know what that means to me.”

  “Then you’ll let me be an investor?”

  “And if it bombs and you lose it all, you won’t hate me? You won’t leave me?”

  She smiled and kissed his boozy mouth. “No, I won’t leave you. And no, it’s not going to bomb. People’ll love it, Aaron, I know music.”

  He lifted his head. “I got a call on my cell. The CFO of Bio-Pax played the CD I gave him yesterday of the music and the tape of our set. He even read the libretto and script, but he won’t commit more than a quarter mil. After premiere night, he said if it’s a crowd pleaser, he’ll jump in as a fifty percent corporate sponsor.”

  Tess did the math in her head. “If I sell the emerald earrings, we’d need only fifty-thousand more. It’s close, Aaron, close enough not to call off rehearsals tomorrow. But only if you take my money—my investment.”

  “I’ll think about it, okay?” He bent down and lightly bit her neck, meanwhile snaking a hand inside her sweat pants and panties. His thumb touched her nub as two fingers fondled her folds. In seconds, she was wet with desire, and they were breathing heavily.

  With half a mind, she knew what he was doing, distracting her with sex. He was still afraid she’d leave him if the play bombed and all the investors pulled out. There was something else…

  “How did it go with Pat? Did you tell her to stop calling you?”

  “Yeah… I told her I’m in a committed relationship with a lunatic redhead I’ve been in love with for over thirteen years.”

  “And?”

  Aaron groaned and pushed his fingers in further. She gasped with pleasure, and began unzipping his jeans.

  “Nothing much.”

  “C’mon, tell me.”

  He cast her a sly smile as he shed his jeans.

  “She said I should be committed alright, to a lunatic asylum along with my lunatic redhead.”

  “Oh.”

  * * * *

  While Steve Madden, Aaron’s director, started off rehearsals—an initial read-through of the script—at the rented high school auditorium, Tess picked up her check at Guillermo’s office before meeting Aaron in the parking lot of a high-rise office building across the street from the West L.A. Medical Center.

  “You don’t look too happy,” she ventured. With a wan smile, he ended their hug. “How’re rehearsals going?”

  “Good news and bad news. They’ve all read the script and they love it. The musicians won’t show up this afternoon unless I pay them upfront.”

  She reached up and cupped his sad, handsome face between her hands.

  “So take my investment money.”

  His eyes crinkled with open affection as he grasped her hands and kissed the palm of each one. Spots of color appeared on his cheeks.

  “I love you, Tess. Always will, you know that, but I won’t take a dime of your money.”

  Bewildered, she replied hotly, “Oh yes, you will. You said last night you would. I’m an investor, just like Steve Madden. Just like Pete.” Pete had invested fifty-thousand of his own money. Steve, a hundred-thousand.

  “I said I’d think about it. Besides, I’m not sleeping with them,” he said. “I’ll find another way. I won’t take the risk of you hating me if things go south.” He left her standing there as he strode angrily to the high-rise building’s glass entrance doors. She narrowed her eyes and stalked after him, holding up a warning forefinger.

  “You won’t be sleeping with me, either, if you don’t let me invest in this production.”

  “What, now you’re breaking up with me because I won’t take your money? Three weeks ago, you would’ve clobbered me for even suggesting I needed your money.”

  “Things’re different now.”

  “What’s different now?” His suit jacket opened as his hands flew to his waist and remained there, akimbo.

  “I believe in you, your play, your work,” she declared staunchly.

  His mouth dropped open. “And you didn’t three weeks ago?”

  My God! It’s true!

  He looked on the verge of spitting. She reached up to seize his shoulder, but he shook off her hand. “That’s not what I mean, Aaron. I love Sophie, I love your play and I love you. Three weeks ago, I wasn’t sure about anything.”

  In apparent confusion, Aaron turned away. She grabbed his arm and made him turn back to her. If he wasn’t convinced of her belief in him, he’d certainly accept her show of greed.

  “Don’t give me this male pride bullshit. Aaron, if we go to Broadway, I want a percentage of the profits. Do you hear me? I want to own part of this show.”

  Aaron barked a bitter laugh. “Broadway? We won’t even make it off the Torrance High School stage. I’ve gotta call off rehearsals until I can arrange more backing.” He raked a hand through his hair and scowled.

  Tess stamped her foot in exasperation, but followed him into the lobby. People milled around in small, hushed groups.

  “So why’re we here? Who’s this attorney?” She spoke a little too loudly and a few people turned to stare.

  Aaron led her to a bank of elevators, his expression tense and dark. “Don’t know. He called, said it was important, said he wanted to see both of us. Hey, who knows? Maybe I owe him money. The way my luck’s going, that’d make perfect sense.”

  “Don’t be silly, Aaron.”

  “You’ll see,” he wisecracked.

  He was wallowing in morose self-pity again. His defeatism shocked her. She’d never before seen him so down and dejected.

  “I wish I could kick some sense into you,” she snapped and stepped into the elevator after him. Three men in suits moved over and shot them sidelong looks.

  “Be my guest,” he said blandly, his face a thundercloud, “Give it your best shot, Red.” He turned his backside to her and lifted up his rumpled suit jacket.

  “Oohh,” she growled and yanked his jacket down. “If I had some leg room, I would.”

  The three suits grinned. One snickered.

  Well, at least some folks found humor in their predicament.

  Chapter Fifteen

  David Rossini was a short, plump man in his fifties. He wore a tonsure, or monk’s haircut, and what little fringe of hair he had was more salt than pepper. Despite his less than striking looks, he had a pleasa
nt countenance and a warm smile. Nevertheless, he gave Tess and Aaron a look as if he were taken aback by them.

  Figuring to disarm the man who might be suing them for some unknown reason, Tess asked brightly, “Are you related to the Italian composer?”

  Rossini chuckled as he shook their hands and indicated the two chairs in front of his wide, teak desk. The paneled walls and thick Turkish carpets reflected a level of wealth she’d never before seen in an attorney’s office. Whoever this man was, he exuded success and a rich clientele. So what were they doing here?

  “Not that I know of, Miss MacIntosh. Everyone in my family is tone deaf, can’t play or sing a note.” As he sat, he unbuttoned the jacket of his gray silk suit. Tess noted the expensive fabric, a beautiful raw, nubby silk that would look elegant on a man with Aaron’s physique. Then and there, she determined to take Aaron shopping for such a suit. And she would talk—or seduce—him into accepting her investment.

  Rossini looked first at Tess, then at Aaron, steepling his chubby fingers in front of his face and tapping his chin.

  “What is this about, Mr. Rossini?” asked Aaron impatiently.

  Tess shot him a warning look. Instantly, it struck her that this attorney had something to do with Frank Marello.

  “Do you represent Frank Marello?” she asked peremptorily. Aaron looked at her, his mouth dropping, his face paling.

  “Tess!” Shock registered on every feature of his face. Apparently, he’d never considered the connection. Rossini waved away Aaron’s startled look.

  “Sorry, but I needed a moment to assess something. You two are not quite what I expected. You’re younger, for one thing. Quite a handsome couple and apparently unaware of what I am about to announce.”

  “Well, I’m clueless, anyway,” groused Aaron. “What’s going on? Did you know Frank Marello? We’re not being blamed for his death, are we? I thought it was declared a suicide. People on the ship saw him…”

  “No, there’s no cause for alarm, Mr. Peterson. This has nothing to do with his death. I just wanted to take a little time to assess your relationship with Frank Marello. What you thought of him, for example.”

  Aaron looked perplexed. “I-I don’t understand. We didn’t have a relationship. He came every night to our show, sat there and didn’t say a word.”

  Tess, beginning to understand what this meeting was about, prompted him with a nudge. “Aaron, that one night you played poker with him.”

  “Well, just that one night. We played in a poker tournament, just five of us men. Had some laughs over drinks, talked a bit. I could see he was depressed. Frank told me his life story that night…” He trailed off and looked over at Tess. “He said he could tell how much we loved each other, that I should ask her to marry me. I told him it was complicated, Tess was engaged to another man—” He broke off, embarrassed now at his candor with a stranger.

  “Then,” Tess broke in, “the night Mr. Marello died, he gave me these earrings. He told me that they were his wife’s and now another…woman should have them.” She took the black velvet box out of her big tote bag and gave it to Mr. Rossini, who opened it and nodded before setting it down on his desk. “I was going to pawn them today, but I couldn’t.” She glanced at Aaron and told him, “I wanted to raise more money for your play but for some reason, Aaron, I couldn’t part with these. It just dawned on me that’s why we’re here. Mr. Rossini wants them back for Frank Marello’s estate. There’s someone in his family who should have them.”

  “These emeralds are indeed valuable,” Rossini said, gazing at them both with a contemplative air, “but in his estate there is much more of value. Frank wanted you to have them, Miss MacIntosh, so they’re yours…to do with as you wish.”

  It was Tess’ turn to drop her jaw. Rossini gave the velvet box back to her.

  “I must conclude that Frank never spoke to you about his intended bequest,” Rossini went on.

  “Bequest?” Tess and Aaron chorused. Tess sat still, her nerve endings starting to tingle. Omigod. Omigod.

  “Frank Lorenzo Marello was my uncle and is still my client, postmortem. He was a wonderful man, a brilliant engineer and a successful businessman. His corporation made him a very wealthy individual. Unfortunately, wealth is no guarantee of lasting happiness or good health. The last five years of his life were unbelievably tragic. Having lost his wife, my lovely aunt, and then his two sons, my uncle was hit with yet another shock. Terminal pancreatic cancer. He told me before he left on that cruise that he would never return. As his only remaining relative, other than my son and daughter, I suspected what he was planning to do. After witnessing the slow, agonizing effects of his wife’s illness and how immediate and painlessly his sons had passed on in their car crash, he often spoke about the blessings of a quick death. Knowing my uncle as I did, I accepted his decision and respected it.”

  By now, Aaron was frowning and staring at his hands, clasped together tightly in his lap. His face was stricken, making Tess’s heart begin to pound. His eyes had turned red and puffy, for he still agonized over his failure to prevent the man from committing suicide. As if Aaron bore the weight of the world’s sorrow, but that was the man she loved. His humanity inspired her. Empathizing with him, she felt her eyes sting and well up.

  So what was a bequest? She wasn’t certain what the word meant.

  “I tried to show him that life was still worth living,” Aaron said quietly, “that you could still find some joy, some peace, however small. I tried to show him how my music gave me joy and peace, and the same was true for Tess.”

  Rossini nodded solemnly. “I understand you helped to identify his body afterwards.”

  Aaron’s reply was barely audible. “Yes.”

  “Thank you for doing that. It must’ve been difficult.” Rossini shuffled some papers, then opened a folder. “My uncle called me the day of his death and told me about two young people, whose lounge act on the ship was the last bit of enjoyment he’d have on this planet. He actually thought it ironic because he’d never been a lover of music. I think whatever pleasure he got in his last five days was from watching you two enjoy yourselves as you shared your gifts with the passengers on board. He said you showed such love and passion for your music, the same kind of love and passion he’d felt for his work during his golden years.”

  As Rossini spoke, Tess reached out across the space between their chairs and seized Aaron’s hand. Tears rolled down one of her cheeks; Aaron tried to sniff back his, but finally gave up.

  Rossini smiled and slid a box of tissue over to their side of his desk. They couldn’t speak, but both snatched tissues and dabbed their faces and wiped their noses.

  “My uncle wrote an Addendum to his Last Will and Testament that very day. It was witnessed by the—” the attorney consulted a sheet of paper—“First Officer of the Star Empress and notarized by the Chief Purser, and faxed to me that same day. It is a personal bequest in the amount of one million dollars. A half-million to each of you, to do with as you see fit.”

  Tess covered her mouth and stared at Aaron, paralyzed with shock. With difficulty, she forced out a raspy voice. “There must be a mistake. He gave me those earrings. Why would he—” She broke off, suddenly speechless. It didn’t make sense. People didn’t just give their money away to strangers. Her own parents never gave her a dime.

  “Yes, Miss MacIntosh, I’m aware of that,” said Rossini, “To this day, I don’t understand why Frank took those earrings with him on that cruise…unless it was his intention to pass them on to someone who reminded him of his wife…her beauty—” he smiled tenderly—“her red hair…her lovely voice.” The attorney pointed to a gilt framed photograph on the shelf along one paneled wall. It was a family portrait: A much younger Frank Marello in a suit, his attractive, red-haired wife in a black gown, two dark-haired boys in their teens. “She sang at all of our family gatherings. Mary had a lovely voice. My uncle was like that, a little secretive about personal feelings. However, there’s no mistake about t
he bequest or the Addendum. Everything is sound and legal. No one will contest this Addendum, I assure you. I’ll have you sign some documents first before taking receipt of these two checks.”

  He took papers from the folder and placed them, along with two pens, in front of Tess and Aaron. They hesitated and looked at each other. Aaron shook his head and wiped his eyes.

  “It doesn’t seem right.”

  “No one shall contest this bequest, Mr. Peterson, extraordinary and generous as it might seem to you. As I stated before, my uncle was a very wealthy man. He made many other similar bequests during the last six months of his life. He knew he was dying and this was his way of giving back.”

  After several minutes of quiet weeping, Tess’ tears dried up and she grew silent. She felt conflicted, both elated and guilty. It was Aaron who finally crossed the emotional barrier. He wiped his face and cleared his throat.

  “If it’s all right with you, Mr. Rossini, I’d like to dedicate all of the performances of my play to Frank. Without this incredible gift, those performances wouldn’t be possible.”

  The attorney blinked a few times and then smiled. “My uncle would’ve liked that. I imagine he’ll be there in spirit.”

  “I know he will,” said Aaron. He looked over at Tess and grinned. “Rehearsals are back on.”

  Frank Marello had just breathed life into Aaron’s dream.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The La Jolla Playhouse, situated on the UC San Diego campus, was one of the foremost, professional nonprofit theaters in the country. A testing ground for new dramatic and musical plays, this nationally acclaimed theater could launch or sink a production. Many of their critically acclaimed productions had gone on to Broadway and to winning Tony Awards. Tess knew that was why Aaron had fought so hard to produce Cold War, Hot Love there. The costs were high, but they were both aware that the major movers or their reps in the entertainment industry and their “angel investors—” corporate, private and public—would be present on premiere night.