I laughed again along with the producer and the musical director. She was endearing, she was everything I wanted for a performance on opening night.
“Thank you, Lindsey,” the stage manager called. She bounced, nodded and smiled.
“Wait,” I said. All four people turned to look at me. Although I had input, the producer and director ultimately had the final say on any casting decisions. I glanced down at my audition roster. “Lindsey, is it? Lindsey Worth?”
She nodded, seeming surprised. But I’d seen her head shot, and I remembered her.
“Yes,” she said, putting her hand up to shade her eyes from the bright lights.
“What do you do, Miss Worth?” I asked. “When you’re not acting.”
She lifted her chin. “I wait tables at a diner near here.”
“Did you write that? Your monologue?”
She nodded again, staring at me. “It’s risky, I know. But I have strong feelings about the dangers of allowing social media to color our perception of ourselves and others. We only see the highlight reels of our friends’ lives, and we need to keep that in mind as we pop open a bottle of wine and drink the whole thing or even worse because we find ourselves lacking.”
“Yeah,” I said, feeling the same way. I had to utilize Facebook working for Banks, but I hadn’t succumbed on a personal level. “Miss Worth, I’d love to see you participate in opening night. Unless Mr. Richards disagrees.”
The director nodded in my direction over his stiff shoulder. He made some notes on his pad as Lindsey bounced up and down, clapping her hands. “I’ll be here with bells on.”
She dipped another small curtsey and bounded from the stage. I watched more auditions, some good, some brilliant, some like watching paint dry. Richards was a brilliant bastard asking them all to prepare their own monologue. Not having them learn prewritten lines determined who had charisma, eloquence, and the ability to think on their feet. It was far easier to separate the wheat from the chaff that way. Opening night seemed closer and closer as I sat there and watched in awe.
“That’s a half,” the stage manager called. Her name was Julie, an old college friend, and one of the few I had kept in contact with. She’d majored in the theater arts just like Tristan had, but she preferred to stay behind the scenes. She walked down the stairs to sit next to me. “This is such a beautiful restoration, Callum. You should be so proud of it.”
I took a deep breath. “Thanks.”
Julie had little understanding of the concept of personal space, and she reached over to pick up my notepad, going over the notes I had written. “She’d like this a lot,” Julie said. Aside from being a college friend, she had been one of Amelia’s besties, a fellow theater arts major. We both had been devastated by the loss. Julie’s eyes flashed with sadness and regret. I nodded.
Lights illuminated the mark for the next audition. During the pause, it was as if I could see her on the stage, talking. I hoped she blessed the theater. I hoped she loved it as much as I did. Everything I’d done for her name’s sake.
“I have big plans for this place,” I said.
Julie glanced over at me. “I hope so. It looks great.” She handed me back my notepad. “Thanks for thinking of me for this gig. I really appreciate it.”
I gave her a smile. “It was my pleasure. I didn’t want anyone else but you running the show on opening night. It wouldn’t have been right. Almost blasphemous in my eyes.”
Julie’s blue eyes welled up with tears. “I should get back down there. We’re in a heated debate over that last one.” She rushed back to Richards, slid into the seat next to him, and left me alone with my thoughts and memories of Amelia. I shook my head. I’d promised myself to move on. Pulling my phone out, I dialed Lydia.
“Hey, what are you doing?” she answered on the second ring, a smile in her voice. I could hear the quiet din of the coffee shop behind her. I knew it.
“Sitting in the theater. Watching auditions. Thinking of you.” It was the truth. Everything I did that I enjoyed, I wished she was by my side to share my pleasure. Everything I did that challenged me, I wished she was by my side to support me through it.
She laughed softly, and it eased my mind. “Sounds productive.”
“Always. Are you working hard?” It was great to hear her voice, but that never seemed like enough.
“Hardly working,” Lydia said, “I needed the break. What’s up?”
The world moved so fast that a phone call felt like a novelty. We were far away from each other, but her voice caressed me as if she sat right next to me holding my hand.
“I’ve been thinking about something.” I knew she’d try to interrupt me if I paused, so I barreled on. “How do you feel about Sense and Sensibility? I know Pride and Prejudice is your favorite but–”
“I love it. I’d put it above Emma but below Pride. But I can’t quote it if that’s what you’re thinking.” She said it automatically, as if ranking Jane Austen books was something she thought about a lot. “Why?”
I grinned into the phone. “You answered that way too quickly.”
There was a pause on the line before she answered, “Emma, Persuasion, Sense and Sensibility, Pride and Prejudice, Northanger Abbey. You don’t have a list of your favorite Austen books?”
“I’m a man. I don’t believe I’ve ever actually read one.”
She laughed. “I suppose I’m different then. Why do you ask?”
I lowered my voice. “I was thinking, about what you said in the park. I thought that maybe you’d like to do me a favor.”
There was only a second of pause. “It depends on the favor,” Lydia said. “If it involves the theater, it can’t involve Tristan.”
I chuckled into the phone, keeping my voice low so as not to disturb the evaluations going on under my watch. “Never. He’s keeping himself busy enough trying to become the next Laurence Olivier.”
As I talked, I imagined Lydia in her regular seat, lifting her cardboard cup to her lips before realizing it was empty.
“I suppose he is. But if you’re going to emulate someone, Olivier is an excellent choice. Very hot back in the day. Now, back to Austen.”
“How would you like to adapt Sense and Sensibility into a play for the theater?” I asked. “A new version of the classic trope. Tailored to today’s audience?” There was another pause on the line, and I wondered what she was thinking. I held my breath.
“Wow. I think it’s a great idea. Sounds like the project of a writer’s lifetime.”
“I know you can do my idea justice,” I said. Since meeting her, I had become familiar with her work. Mostly to learn all of her body’s hot buttons. If a woman was going to draw me a roadmap under the guise of steamy fiction, I was going to follow her breadcrumbs ala Hansel and Gretel. Her writing literally jumped off the page and came to life. She was good, really good, and I was sure that she’d knock it out of the park.
“Thank you for thinking of me. I’d love to do it.”
“I’m doing it for you.” I wanted her to realize a dream the same way I had with the theater. I wanted her to be happy. I wanted her to write something that would feed her soul in a new and exciting way.
Most of all, I wanted her.
In such cases as these, a good memory is unpardonable.
– Elizabeth Bennet
Chapter 22
Lydia
“Willoughby is a major douche canoe.”
Poppy’s hair bounced on her slender shoulders as she nodded a few extra times for good measure. “You’re not kidding. How come Marianne couldn’t see through his typical player male bullshit? She’s smarter than that. We’re all smarter than that. Especially you, Lydia. How on earth did you let thespian extraordinaire, Tristan Markham, rattle your cage? Emphasis on the thespian and not the extraordinaire.”
I tapped my favorite pink pen with feathers attached to the eraser as I contemplated my next line of the manuscript. Douche canoe might be appropriate for Sunday brunch, but I’d n
eed to come up with a more family friendly term for the actual production.
The busboy came by to refill our water glasses, and Poppy turned on him. “Hey, Will? If you were going to call one of your fellow high schoolers a derogatory name and you couldn’t curse, what would you call him?”
“Asshat.”
Poppy threw her hands up in the air. “See, Lydia? There isn’t any way to say it without saying something mothers won’t approve of.”
Will fled the table with a look of abject terror on his face. He’d been the unwilling recipient of too many of Poppy’s inappropriate survey questions over the past year since he’d started working the brunch shift.
“Now look what you’ve done, Poppy Montgomery? You’ve probably scarred that poor kid for life.”
Poppy scoffed and held a compact to her face to make sure her red lipstick hadn’t bled under the force of her three mimosas. “Whatever. He can take it. Better they find out that women are strong, independent, and demanding before they get out into the cruel world.”
I laughed as I stared at the blank line of description that wasn’t yet there about the Willoughby character. “Some women might be like that. I’m not like that at all. Which is probably why Will likes me best.”
“Don’t fool yourself, Lydia. Will may like you best but if he had to choose his own personal Mrs. Robinson, he’d pick me.”
She emphasized her last sentence with a flourish of manicured fingers all pointing straight south. What would I ever do without Poppy? She provided her own brand of excitement, vivacity, and sisterly solidarity to my otherwise lonely world.
“I’ve got it! What do you think of…dimwit?”
She rolled her eyes. “Why don’t you just go full on British and call him a wanker?”
I hissed in a breath. “That’s just as bad as calling him a douche canoe.”
“It’s your script, Lydia,” Poppy said with a long–suffering sigh as if I were addled. “You’re only agonizing over it like this because you don’t want to disappoint Callum. And he is dreamy. I will freely admit. You done good, girlfriend. He’s a keeper.”
“He is, isn’t he?” I sighed and went all dreamy at the mention of his name. Callum was everything that was good and right with the world. With my world. He made it better. And he made me better.
“If you find another one just like him among his friends and associates, send him my way,” Poppy said.
“All of his hot friends and colleagues are already married. But if you’re a really good friend for the next year, I could hook you up with George from accounting. He’s recently divorced.”
Her eyes widened with eager anticipation. “Really? What does he look like?”
I tapped my pen against my lips, planning my attack. “Tall, fills out a suit well, especially the waist. A little wrinkly and sadly lacking in hair.”
“What? What are you trying to do to your very best friend in this world?” She accompanied her high–pitched questions by clutching her chest and pretending to faint into the depths of our booth.
“Well, he is retiring next year.”
“Get your mind off that thought train, Lydia. I guess I’ll just have to find my own Callum Markham.”
“Good luck with that.”
I loved our easy banter. Poppy made me laugh, and that was a rare commodity in NYC. I blessed the publishing God that had led her to me. My very best friend ever.
“Back to the manuscript. Is Tristan going to play Edward Ferrars? Gay or not, he’d be stellar in that role.”
Tristan had decided to officially come out to the theater community, and they’d supported him through the tumult with his parents who were already starting to soften to the idea. Callum was sure that once the shock wore off, they’d be fine. I hoped to meet them at the opening gala for the theater remodel. A spark of trepidation coursed through me at the prospect of Callum’s mother. A major player in the NYC society scene. If she didn’t approve, then what? I shivered and ran my hands over my arms to soothe the prickled skin.
“I’m all for it, but I guess the director had the ultimate say. They let Callum sit in on auditions and give input. Callum didn’t want Richard to know they’re related and get accused of nepotism and all that. But with the same last name, how could it be any more obvious? Besides, they kind of look alike. It’s just that their personalities are so different. In the end, it didn’t matter because Tristan killed it and got offered a main role.”
“This is one time when I wish I had some stage experience. I’ve always thought I’d make a great Mrs. Jennings.”
I laughed outright and threw my pen down on the table, narrowly missing my left–over maple syrup. That would have been a catastrophe, ruining my feathers and my good mood. “Be serious, Poppy! You’re way too young and way too beautiful to play Mrs. Jennings. If you’re shooting for a female character that’s over the top fabulous, you could always choose Anne Steele.”
“Ish. She’s not fabulous, she’s just ignorant and obnoxious. No. I’d want to play someone with the depth necessary to require the subtle nuances that only I could deliver.”
If only Tristan were sitting here having brunch with us, I’m sure he’d have some choice observations for Poppy and her budding career as a flamboyant actress. For a fleeting moment, I wished I could be more like my fun–loving and confident friend. Always up for any challenge and more importantly, possessing the unwavering belief that she could do it.
After a few moments of blessed silence, so I could write down a note, she asked a question that set my heart to fluttering. “Do you think Callum’s the one?”
The million–dollar question. I’d laid awake for hours every night since we’d met contemplating that very thing. In my gut, in my heart, I did think he was the one for me. Maybe neither of us were perfect people, but it seemed we were perfect for each other. His calm, logical, steady presence was like a balm to my soul. The yin to my yang.
“Yes, I really do.”
Poppy sighed and brought her hands to cover her heart. “It’s so romantic. I think you should write a book about it.”
“Maybe I will. But I won’t be able to do that until we find out how the story ends. And he hasn’t even said the ‘L’ word yet. He’s the man. He needs to lead. I’d never say it first.”
“Smart girl,” Poppy replied. “If you go all drama queen on a man, chasing and controlling, you never get to know where he truly stands. And that’s important information to possess when you’re planning a happily ever after. Who wants to always wonder if he really wanted to marry Bunny from the Sapphire lounge?”
“Gross, Poppy,” I cried in vain. I’d never get her to stop, and deep–down, I didn’t really want to. I protested half–heartedly. “I don’t even want to think of Callum with a sleazy stripper. Be serious. We’re talking about my real–life Prince Charming.”
“You can have your knight on a white horse, Lydia,” she teased. “I’d much rather encounter a real life Christian Grey. Tie me up and punish me, baby. All night long. I can take it.” She laid down the final sentence with an exaggerated waggled of her perfectly groomed eyebrows.
A crash of water glasses brought our attention to the booth next to us where poor Will had been attempting to clear the soiled dishware into his bus pan. Poppy turned and speared him with her best disapproving glare.
“Don’t eavesdrop, young man. It’s a good way to get a mimosa spilled into your lap.”
We both laughed as Will picked up his plastic container and high–tailed it to the kitchen.
I turned to Poppy with a smirk. “The day you leave that boy alone is the day I’ll stop having brunch with you. Don’t you ever dare change on me, Poppy.”
You thought me devoid of any proper feeling. I’m sure you did. The turn of your countenance, I shall never forget. You said that I could not have addressed you in any possible way that would induce you to accept me.
– Fitzwilliam Darcy
Chapter 23
Callum
I leaned back in my office chair and breathed a sigh of relief. My hand had trembled when I’d dialed Diana, Amelia’s mother. With no way of truly knowing the reception I’d receive on the other end, my heart had just about exploded. She could have told me to go take a flying leap into the Hudson River. She hadn’t, and with her enthusiastic blessing, it felt like the entire project had come full circle. The only thing left to make it complete would be the reading of Amelia’s poetry during the opening night gala. We’d cast Tristan to read my favorite poem of Amelia’s, and Lindsey would do her parent’s favorite.
“Thanks for taking my call, Diana. I’m so looking forward to seeing you and Harold at the gala.”
“You’re welcome. We’ll see you there.”
I ended the call with hope in my heart and excitement coursing through my veins. Like always, when I felt any kind of positive emotion, I wanted to call Lydia. To share it with her. She’d become my sounding board, my safe place to fall, my best friend.
I was hopelessly, madly in love with her. I planned to tell her at the gala. And even if she didn’t say it back, I didn’t care. I’d make her mine someday come hell or high water.
Forever.
***
Anne Banks had outdone herself again. The décor for the gala oozed sophistication. As if the theater itself weren’t an elegant enough backdrop, she’d had the party planner hire a professional stager and decorator. Twinkling lights cascaded from every available space, fresh fall flowers and foliage had been brought in, creating grand centerpieces and swag. Add to that the smell coming from the catered meal and the partygoers in their black–tie finery and The Cordoza dazzled. So far, everything had gone off without a hitch. I raked my eyes over every nook and cranny I could see.
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