A colorful new company logo welcomed me—a beautiful daisy with open petals bloomed behind the LoveSetMatch name, its green stem looping through the logo like a vine. But the daisy wasn’t all that was new. Seven additional matches had come in overnight. I closed out six of them without batting an eye, and the seventh I closed after batting it only once. Of the twenty-three matches I’d received so far, only two remained active. It wasn’t the quality of people so much that made me close them out; there was just something about shopping for a best friend and life partner online that didn’t agree with me. I thought about canceling my subscription and scrolled along the bar at the top of the screen looking for help to do just that. LoveSetMatch.com had upgraded their site, making navigation easier, even if the search for a soul mate was as much an enigma as ever. A new tab appeared overnight, a light blue clickable button that caught my attention with a word and a number: “Messages (2).”
I clicked, opening my in-box and saw a message from James, the architect and father of two in San Diego. I read his email titled “Greetings from San Diego!”
Hi Harper! It’s nice to meet you. I read your profile and even though it says you live far away in NYC, I thought I’d say hello. I’m the father of two young boys, both busy with soccer and private school. Don’t know if you’d read my story of how we all got here, but the boys lost their mother just over two years ago, very suddenly. We have held on through of our faith in Jesus Christ, and slowly, we are trying to pick up the pieces again. If you feel so led, write back. I’d enjoy hearing about your life in The Big Apple.
–James
Is there any reasonable way to explain attraction? How is it we know when we’re drawn to one person and not another? There was something about his simple story that compelled me. Acting on impulse, I clicked to reply.
Hi James, thank you for your message. I’m new to LoveSetMatch.com, so I haven’t figured out what it is I’m doing here yet. I was moved by your family’s story of loss, though, and can’t imagine how difficult it must be for you and the boys. I’m sure you don’t need me telling you that. I just wanted to send you a message to say I’m praying for you.
–Harper
I pushed Send and watched the message I’d written vanish into the screen.
Avril’s phone call with Sydney had ended, and she’d slipped back to her bedroom, passing me in the computer alcove, and closing her door. I thought she’d glance over my shoulder and ask about my matches, but she didn’t. I didn’t really have anything to say, anyway.
I clicked on the other message, this one from the flying lumberjack in Alaska. A time stamp in the corner told me his message had been sent within the hour.
Hey Harper,
Greetings from the wilderness of Alaska. I almost closed our match when it first came in because of the distance between us, but I’m glad I didn’t. I think you’re very beautiful, and after reading your profile, I just wanted to at least reach out and say hey.
I wish everybody could see the view from where I work. I spent yesterday on a bulldozer clearing an acre of timberland, a preventive step we take to stop forest fires. The sky is the brightest blue here, and there are miles and miles of pine trees as far as the eye can see. I’m not sure if you’ll reply or not, but I thought I’d extend my hand anyway. Have a good one.
–Luke
I hadn’t taken time to look at Luke’s photos or his profile the day of our match, disenchantment ruling the day and all. There were three photos on Luke’s page. I’d seen his profile picture the first night—Luke on a snowy mountaintop somewhere, wearing a blue ski parka and dark mountaineer’s glasses.
The next showed Luke standing on the front porch of a rustic cabin, its timber showing the marks of the hand tools that cut it, a stack of firewood behind him. The third photo was an action shot snapped as Luke boarded a small airplane for takeoff. He was giving the thumbs-up sign, and the plane’s door was open so the cockpit controls were visible over Luke’s shoulder. The plane itself looked like it might carry four people at most. I imagined it buffeted by winds at 18,000 feet and started to feel a little green just from the thought. I clicked on Luke’s message to reply.
Hi Luke, Alaska sounds beautiful, but maybe a little chilly. I like your photographs, and wanted to say thanks for the compliment. I’m responding just to say I’m not really interested in a long-distance relationship. Sorry, that sounds pretty cold written out like that. : ) But I don’t know another way to say it. I won’t be at all surprised if the next time I sign on, I find you’ve closed out this match. A friend of mine encouraged me to try this, but I think I’ll focus on matches here in the NYC. Take care!
–Harper
Poor guy. I was sure life in the Alaskan wilderness could get lonely, which would explain why he joined an online dating community. I pushed Send, then glided the mouse pointer down to close out my match with Luke. I paused, the blinking arrow pulsed over the Close button. Maybe I’d just let him close me out. My message hadn’t been very friendly.
I shut down the computer, aware of its fan whirling and humming until the monitor screen went dark. I decided the online dating world of LoveSetMatch.com was odd, awkward, and just not for me. I’d cancel my membership and try to get a refund. Like that was going to happen.
The marquee lights of the Carney Theatre were as radiant on the second night as they’d been at the premiere. They seemed to be saying something new, however—that Apartment 19 had proved itself worthy of attention all over again.
I walked in through the front lobby and through the open theater doors into the vacant house. I half expected to see Richard adjusting lights as he’d done the night before, or George behind the control console fidgeting with knobs and sliders, but the room was dark and quiet.
Tabby had telephoned late in the afternoon saying that Ben wanted to see me. Could I come into the theater an hour earlier?
I didn’t think to ask why. Anything trivial, Ben could have just told me over the phone, and anything general, he’d relay to the entire cast. So why had Ben asked the stage production director to call me? Had something happened to Helen?
The temporary stairs the cast used during rehearsals were gone, rolled away by stage grips and hauled out of sight. I used a service entrance to go backstage and watched carefully where I stepped in the dusky jumble of props, cables, and clutter.
The narrow service hallway let out behind the curtain. I walked in dimmest light past the costumes and the greenroom. Eventually the route took me past the star’s dressing room before reaching Ben’s office. Helen’s door was open, her lights on, and I was startled to see her sitting alone backstage in what looked to be a new, cushioned makeup chair. She looked up as I passed by.
“Harper, will you come in here for a moment, please?”
Helen was wearing a bright red silk kimono with small golden dragons embroidered in a delicate pattern. Her hair was piled high, held up in a clip as she applied cold cream to her face. She exuded a calm power sitting in that tall chair with padded armrests, seat, and back. She stroked on skin cream, watching herself in the mirror. I could tell she was all business.
“Sit down,” she said. I sat in one of two white canvas director’s chairs against the wall. “And close the door, will you?”
I stood again, hiked over to the door, closed it, and returned to the closest of the two uncomfortable chairs.
“It must be killing you, not being more a part of this production,” Helen said, glancing my direction between swipes of cold cream. “I know it would me.
“I like you, Harper,” she continued. “You’ve put up with a lot of crap in the time you’ve been here. You’ve come into a difficult situation and you’ve worked hard, and for that I admire you. No one would think any less of you for wanting to have what I have. To stand on that stage tonight before an expectant Broadway audience and give them the performanc
e of a lifetime. It’s every young actress’s dream …” She halted her soliloquy to turn and face me.
“But Ben and I had a meeting earlier today, and I want you to know there’s no way that’s ever going to happen. I wish you no ill will, because that’s bad luck in the theater, but I won’t have you shadowing me around in costume every night hoping that I somehow fall off the stage and break my neck so you can go on in my place. Is that clear?” Her voice rose slightly in pitch and volume.
“What are you talking about?” I asked, confused by Helen’s suspicions, the boiling paranoia now seeping through her fractured thinking.
Helen turned back to face her reflection in the mirror, dabbing on powder, and I thought of a wicked queen in a Disney fairy tale who looked to the mirror’s image to tell her future.
“Helen, I’ve never once wished you any ill will. I’m your understudy. It’s my job to be here for you just in case …”
“I know all about why you’re here,” she said, turning her half-powdered face in my direction, snapping at me like Audrey Bradford. “Don’t waste my time with your explanations. I’ve already discussed it with Ben, and it’s decided. From now on, I’d like you to be where I can’t see you, preferably not in costume, and definitely not backstage. Don’t you have a cell phone or something? I don’t know why you couldn’t be outside the theater entirely. Why not sit in a coffee shop across the street? You can be wherever Ben wants to place you, but for the good of this show, you can’t be where I don’t want you.”
She turned one more time to face me, peering out of the tops of her eyes as if staring over the rim of bifocals. I stood up, since I couldn’t think of a reason to stay any longer. This woman was nuts. She was a lioness killing off any competition who threatened her.
“Unbelievable,” I said, dumbstruck. I moved toward the door to leave.
“Now, don’t pout about it. Being understudy for me in this show is the biggest break in your career. We’re all called upon in life, and especially in the theater, to do things for the good of the show. I’m sure you will have your day in the sun, but this is mine. And this is how it has to be.”
Helen shifted gears on a dime, going from demanding diva to sweet as a grandmother.
“There, there, I hope you don’t think me too harsh. I do like you, Harper, but I must put my performance and this show above all else. You do understand that, don’t you? Good.”
I closed Helen’s dressing room door behind me and stood there, stunned. I felt a presence watching me from down the hallway, and I turned to see Ben standing outside his office.
“Please don’t tell me Helen just had a word with you?” he said, though it had to be obvious by the look on my face. He stepped closer, placing his hands on my shoulders, then held me, his compassionate face inches away and bathed in backstage lighting.
“I specifically told her I would be the one to talk to you about this,” he said with a measured tone.
Ben escorted me to the office, shutting the door behind us. He wore a haggard expression I didn’t expect to see on a Broadway director with a hit play. He gestured for me to take a seat and took his on the corner of the desk.
“Helen called me this morning and told me she didn’t want you around the production any longer. I asked her why, and she told me you were bad luck, which doesn’t make sense, but that was her reasoning.”
Ben blew out his frustration and anger.
“I think this is all about jealousy,” he continued. “She had a fit when she saw there were different Audrey Bradford costumes for the two of you. She demanded I explain why her understudy should have a better wardrobe than the star. Then her agent-slash-pit-bull, Maureen Burns, read me the riot act for twenty minutes over the phone asking why I would want to purposely aggravate the star of the show.”
Ben closed his eyes, massaging his eyebrows with his thumb and forefinger. “Helen is a legendary actress, but she’s also one royal pain in the backside.”
Ben stood. “I’ve been working on this show every day for a year and half. Suddenly, we have an overnight hit on Broadway. We just got word that all the tickets have sold out, but I’ve got a leading lady who knows she’s a star and she wants to push it as far as she can.”
“It’s all right, Ben. I understand.”
“This isn’t even the show I intended to direct. But we had to have a ‘Helen Payne’ if we hoped to make any money, and we had to stay inside the box creatively and do things old school.”
Ben continued talking, and I realized he wasn’t consoling me anymore, but popping the cork on something that had been bottled up inside him for months.
“She also called Tabby this morning demanding a new makeup stool be installed in her dressing room before tonight’s performance. The other chair hurt her back. Then that Burns woman called to tell me I agreed to pay Helen a percentage of the box office receipts should the play sell out. She said that’s a standard part of all of Helen’s agreements. Funny how I hadn’t heard about this until now.”
“It’s a wonderful play, Ben. I’m sorry it can’t all be about the acting and the story the way it used to be.”
Ben stopped pacing and sat in the chair next to me, placing his hands on mine, searching my eyes for an answer or perhaps a simple peace. “I’m the one who should be sorry. I don’t mean to burden you with all this. It’s just a little insight into the magical world of theater production. Seems like the longer I do this, the less it’s about art and the more it’s about the business.”
He looked at me without speaking for a moment. “It was all easier then, wasn’t it? The rush was bigger, the egos were smaller. It all made sense. Love made sense.”
“We were young and romantic, all of us were, Ben. We studied acting, lived it, breathed it. The passion poured over into everything we did.”
He was quiet.
“Do you remember?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“What happened to us?”
I snorted. “You know what happened. You went to London to work in the National Theatre. It was the opportunity of a lifetime.”
“Indeed, it was. I got a chance to direct for money, and never looked back. Maybe that’s my problem, Harper. I never look back, and I lose focus on what really matters.”
Neither of us spoke. His words resounded in the room, impossible to ignore. I felt angry, hurt, and wanted to quit. To escape someplace where life was easier, but I couldn’t imagine anywhere fitting that description.
“Which sadly leads me back to Helen’s third demand of the day.” Ben shook his head, exasperated. “I hate doing this, Harper. It goes against everything I stand for, and you know I hate the politics. But I’m going to be honest enough with you to say this to your face. I am going to do what Helen wants because I’ve got two business partners who backed me on a risky venture and I owe them my loyalty, and because there are only forty-one shows, but I won’t do it without apologizing to you. Professionally, you’re a talented actress. Personally, well …”
“I understand. I can’t say I like it even a little bit, but your hands are tied. I’m not sure what my role is here anymore.”
We stood and embraced in another awkward silence. It was a lingering hold on each other that reminded me of the Ben Hughes I knew at Northwestern, when we were both acting students and starry-eyed boyfriend and girlfriend.
“Harper, you’ve always been a genuine person,” he said, his mouth next to my ear. “It’s your heart, I guess. You seem even more real to me now.”
We stepped apart, not knowing what it meant.
“So, as much as it pains me, it would probably be best for you to just find a seat with George and Perry at the soundboard. Tabby or I will let you know from night to night what’s going on.”
Ben’s tone was beleaguered, defeated. He’d never treated actors this way.
That brought a smile to Ben’s lips, but it soon faded along with any remaining hope I had of rediscovering my career as an actress.
On the night of the second performance, I sat in the sound booth with George and Perry. I didn’t see Ben again that night, or Helen, or even Avril, except for watching them perform Act 1 under the bright lights onstage. At the beginning of Act 2, Tabby sent a text message to my phone that read:
You can leave now.
I stood up from my seat, grabbed my leather jacket from the back of the chair, and left quietly. Except for ushers and a man leaving the restroom, the lobby was empty.
I let myself out through the front door.
~ Thirteen ~
Back in the quiet apartment I took a long, hot shower. The tears didn’t come until after I’d slipped into my pj’s and curled up in bed with the lights off, my comforter pulled up to my chin. I must have cried for half an hour, wiping away tears of confusion and rejection with tissues I found in the bathroom. I set the box within easy reach on the nightstand.
An hour later, I went into the kitchen in stocking feet, poured a bowl of Cheerios, and carried it to the alcove. I pulled the tasseled chain on the desk lamp and felt its heat instantly warming the back of my hand.
I logged onto LoveSetMatch.com to search for life in cyberspace. There were two new messages, each bearing its own intriguing title.
LIFE IN CALIFORNIA
LEAVING TOMORROW
I opened “Life in California” first, from James.
Dear Harper,
I’m glad you wrote back. I’m not sure what I’m doing in an online dating service either. Some people are able to pick up the pieces and move on more easily, I guess, but for us, it’s been very slow going. My friends worry that after two years, I’m just not getting back on the relationship horse fast enough, so to speak. So, at their well-intentioned urging, I’m finally interacting with the opposite sex. Believe me when I say, I’m fine with you being in New York City. That’s as close as I can possibly handle.
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