He put Indira on her feet, steadying her with one of his giant man hands while holding Rachel back with the other. “She’s all right. Just give her a moment to get her balance.”
Rachel’s jaw went tight. He had to be the only man on the face of the planet not able to recognize a woman who was drunk off her ass. He probably preferred them that way.
“She’s not all right, but it’s not really any of your damn business, is it?”
“Nope. It’s not. My apologies.” He backed away.
Finally. At last, he was reading her cues in the manner in which they were intended. Go away. Not interested. In fact, annoyed beyond all recognition.
“C’mon, Mom,” Rachel said, quieter this time. “Let’s go home.”
“But it’s time for my audition! Young man—young man, surely you won’t turn Indira Longfellow away without giving her a chance to read?”
Dominic shrugged apologetically. “We, ah, don’t really—”
“You do know who I am, don’t you?”
“Of course, Ms. Longfellow. I can’t tell you what an honor it is—”
“And you do know that, however retired I may be, I still have friends in high places? Much, much higher than you could ever hope to look?”
Rachel’s stomach tightened. Each of her mother’s successive husbands had been a little bit less important, a little bit less rich, a little bit more like Plumber Harry, the last one. Even he’d realized his mistake a few months in—and he cleaned septic tanks for a living.
Rachel had to get her out of here. She needed Molly. She needed someone. She needed help.
“Absolutely,” Dominic said smoothly, his professional charm on high. “Of course you can read for a part. Why don’t you do it right now?”
“Yes. Yes, I think I will. What are we doing, anyway? The Tempest?”
“Antony and Cleopatra.”
“Lovely! Perfect! I’ll read for Cleo, naturally.”
Rachel had to grip the back of a nearby chair to keep herself from falling. Her mother, the Nile Queen herself. Rachel could practically see the marquee now.
“Of course, Ms. Longfellow. Act I, Scene III? With Antony?”
“Excellent!” Indira clapped and hiccupped at the same time. “Who will read with me?”
Silence.
Crickets.
Just about everyone involved in the production was in the room, either circling upstage or standing in the aisles of the auditorium. They watched, like vultures bent on amusement, no one speaking up or volunteering to stand opposite her mother. Not even for the prestige of saying they once read with the great Indira Longfellow.
“Kevin?” Dominic asked, indicating one of the men standing in the wings, a nicely formed twenty-something who couldn’t act very well but looked amazing without his shirt on. He wasn’t their lead actor, but he had aspirations headed that direction.
Not even a request straight from their fearless leader’s lips moved him from the spot. He shrugged and became intensely interested in his script.
“Johnson?”
“Thanks but no thanks, boss,” the stagehand replied.
“Well, hell. I’ll do it.”
At the sound of that last voice, pleasant and warm, Rachel’s stomach plunged so far she wasn’t sure it was still attached to the rest of her. Why did that man insist on tormenting her so?
“You’ll have to forgive me, Ms. Longfellow,” Michael said, swaggering up like he owned the stage. “I’m a piss-poor actor, and I can’t say that I’ve spent a lot of time reading over Shakespeare’s shoulder, but I’d be honored to try.”
“Oh, lovely!” Indira cleared her throat and struck a pose, the wavering of her uplifted arm the only indication that she wasn’t in full possession of her faculties.
“Do you, ah, need a script?” Dominic asked. The director had moved to Rachel’s side, creeping closer and closer as if he wanted to wrap his arms around her. Rachel stepped away, her jaw tight. She didn’t want his pity. She wanted the stage to open up and swallow her.
“Of course not,” Indira snapped. “I am sick and sullen.”
“Would you like to sit for a few minutes first?” Michael asked. “I saw some couches in the back that look pretty comfortable.”
Oh, for crying out loud. “It’s a line, Boy Genius. Your cue.”
“Is it?” He flipped through the pages, taking his time scrutinizing each line. “Oh, yeah. There she is.” He cleared his throat loudly and took a bow. A debacle. That was what he was turning this into. Not so much rubbing salt onto the wound as shoving the whole salt lick in there.
“I am sorry to give breathing to my purpose—” He read, clearly and with a surprising attention to the metrical beat.
For a few moments, the entire room was suspended on a breath that swelled achingly inside Rachel’s lungs. She felt herself swaying to the words, entranced by the sound of her mother’s voice. She’d fallen asleep to that sound—to tape recordings of Indira’s past shows. It had been a poor substitute for a bedtime story, but it was all she’d ever had.
And that was when it became clear: her mother and Michael might actually pull this off. They continued through the lines, Indira faltering over only a few of the trickiest passages, Michael actually nailing most of them.
But something—the heat of the stage, the intensity of the moment, or the weariness of a body that had been abused with alcohol for too many years—caused her mother to start sweating heavily, the words no longer light on her lips.
She couldn’t do it.
At that moment, when Rachel felt the last of her hope ebb away, Michael lost his place on the page. His pronunciation took a dramatic turn for the worse, to the point where every other word out of his mouth somehow rhymed with “penis”.
By the time he started reading Cleopatra’s lines, “Oh, never was there a queen so mightily betray’d,” the cast was in an uproar. He paused, as if just realizing his folly, and began mincing about the stage—as much as a man his size could mince, tiptoes and all.
If she hadn’t been so mortified, Rachel might have been inclined to crack a smile. There was something about a dodderdly behemoth of a man so light on his feet that was irresistible.
But resist it she did. While Michael struck up an impromptu waltz with Doris, the owlish technical director, Rachel got her arm around her mother and moved her toward the emergency exit.
The fresh air and bright lights of the noonday sun caused both of them to blink.
“That went well, didn’t it?” her mother asked, letting out a contented sigh. “It’s been ages since I’ve auditioned for anything. You know, I almost miss those years of paying my dues. What fun we used to have—and how hard we had to work for every single role. Not like you girls. Sometimes I’m not sure you realize how lucky you are to be able to capitalize on my name.”
And there it was, the reason Rachel had moved away so many years ago, why it was so painful to continue being home now. Her mother existed in some alternate reality where she was the magic wand that made everything easy, when the truth was she and Molly couldn’t get far enough away from her toxic grasp.
Rachel had run to the traveling stage. Molly had run to any man who would take her.
And now they were both paying the price.
As Rachel led her mother away from the theater, she realized there was another cost to pay too. She owed Michael O’Leary, Mule Extraordinaire and Comedic Distraction Number One, her gratitude.
She sighed and got her mother buckled into the back seat of her sensible and understated Honda Accord. She would have rather owed him anything else. Money. A pound of flesh. Her spleen.
Just not gratitude.
Chapter Six
Of a Conquest
When Rachel returned to the theater, Michael took one look at her face and got to work. Her expression bounced between a heavy-browed, murderous gleam and the wobbly smile women always got when they were trying hard not to cry.
He wasn’t sure which one
was worse.
“Oh, good. You’re back,” he called, drawing Rachel’s attention before she could run over poor Jillian, who was doing her best to scatter back toward the light rigs. He’d settled comfortably in the director’s chair near the back entrance to the stage, a sort of lordly position that let him see most of what was going on. Dominic had already told him to get out of that chair five times, but it was cozy, and he pretended he needed it for security purposes.
Mostly he just wanted to keep an eye on all the entrances.
“Why is that good?”
There was a hesitancy to her voice that didn’t sit well with him, so he laid the charm on extra thick, just the way she liked it. “Well, it just so happens I have a proposition for you.”
“I’m surprised you even know what that word means,” Rachel replied, her back bristling up within seconds, the murderous gleam taking a clear lead over tears. Good girl.
“Proposition. Noun. A fancy way to tell a woman you want to see her honey pot.”
“You are not seeing my honey pot.”
“Now, now,” he chided, wagging his finger. God, she was easy to rile up. “We’ll get to that question when we come to it. What I was really asking was if you’ll do me the honor of coming to my house next week.”
“No.” She stalked halfway across the backstage area before stopping. “Why? Do you have some secret underground lair or something? Is that your new plan?”
He raised a brow. “You mean a sex room? As in, nipple clamps and ball gags and thirty-one flavors of lube?”
The vein near her temple throbbed a warning, so he put a hand over his heart and winked. “Not yet, Red. But you say the word, and I promise to dig you one with my own two hands.”
“You’re disgusting,” she said, though Michael noted she didn’t actually move away. He launched right ahead.
“See, what I figure is you owe me. I’ve been doing some thinking, and I decided how I want you to make it up to me. And you’ll be happy to know it doesn’t involve honey or the pot it comes in. Or nipple clamps. Yet.”
She pokered up even more, so much that a light wind would have caused her to go crashing to the ground. Michael was man enough to admit that it turned him on. Big-time. A magnificent redhead, magnificently angry. If he could wind her up with a few breezy words, just imagine what some intense, one-on-one face time would lead to. Rolling. Pinching. Slapping. Teeth.
His cock stirred, and his balls shifted. God bless those boys of his.
“I’m aware of…of a debt of gratitude,” she’d said stiffly. “But if you think I’m going to—”
“You have no idea what I’m talking about. I’ll have you know that director in there offered me the male lead for this naughty little play of yours.”
“You’re lying. He wouldn’t dare.”
Michael went smoothly on. “Oh, he did dare. And for your sake, I turned him down. I know how much it would kill you to stand opposite me up there every day—there are sex scenes in this story of William’s, right? Or is it just kissing? Maybe some heavy petting?”
Her eyes grew wide, the color in her cheeks mounting. He knew it must be costing her to remain silent and still.
“Well, the point is, I thought about how you might react to such news and said no. I hate to cause a lady’s head to explode. It’s one of my Ten Rules to Live By. Do you want to hear the other nine?”
“No. I don’t want to hear another word out of your stupid, oversized mouth.”
He held up one finger. “Rule Number One. A gentleman always sleeps on the wet spot. Rule Number Two. A really good gentleman does his best to ensure that there are, in fact, nothing but wet spots. If you know what I mean.”
She was unmoved. “Can you be a little bit less revolting for one second? Are you or are you not telling me you turned the role down?”
“Of course I turned it down. I’m now officially the Antony Understudy, unlikely to ever see the lights of the stage. And you are so overcome with joy that you will, obviously, say yes to coming to my party. I could probably even make some good headway on our underground love nest by then.”
“Wait a minute—you’re using my career to blackmail me for a date?”
“Well, shit. I guess I am. A fancy date too—meat and beer at my house, three o’clock. My cousin Jennings will be there, though, and he’s slightly off. I’d wear pants if I were you.”
Her brow wrinkled. “And then we’re even?”
“As even as my sword of truth.”
“That doesn’t even make sense,” she muttered. “Fine. Just text me the address later. And for the record—I’m not promising to have fun.”
“With Michael O’Leary, baby, the fun is guaranteed,” he said solemnly, the twitching of his lips ruining an otherwise stone-faced remark. “You can always count on that.”
“I have never met anyone so unjustifiably enamored of himself than you.” Her words were biting, but there wasn’t a whole lot of energy behind them.
“I do my best,” he said, shrugging. “Oh, and Rachel?”
“What now?”
“My dad was the same way. For years, all while I was a kid, I was up there, walking the tightrope with him. It sucks, you know?”
She stared at him for a full minute. “Yeah. I know.”
“What’s the Welcome Home banner for?” Rachel looked up at the decorations—correction, decoration—and did her best to swallow her smile. She was not here to have a good time, and she certainly wasn’t going to admit how welcome an afternoon away from her mother’s house, where the whole happy family lived together, actually was.
But that didn’t mean she was above taking delight in the fact that Michael O’Leary was hosting an outdoor barbecue in the melting spring of the first weeks of April. Or that he lived on a working lentil farm, in one of a pair of twin Airstreams parked at random angles at the top of a hill.
Not that she’d had expectations, of course, but this—this went beyond ridiculous. The Mule couldn’t even be bothered to live in a house. She would have bet her life savings that the family toilet lay somewhere off in the distance, between a patch of trees in a hole dug just for the purpose.
“Maybe he just got back from a long trip,” Molly suggested. “I think it looks nice and festive. You’re going to be nice and festive too, right? You promised.”
Molly was like a giddy child, and Rachel didn’t have the heart to back down now. She could have, though—promise or not. Contrary to what the Mule might believe, Rachel didn’t technically owe him anything related to the theater, as he’d suggested. Dominic said there had never been a man more aghast than Michael at being invited to star in one of his productions.
“His exact words were, and I quote, ‘Awww hell no’,” Dominic had said with a shake of his head. “I think I may need to retire.”
No. It was the knowledge that she owed Michael O’Leary for the unspoken favor that was the real driving force behind her actions. Attending a thousand parties of his would be easier than talking to him about her mother, thanking him face-to-face for being a better friend than even her sister was.
She’d come. She’d see. Maybe she wouldn’t conquer anything, but she could at least determine if there were any chinks in the Molly-Eric armor she could exploit. Starting with the fact he hadn’t bothered to offer them a ride.
Already, the gallantry was wearing off. That was the first step. Next, he’d be texting Molly at all hours of the night and growing possessive whenever she looked at another man.
“I’ll be on my best behavior,” Rachel promised. “But, um…is it just me, or is everyone here sort of oversized?”
Molly laughed, not the least bit disconcerted that there were giants roaming among them. A few tables had been set out behind the Airstreams, and a huge black grill was already smoking, the scent of various roasted meats filling the air. Men, all of them in incredible shape, stood around, as if awaiting the meat’s eventual arrival to their jaws, most of them in light jackets as though the
y were impervious to cold. Rachel couldn’t help looking around for the woolly mammoth tusks and loincloths.
“They’re probably Eric’s teammates. I’m kind of dying to see them in action. Can you imagine all these guys running around in skirts?”
“Um…I can now.” She turned her head sideways and took in a particularly nice pair of calves. “What did you say Eric did for a living again?”
“I didn’t.”
Rachel caught the stiffness in her sister’s voice, but the nice pair of calves turned around, providing the perfect distraction. They were attached to a rather gnarly set of knees and led up to…well, crap.
“You made it!” Michael-the-Mule said, his arms wide. Was it just her imagination or were his eyes glinting, mocking her sudden flush?
“Of course we did,” Molly said warmly, accepting the hug he offered. He moved as if to do the same to Rachel, but she snarled.
“Point taken,” he said easily, backing away. “Rachel Hewitt—not a hugger.”
“I just don’t like unsolicited hugs,” Rachel countered.
“So I can hug you if you ask?”
“I won’t ask.”
“Hmm.” His eyes glinted again. “We’ll see about that. So, would you ladies like to see the castle?”
“Is that what I’m looking at right now?” Rachel asked, nodding toward the shiny metal mobile homes. “Because I think I’ve seen all I need to.”
“Rach, don’t be rude,” Molly whispered, though they all heard her just fine. Louder, she added, “Is Eric here yet, by the way?”
“Nah. I think there was an issue with too much juice and a locked gas station bathroom. He had to turn around and grab some clean clothes.”
“Oh, the poor thing.” Molly clucked. “I hope it’s not going to ruin his evening.”
Rachel stared at her. Last week, Molly had been so upset by their mother’s impromptu stage debut she’d left rehearsal early and gone to a matinee of the latest romantic comedy. That was what she did when she was upset—not the regular things like eat or cry or take to her bed with a box of tissues. Oh no. Instead, Molly filled up on sappy plotlines and unlikely happily ever afters. After she’d lost the baby last year, it had been a nonstop marathon of Hugh Grant and his bumbling affectations.
The World is a Stage Page 6