“I was worried about you! That’s why I went looking for you. I happen to love you, you little slut, and—I didn’t know what might have happened to you. This is a great big wicked city. You could have been kidnapped for all I knew!”
“Jesus,” I said. “You’ve written far too many melodramas.”
“Lady Caroline is not a melodrama!”
“I didn’t say it was.”
“You hate it, don’t you?”
“I didn’t mention Lady Caroline. You’re spoiling for a fight, Jason, and I’m very likely to crown you with that teapot if you don’t get out of here right this minute.”
“I finished it this afternoon,” he said. “That’s what I wanted to tell you. I started to work as soon as I got back to my suite this morning, and I finished it at precisely two forty-seven.”
“Marvelous.”
“You needn’t be sarcastic.”
“I wasn’t.”
Jason strolled over to the tea table, picked up my cup, emptied it into a plant and poured himself a cup of tea, tiny spirals of steam swirling from the spout as he poured. He had calmed down considerably, but I was still fuming. How attractive he was. How infuriating. I really should throw the son of bitch out before I weakened.
“The National wants to see it at once. Did I tell you the kind of money they’re talking? We’ll leave for Atlanta as soon as we close here. Caroline is a very complex role, full of hidden depths and subtleties. I plan to coach you in the part this summer, while we’re mounting the production, and when the rest of the company joins us in September, you’ll be ready.”
“I told you before, Jason—I’m not going to Atlanta. Not until September, anyway. I’m taking the summer off.”
“You need the extra coaching, and I need you with me.”
“You’ve been working as hard as I have. It wouldn’t hurt you to take the summer off, too. You’ve been pushing yourself, driving yourself. You’re going to crack if—if you don’t slow down.”
Jason took another sip of tea. “We’ve got to go to Atlanta, Dana. We’ve got to be ready to open in—”
“Western civilization won’t crumble if we open a couple of months later,” I interrupted. “I can’t go on at this pace, Jason. You can’t, either. Both of us need a break. We’ve gone over this before. I told you—”
He set the cup down with a loud clatter. Tea sloshed over into the saucer.
“You’re planning something, aren’t you?”
“I’m planning to rest.”
“You haven’t signed for next season yet. Michael has signed. Laura has signed. Everyone’s signed but you. You’ve been evasive ever since we drew up the contracts. It’s that weasel Drummond, isn’t it? He’s talked you into going to New York, starring in—”
“No, Jason,” I said patiently.
“Why won’t you sign? You plan to drop me, don’t you? I take you in and make you a star and—”
“I made me a star,” I said hotly. “I worked my ass off. I gave my all. You wrote a wonderful play, yes, but how would it have gone with—with Carmelita playing Janine? I believe in credit where credit is due, but you did not create me. I created myself!”
“You ungrateful little—”
“Don’t say it,” I warned. “Just—don’t—say it.”
He didn’t. He glared at me, eyes flashing emerald fires. I glared back at him. Several long moments passed. I finally sighed and walked over to the door, holding it open for him.
“We’re both acting like children, Jason. We have to be at the theater at seven. There—there’s no point in going on like this. Both of us are likely to say something we’ll regret. I—I need to dress.”
He moved past me, paused in the doorway, turned.
“I’ll be down for you at six forty-five,” he said. “We’ll drive to the theater together.”
I closed the door, utterly drained. How was I supposed to give a performance tonight, feeling like this? I probably wouldn’t even remember my bloody lines. Tonight of all nights I was going to be abominable, a wreck, a joke, onstage. I went into the bedroom and dressed and brushed my hair, and when Jason appeared I gave him a cool nod and we went downstairs in silence. He was as cool as I was, his face expressionless, as stony as granite. He handed me into the waiting carriage without a word. I drew my skirts back to make room for him. They rustled crisply. We might have been total strangers as the carriage pulled away, heading toward the theater. New Orleans was never lovelier than at twilight, the sky a deep gray smeared with pink, the air tinted with a thickening mauve-blue haze, the lovely, gracious old buildings spread with velvety black shadows. The soft, splashing music of fountains could be heard from a hundred hidden courtyards, and, as always, the opulent perfume of flowers was heady and tantalizing. New Orleans was one of the most romantic cities in the world, but neither of us felt very romantic tonight.
“I brought the contract with me,” Jason said icily. “It’s in my breast pocket. I want you to sign it tonight.”
“I’ll sign it in September,” I said.
“How can I be sure of that?”
“I suppose you’ll have to trust me,” I retorted.
“You’ll sign it tonight or not at all,” he informed me. “I can’t start mounting an expensive production like this one with no leading lady under contract.”
I made no comment. Jason thrust his jaw out.
“Did you hear what I said?” he asked sharply.
“I heard.”
“And?”
“I don’t intend to discuss it, Jason.”
Jason said nothing more. He sat stiffly beside me. The haze thickened, growing darker, and lengthening shadows cloaked everything in black. We drove on, passing brightly lighted restaurants and cafés now, music spilling out into the street, the esplanades aswarm with merry couples eager to begin an evening of festivity. Fortunately the theater was now only a few blocks away. I didn’t know how much more of this strained silence I could endure. We finally drove past the front of the theater and turned into the narrow passageway leading to the area in back. I sighed with relief when we stopped in front of the stage door, the single lamp hanging over it making a soft yellow pool over the rusty metal steps and landing.
“You’re tense,” Jason said, “nervous about your performance. I can understand why you don’t want to discuss it now. We’ll continue our talk after you’ve taken your curtain calls.”
“No,” I said, “we won’t.”
I climbed out of the carriage without his assistance. He hurried out after me and caught up with me on the landing. He took my arm, glaring at me as the carriage drove on.
“I don’t know why you’re being so unreasonable, Dana.”
“I’m not the one being unreasonable. Please let go of my arm.”
“You know, sometimes you can be a total bitch.”
“I know,” I said.
I pulled my arm free. Jason looked exasperated now, worried, too.
“What you said earlier—you’re right. We are acting like children. I’m sorry if—dammit, you drive me crazy! I’ll take you out to dinner after the show. I’ll buy you caviar and champagne and you can sign the contract and we can carry on like civilized adults.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I already have an engagement.”
I opened the stage door and stepped inside and moved past stacks of flats and coils of rope toward the passageway leading to my dressing room. He soon caught up with me, seizing my arm again. I stopped, took hold of his hand and unloosened his fingers.
“What do you mean—you already have an engagement?”
“Robert is taking me out tonight.”
“Robert?” He was puzzled for a moment, and then dark suspicion appeared in his eyes. “Courtland? You’re going out with him? You—you were with him this afternoon, too, weren’t you?”
“I was with him this afternoon.”
“So that’s how it goes,” he said grimly. “All those supposedly innocent dinners in At
lanta, that party he took you to in Washington—I thought it was good public relations for our producer to be seen with our leading lady, and I gave you my blessing. I trusted you, and all the while—”
“Robert and I are merely friends, Jason.”
“Sure,” he said. “He’s worth millions, and you—that’s why you won’t sign the contract. You think you’re going to land yourself a millionaire, and you don’t need—”
“Believe what you wish,” I said. My voice was like ice.
I turned and moved resolutely down the passageway to the door of my dressing room. Jason hurried after me. I started to open the door. He caught my shoulder and whirled me around.
“I haven’t even looked at another woman since we’ve been together. I let you into my life. I let myself fall in love with you. Like the bloody fool I am, I thought—I forbid you to see him tonight! I forbid you to see him ever again!”
“It isn’t your place to forbid me anything, Mr. Donovan.”
“You can’t do this to me!”
“I can do anything I bloody well please.”
“Dana—”
“Go fuck yourself,” I said sweetly. “You certainly aren’t going to fuck me any longer.”
I stepped into my dressing room and slammed the door, leaning against it. I was trembling inside, and I closed my eyes, telling myself I wasn’t going to fall apart, I wasn’t going to cry. I leaned there against the door for several minutes and, finally, full of steely resolve, stood up straight and stepped over to the dressing table. I had a performance to give tonight. Thank you, Jason Donovan, for making it well nigh impossible to give a decent one. Forty-five minutes later I was fully made-up and wearing my buttercup-yellow brushed cotton frock and, like a zombie, left my dressing room and took my place backstage. I could hear the audience settling down, growing quiet. Corey and the boys were already in position onstage. A few moments later the burly stagehand pulled the ropes and, with a creaking ring, the curtain slowly rose.
They were all out there, all those people who had judged and condemned me two years ago. How satisfied they would be when I dropped my lines, forgot my marks, made a total ass of myself. How they would titter and nudge each other and whisper behind their fans. My cue came. I moved onstage. I spoke the words I was supposed to speak and expressed the emotions I was supposed to express, but I did it by rote, purely by rote. It grew no better as the evening progressed, and in the final scene I was still completely removed, speaking my lines like an automaton. The curtain came down. Corey gave me a big hug and told me I had been brilliant, positively brilliant, and I gazed at her in wonderment. There were eleven curtain calls. I received a standing ovation and more bouquets of flowers than I could carry. It was a triumph.
Robert took me to New Orleans’ grandest restaurant that evening, a splendid place with dark gold carpet and drapes and gleaming mahogany walls and exquisite etched-glass panels enclosing each private booth. He was charming and attentive, but I barely touched my thick turtle soup, my salad of crabmeat and artichoke hearts, my savory and steaming lobster thermidor. Sensing my mood, Robert said I looked tired, suggested I might like to skip dessert and go back to the hotel. I nodded thankfully. He gave my arm a squeeze as we left, so kind, so understanding, such a comfort. He curled his left arm lightly around my shoulders as we drove to the hotel, asking no questions, making no demands. At the door of my suite he told me good night, and I looked into his smoke-gray eyes and saw the veiled yearning in them and the concern, and I rested my hand lightly on his cheek for a moment, then went inside.
I’m not going to let this throw me, I promised myself the following morning. I’m not going to be hurt like … like last time. I can get along very well without Jason Donovan. I can get along magnificently, in fact. I’m not going to weep and I’m not going to pine. I finished my coffee and dressed and felt empty inside. I had slept little during the night. I had tossed and turned and watched the moonlight reflecting on the ceiling and yearned for the weight of his body beside me, the warmth of his skin, the sound of his breathing. I hadn’t slept alone in months, and the bed seemed empty, seemed strange and alien without him. I hadn’t cried. I was too stubborn for that. I had tried to hold on to the anger, but the anger soon evaporated and the hurt kept right on hurting.
He’ll never know, I vowed, smoothing the skirt of my pale rose silk frock over the layers of white petticoat beneath. He’ll never know how much he hurt me. He’ll never know how much I cared. I sat down at the dressing table to brush my hair, and the eyes that looked back at me in the mirror stubbornly refused to reflect the pain inside. It’s your own bloody fault, I told myself, brushing vigorously. You let yourself become attached to him. You let yourself care too much. You said you were merely taking a bonbon, but, admit it, you fell in love with the son of a bitch. Hair spilling to my shoulders in a glossy honey-blond cascade, I stood up, fetched parasol and reticule, and left the suite to go shopping with Laura and Michael.
It was after three when I returned. I was empty-handed, but only because Michael had taken charge of all our packages and promised to have mine sent up to my suite later on. I had been very bright, very merry, gossiping with Laura, teasing Michael, buying with abandon. We had lunched on crepes in a lovely little restaurant, and Michael had kept us entertained with tales of Texas. I was weary now as I opened the door, glad I no longer had to keep up a front. Hazy silver sunlight spilled through the sitting room windows, making pools on the floor and illuminating the gray velvet sofa. The woman who sat there rose slowly to her feet, and I gasped, startled, believing at first that she was an apparition, for, bathed in the light, that’s what she resembled.
She was wearing a soft mauve velvet gown, and the fluffy cloud of silvery hair floated about her head like a dandelion cap. The gentle and beloved face was as delicate, as fey as I remembered, the complexion smooth and clear, like fine old ivory. Her light green eyes were shining. A hesitant smile trembled on her lips. My heart seemed to leap. Tears sprang to my eyes. Delia sighed and took a step forward.
“I do hope you don’t mind my coming, dear,” she said.
“I—” My voice seemed to catch in my throat.
“I’m afraid I told them a little story downstairs. They said you weren’t in, and I told them I was your aunt and asked if I could wait in your suite. I was very convincing and the gentleman was most kind, escorting me up here himself.”
“Oh, Delia—” I cried.
I ran to her then and we hugged and she patted my back and the tears fell and it was some time before I could pull myself together. I brushed the tears away and smiled and asked her to sit back down. I pulled a velvet cord hanging beside the drapes, and a few minutes later a maid appeared at the door. I asked her if she could have a lavish tea sent up. It arrived shortly thereafter: neatly quartered sandwiches of sliced tongue and cucumber, crusts trimmed away, tiny iced cakes and petit fours, steaming hot tea in a silver pot.
“My,” Delia declared, eyeing the lavish display. “You do get wonderful service here, don’t you?”
I nodded, composed now, pouring tea into the delicate porcelain cups. I handed one to her, and Delia smiled.
“I had to come, my dear,” she said. “I couldn’t leave New Orleans without seeing you.”
“You—you’re leaving?”
“I am going to Grande Villa again, to visit my friend Alicia Duvall. You know how dreadfully uncomfortable New Orleans can be in this heat. I’ll probably be away all summer. I’m leaving tomorrow morning. I always enjoy visiting Alicia. So many parties, so many balls …”
Delia sighed, fondly remembering previous visits, and I feared she was going to launch into one of her fuzzy monologues. She didn’t. She set her cup down and looked into my eyes.
“I was in the audience last night, my dear. I went with friends. I was so proud of you. I wept real tears. That’s our Dana up there, I told myself. You can’t imagine how very happy I am for you, how pleased I am with your success.”
“Thank you, Delia.”
“I’ve read all about you in the papers, of course. Such outlandish stories, my dear. I took most of them with a grain of salt.”
“As well you should have.”
“Princes, suicides, fortunes in jewels. I knew that wasn’t you, my dear. You’re still the same sweet child—I can see that—but now you’re successful and terribly famous.”
“I’ve worked hard, Delia.”
“I know you must have. I’m so proud of you. Would you believe that when I was a girl—back during the Bronze Age, this was—I dreamed of becoming an actress myself. It was out of the question, of course. Respectable girls didn’t go onstage back then.”
“‘Respectable’ girls still don’t,” I said dryly.
“Do—do you enjoy the life, dear?”
“Yes—yes, I do. It’s very demanding and frequently frustrating, but in the theater I—I’m somebody. I have respect. I have admiration. I belong. I’m part of a large, loving family, however quarrelsome, and no one looks down on me because my blood isn’t blue, because I grew up in the swamps.”
“I fear our people were very hard on you, child.”
I thought of those haughty Creole aristocrats in the Quarter she referred to, and I thought of the snubs, the gossip. It all seemed so trivial and unimportant now.
“I wanted to be like them,” I said quietly. “I wanted to be accepted. I soon realized that could never happen. Now I’m content merely to be myself. Being Dana O’Malley is—just fine.”
“We—all of us were very upset when you left, child.”
I looked away, remembering.
“I understood why you left,” Delia continued in that soft, gentle voice. “I understood far more than you may have guessed, child, and I realized it was the—the best for all concerned. That didn’t make it any easier. I missed you dreadfully. Poor Julian almost went out of his mind.”
“I—I did it for him, Delia.”
“I know. I think he eventually realized that, too. He didn’t know about you and Charles. Charles never told him—I forbade him to. Julian believed you ran off because you wanted to spare him the ostracism that would have come if he had married you. He threw himself into his work, and—I suppose you’ve read about his success?”
They Call Her Dana Page 53