by Dee Ernst
“I don’t know.” Denise sighed. “I hope not. It wouldn’t be good for him if fans thought he was hanging around the mother of a couple of teenagers.”
“Is there a husband?” Steve asked.
“I don’t know. God, I hope not.” Denise looked worried. “That would be bad.”
Just then Angela’s older daughter Jane came running into the kitchen. “Uncle Mike is here,” she shouted. Angela grabbed Molly’s hand.
“I’ll check her out,” she declared firmly.
In their cavernous living room, Angela said to the two girls, “Go outside, both of you, and say hi to Uncle Mike.”
The girls started screaming, headed out the door, and ran down the lawn to where Michael had parked his pick-up in the street.
“He’s driving that old truck,” Angela called out, watching from her picture window, “so I don’t think he’s worried about making a big impression.” She watched as Diane got out of the truck.
“Well, she’s got a great haircut,” she said loudly enough for her sisters to hear, “and she’s not one of those anorexic types he’s usually with. She’s not wearing those horrible hip-huggers.”
“She used to wear those horrible hip-huggers herself,” Marie observed wryly, as she got up from the kitchen stool and followed Steve and Denise. They crowded the window, watching Michael and Diane herd the little girls up to the house.
“It’s Diane.” Denise announced triumphantly.
“She looks familiar,” Angela said slowly. “I know her.”
“Really? From where?” Denise asked.
“I don’t know.” Angela frowned.
Angela opened the front door and kissed her brother. She looked at Diane.
“Oh my God,” Angela burst out. “Dr. Matthews.”
Michael looked at Diane and raised his eyebrows. “Doctor?”
Diane stared at Angela blankly for a second, then her mouth dropped open in recognition. “Dr. Bellini?”
Michael looked from one to the other. “Diane, I guess you know my sister Angela?”
“Yes, of course.” Angela exclaimed. “Oh, it is such a small world.”
Diane was shaking her head. “Michael, you should have told me your sister taught at Merriweather.”
Michael shrugged. “How do you two know each other?”
“I was on the screening committee for her play.” Angela explained.
“Play?” Michael looked at Diane in surprise. “You wrote a play?”
“Oh, it’s wonderful,” Angela gushed. “She wrote it, what, three years ago? In Sam’s class, you know, Sam French, his class for writers. He was so impressed he did a reading workshop last year, and this year it’s scheduled for when, Diane, October?”
“Yes.” Diane felt herself blushing. “They’re casting this summer.” She looked around. Everyone was staring at her. “It’s pretty exciting.”
Michael had a half-smile on his lips. “That’s fantastic,” he said, and at the tone in his voice, all his sisters exchanged looks.
“So how is Rachel?” Angela asked. Angela had taught Diane’s oldest daughter speech and diction when Rachel was in Merriweather’s drama program.
“Oh, she’s great - tending bar in a French restaurant in mid-town, taking a class at the New School, and doing some workshop downtown, a thirty-minute Shakespeare company, where they edit each play down to five characters and one hundred lines.” Diane was shaking her head. “I’m dreading her first performance. I know I’ll run out of the place screaming.”
“Her daughter is a genius,” Angela explained. “Seriously. Double major, in French and Drama, and she blew us all away.”
“Yes, Rachel packs a punch, all right.” Diane looked around. The women were all watching her carefully. She wondered what they were imagining between her and their younger brother. She felt suddenly uncomfortable.
Michael, as if sensing her mood, put his hand lightly on her shoulder. “Angie, where’s Nick?”
Angela explained about the playground project in the back yard, and Michael brightened.
“Well, look, why don’t I go out back and help? Ang, you don’t really need me. Steve, you can use a hand, right?”
Angela fixed her eye on him. “You’re related to me, not them. I’m the one who needs the help. Nick is an architect. I’m sure he’ll figure it out.”
“Nick designs airports,” Michael explained to Diane. “I don’t see how that qualifies him to put together a swing set.”
Diane grinned as Steve shrugged helplessly. “We were hoping you’d bring somebody who could read Japanese,” Steve said, “so at least we’d know what the instructions say.”
Diane lifted her shoulders. “Sorry, I really can’t help you there. I just know paint.”
“Thanks for coming to help out,” Angela said, smiling. “I’ve never done this sort of paint job before.”
“No problem,” Diane said, “It’s really very simple. Just lots of prep work.” She took the level from Michael. “This is all we need.”
Angela took Diane by the arm. “Then let me show you my den,” she said, leading Diane away.
Angela had the house built two years ago, a large contemporary on a quiet cul-de-sac. The long living room had become a dining room to accommodate a table for at least twenty-four. The original dining room had become a small, formal sitting area that was never used. Most of the living was done in the kitchen and family room, and in Neil’s private domain. The media room, huge, with a plasma screen TV and assorted speakers, receivers, and other appendages.
Angela explained all this as she led Diane back to what Neil had called the office. Square, sunny, and tucked in the back of the house, she had envisioned a quiet haven. So far, all she had were white walls and half-unpacked boxes.
Diane surveyed the space. “What color were you thinking?”
“She hasn’t decided yet,” Marie informed her. “We’re down to two choices, though. We expect a decision any minute now.”
Angela waved Marie aside. “Here, take a look. What do you think?”
Diane looked at the two samples. “Well, the blue is pretty, but there might be a problem because your base color is very warm, almost cream. No cool tones. The beige would be better, softer, less contrast.”
“How do you know this stuff?” Angela asked her.
“My father had his own business in Columbus. Ohio.” Diane explained. “Paint, wallpaper, everything. He loved theater too, and he did a lot of work for the local playhouse, scenery and stuff. He learned most of the faux techniques while working on set design. I helped him every summer, from about the time I was thirteen ‘till I got married and came out here.”
“Is that what got you interested in theater?” Michael asked.
“Yes.” She threw him a smile. “Angela, do you know how wide a stripe?”
“I figured about a foot.”
Diane shook her head. “Do you have a tape measure? A foot is really not wide enough. You’ll want something broader, since the room is large and the colors are so alike in tone.”
Marie fished out a tape measure from a pile of tools and brushes in the middle of the floor, and Diane measured and explained to Angela and her sisters. Michael leaned against the doorjamb and watched her happily. She was beautiful, he decided. She had changed with surprising speed from her overalls to faded jeans and a blue-and-white striped tee shirt, and had brushed the dust from her glossy dark hair. Her face looked warm and flushed without make-up. Her eyes flashed as she pointed and explained. He felt the stirrings of desire, faint, familiar.
“Can I go now?” he called.
Marie, Angela and Denise all turned at the same time and said “No.” Diane giggled.
“Come on,” he pleaded. “There’s a million dollars worth of higher education in this room. Can’t you figure it out?”
“No, we can’t,” Angela said shortly. “We need the Princeton touch.”
Diane’s eyes popped open. “You went to Princeton?”
> Michael was shaking his head. “No, I was accepted, but I never went. I wanted Julliard.” He shrugged. “I can’t see myself as a mathematician at this point, can you?”
“Math? Good Lord.” Diane was dumbfounded. “Well, do you think you can figure out what the perimeter of this room is, and how many sixteen inch stripes we can get in here?”
“Sure.” He reached for the pencil, and soon scrawled some numbers on the back of the paint sample. “Can I go play with the boys now?” he asked Angela.
His sister rolled her eyes and pushed him out of the room. Diane organized the women, and they were soon measuring and taping off their stripes, Angela carefully checking with the level. The women worked quickly, Diane mixing the glaze and paint, showing them how to work the dry brush. They all chatted non-stop. The sisters were all within ten years of Diane’s age, and they found plenty to talk about. At one point, Neil Bellini slipped away from the back yard to check on the women, and returned smiling.
“They’re all singing,” he reported happily.
Michael was holding a cedar post as Steve was pouring cement around the base. “That’s a good sign,” he said.
“Yeah. Crosby, Stills and Nash. Apparently Diane is an alto, and they finally have somebody willing to do harmony.”
Michael grinned. “Really? Very cool.”
Steve Tishman worked his shovel into the cement, then leveled it quickly. “I’m supposed to be pumping you for information,” he said to Michael. “You know your sisters. They want all the details.” Steve was very fond of his brother-in-law. He and Neil both were. Michael was one of them, despite the fame and money. He attended birthdays, helped clean up after holidays, or, like today, helped put together swing sets. He bought lavish gifts for the families, but always asked before bestowing anything on one of the kids. Steve had been married to Marie for over nineteen years, and had helped the family raise Michael.
Michael looked up. “She’s different from anyone I’ve ever met. Tell them that. It’ll keep them buzzing for weeks.”
“She’s nice,” Steve declared. “She was real friendly last night, and it was a zoo back there after the show. And her daughters were very polite. You can tell a lot about a person from their kids, you know.”
Nick Bellini looked interested. “And she works at Dickerson? Watch out, Mike. Smart women are killers. Just ask us. We’re married to your sisters. We know.”
Michael started laughing as Dave Adamson walked into the back yard.
“Mike, got a minute?” he called.
Nick looked over. “Go on, Michael. We’ve got this.” Michael went back into the house and sat at the kitchen table.
Dave was not as good-looking as his brother Joey, but he was still handsome. He sat down across from Michael, holding a large brown envelope.
“I’ve got everything here for Toronto,” he said to Michael. “This looks like it could be very good for us.” By ‘us’, Dave meant the band. “This director is top-notch. I don’t know shit about film, but people who do know are impressed. Sammy did good.”
“Sammy is a pain in my ass,” Michael grumbled, taking the envelope from David and spilling the contents onto the coffee table. There was a fat script, tickets, and stray sheets covered with notes.
Sammy was Sam Adamson, Dave and Joey’s younger brother. Sam wanted to put together a deal with Gordon Prescott, a brilliant theatrical director who occasionally turned out independent films. Sam had pitched Michael to score Prescott’s next film, wrapping in Toronto, and Prescott had taken the bait. It was now up to Michael to visit the notoriously difficult director and make the sale.
“This is for when, tomorrow?” Michael shook his head. “Shit, Dave, I could have used a couple of days. I’m beat. You know what this fuckin’ tour was like.”
“It’s a tight schedule, Mike. If you go for it, it’s got to be done by December. Recording the soundtrack, the whole score, it’ll be a bitch. If you want out, say so now.” Dave was hunched forward, watching Michael. He had seen Michael with Diane the night before. He wondered if she could be a factor in Michael’s reluctance.
“No, I’m in.” Michael was putting everything back into the envelope. “I’ll read the script on the plane tomorrow.” He glanced briefly at Dave. “Don’t say anything about this today, okay?”
Dave shrugged. “Sure, if you say so, but why not?”
Michael said slowly. “Diane is here. Remember her from last night? She’s helping in the den. I don’t want her to know. Not yet.”
Dave sat back and nodded thoughtfully. “Sure.”
CHAPTER FIVE
THEY WERE DRIVING back to Diane’s house, darkness closing in, cool air coming in through the open windows. Angela had insisted they stay for dinner, and it had been delicious - lasagna, salad, loaves of home-made garlic bread, and lots of wine. Diane had a wonderful time. His family was smart, opinionated, and argumentative, the kids noisy and cranky after a long day outside. Conversation ranged from film to politics to children and finally theater. Angela and Diane discussed her play as the kids all drifted away from the table, and the evening ended in a lively discussion of recent Broadway shows.
Now, Diane leaned back in Michaels’ front seat. “Your sisters are all wonderful.”
“Yes, they are.” He glanced over at her. “Did you have a good time?”
“God, yes. The whole family is terrific.” She had been drinking wine all evening, and felt relaxed and slightly giddy. “You are so lucky to have them.”
“Yes, I know. I’m really blessed.”
“I’m an only child. I always wanted to be part of a big family. I invented a baby brother when I was little.”
“Really? What was his name?”
“Wallace. And he was blond.”
“How long did he last?”
“Oh, he’s still around,” Diane starting to laugh. “Your sisters kept filling my wine glass.”
“No, that was me,” Michael said seriously. “I figured I’d take advantage of you later tonight.’
“Oh, you don’t need wine for that,” Diane said, still laughing. She stopped suddenly. “What time is it?”
“Just a little after nine.”
“Oh.” They were silent for a while. Diane turned in her seat. “So, Angela and Neil have the two little ones?”
Michael nodded. “Right.”
“And Marie has four kids?” she asked.
“Yeah. You met the boys. They’re still young enough to want to hang out. The older girls, well, they’re at that age, you know? They’re kind of anti-family now. They only show up if there are presents involved.”
“Megan and Emily are the same. It’s tough. And Denise?”
“She just spoils her nieces and nephews.”
“I bet you do, too.” He shook his head, and she started to laugh. “No, I bet you buy them stuff and take them places and drive their parents crazy.”
“No, I don’t, really. I’ve watched them, raising their kids. It’s fuckin’ hard. I don’t want to make it any tougher, you know?”
“What a nice person you are,” Diane said, suddenly serious. “Really. You’re very sweet.”
He glanced at her. They were silent as he pulled into her driveway. She was suddenly aware of the darkness, how near he was to her, the unspoken something that had hung in the air between them for hours.
“Want to come in? I could make some coffee.”
They went into the house together, Diane turning on lights as they walked through the empty living room. She could feel him behind her. He’s waiting, she thought. He’s waiting for me.
She turned suddenly. They were face to face, and she could feel the heat from his body, and his eyes were endless, impossibly blue, and he leaned forward very gently and kissed her. She was trembling, and he kissed her again. This time she kissed him back, softly at first, then with a growing hunger, and her arms went around him, his waist, under the thin fabric of his shirt and pulling him toward her. His body was lean and hard, a
nd she opened her mouth, and she could feel the smoothness of his skin against her hands. As his arms went around her, she made a small noise, like a sob, and then his hands were in her hair, and his lips were brushing her neck, soft, down her throat, a trail of kisses that shook her entire body. She brought her hands up, between them, gripping his shoulders and pushing against him abruptly.
“Stop.”
He let her go, stepped back, and dropped his arms to his side. She pressed her hands against her forehead.
“I’m sorry,” his breathing was strained. “I thought – I’m sorry.”
“No. No, don’t be sorry.” He took a step toward her, hesitant, and she moved away. “I need to think. I can’t think if you touch me.”
He stepped back again, and she pointed. Her hand was shaking. “Sit. Please, sit down.”
He obediently sat down in a wing chair, leaning forward, his elbows resting on his knees, hands clasped. He was watching her face.
“Okay.” She brushed back her hair with one hand and took a deep breath. “I’m forty-five years old.”
“I’m twenty-six.”
“Exactly. Doesn’t that bother you?”
He shook his head. “Not at all. I like being twenty-six.”
She laughed shakily. “Michael, be serious. Doesn’t it bother you that I’m nineteen years older than you?”
He shook his head again. “No. Would it bother you if I was nineteen years older?”
“Please, Michael,” she pleaded, “don’t try to confuse me with logic. It’s not fair.”
He laughed. “Okay. From now on, no more logic. I promise.”
She took another breath. “I haven’t had sex in over six years. Not since before my divorce.”
“Whoa.” He sat back in the chair. “Six years? Shit, nothing like a little pressure.”
“Pressure?” She crossed her arms across her breast, hugging herself. “That’s how much you know. The way I feel right now, the only foreplay I need is for you to unbutton your shirt.”
His mouth twitched. “Oh.”
“Don’t you know how sexy you are? You should read some of your fan sites. I mean, I did, and boy, was I floored.’ She began pacing up and down in front of him, hands flying around her face as she spoke. “But then I saw you on stage. I mean, my God, you’re incredible. You’ve got all this talent and energy and I don’t know what else, and you put it all out there. Shit, Michael, what a turn-on. No wonder all those women want you.”