172 ~ Judith Michael
shared a private joke—" He took a drink of coffee. "Sorry; I didn't mean to get emotional."
Jessica drew a long breath. He had brought Constance into the room and her sense of loss stabbed sharply. After a moment, she said, "What is The Magician? I never heard of it."
Luke looked up. "A new play by a young man named Kent Home. He's a brilliant writer, which is amazing considering that he's unbelievably callow and usually not likable, but somehow he's written a magnificent play. So good, in fact, that it actually tamed Abby Deming."
"Abby was in it?"
"Is. We opened three weeks ago and it looks like we'll have a long run."
"Who else is in it?"
"Cort Hastings and Rachel Ilsberg. They've mostly done television, but they're fine, Rachel especially."
"What theater?"
"In Philadelphia at the Forrest Theater for one week. And then the Vivian Beaumont."
"And the reviews were good?"
"Raves. Even Marilyn Marks got high praise, in The New YorJ^ Times and The Wall Street Journal."
"Did she do sets or costumes?"
"Both. You worked with her, didn't you?"
"She did the set for Virginia Wool/. I liked her; she actually asked Constance and me where the doors would be best for our entrances and exits."
"We had to move a door in her set for The Magician."
"Then she didn't check first with Abby or with you. She may have gotten burned on Virginia Woolf; everyone accused her of playing favorites by designing with Constance and me in mind."
"She did."
"Yes, but if you're the one she's playing favorites with, it seems quite reasonable." She smiled as Luke laughed, but then, suddenly, a warning clanged within her: Getting too close, getting too comfortable, opening doors that shouldn't be opened. Change the subject, change the subject, change the — But Luke's laughter filled her house with a sound it had not heard and she brushed aside the warning. It's not important, because pretty soon he'll begone.
"Who was stage manager on The Magician?" she asked.
"Fritz Palfrey. And Monte Gerhart produced."
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CTS of Love ~ 173
"Monte and his masks."
Luke chuckled. "He took them off for The Magician; I think I got to know him pretty well. And we worked well together. When did you work with him?"
"On The Children's Hour. I thought he was a bumbling fool."
"But, as you said, that's a mask." Luke leaned forward and refilled their cups. "Monte was the one who wanted Abby Deming; I'd heard too much about her temper to want her. I'd never worked with her, but—"
"Oh, it was real. Awesome, in fact. I've seen her whip a cast into battle formation and turn a rehearsal into a civil war. Monte must have known that."
Luke heard the change in her voice: she was allowing its full resonance to come through instead ot consciously keeping it flat. She sat forward, her hands curved around her cup, her arms resting on the table. In the candlelight the lines in her face seemed as deep as if they were carved, making her look even older than before, with not even a shadow of her former beauty. But Luke was not focusing on her face. Her head was tilted slightly, as if she were listening to the past, and in her pose he saw her hunger for news of the world she had left. It was as if he saw a door open. Now they no longer had to stay safely on the subject of Constance. Now they could talk about anything.
"Monte probably heard the same stories I heard," he said. "But he took Abby to dinner and she looked into his eyes and that seems to have done it."
"I've seen her do that. There's something quite biblical about Abby when she's with a man, as if she's giving him the choice of paradise or being turned into a pillar of salt."
Luke burst out laughing. "She was like that with Cort. And, from what I saw, with Kent, too."
"Did he rewrite scenes for her?"
"Only when we all agreed it was needed. She wasn't as demanding as I'd expected. Constance probably demanded more in her time than Abby, at least in The Magician."
"Constance understood character better than most playwrights. One time she made Hulbert Lovage rewrite the whole second act o^ Madame Forestier."
"That was a beautifully written play."
174 ~ Judith Michael
"Because he's a fine writer. He went through a bad time, writing dreadful plays and insisting they were fine and everyone else was wrong. His agent and his wife tried to get him to take a year off, even two or three, but he refused; he just kept writing, saying that his plays were perfect, that they didn't need one word changed. It was thoroughly depressing. Then, somehow, he pulled out of it; it was one of those mysteries that make us realize how unfathomable the universe of the mind really is."
"Even to Hulbert, I imagine, if he couldn't admit that what he'd written was bad."
"Oh, Hulbert never could tell the truth. He breaks out in a rash if he does."
Luke smiled, finding the same pleasure in her observations that he had found in her letters. "Hulbert reminds me of Kent Home," he said, and he told her of the times he had forced Kent to bend to his demands as a director. "I could have been gentler, but I was impatient—"
"You were driving toward a single goal," Jessica said. "You couldn't see any side streets. Most people in the theater—" She stopped.
"—are like that," Luke finished, and their eyes met for a quiet moment of perfect understanding of the life they once had shared. Jessica broke the silence with another question, and then others, listening intently to everything he said, but all the while part of her was wondering at his candor. The Luke Cameron she had known and heard about in all her years in New York, even from Constance, had not been open about any of his failings; he had seemed cold and aloof except to those who had worked with him. She found his confession oddly attractive, not diminishing him but making him seem stronger: a man so caught in the tentacles of the theater that he sometimes lost sight of the gentle way of doing things. But the only reason I find that attractive is that I'm in the theater, she thought. And then, angrily, corrected herself. Because I was in the theater, a long time ago.
"And that was the time I called your agent ahoxxt Emily's Heirs," Luke was saying. "I wanted you as Emily. But you were in London."
"I was in hear at Stratford, with Hugh Welfrith." She was staring into the distance. "That was the year Constance went to Italy. She stopped in London on her way, and stayed with me in my hotel suite, and we had such a good four days; she insisted on seeing Ld'flr three times and on my night off we saw Cats. I loved knowing she was in the audience; I played to her, with little gestures and inflections we'd talked about over the years. It was
Acts of L
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like a code. We always had so much fun together; everything was so right between us." She clenched her hands, fighting back tears. She had no reason to keep her feelings from Luke, who also had loved Constance, but she was so used to keeping everything inside her that she could not now cry in front of him or even say that the world had a new bleakness since Constance had died. "Do you know what happened to Hugh?" she asked. "He was sick when he played Lear, though no one knew but his companion and me, and from his performance no one could have guessed."
"He died three years ago. We've lost a lot of good people in the last ten years."
Jessica nodded, her head down. "Hugh and I were good friends. And he was a great actor."
Into the silence, Luke said, "You probably don't know about Arcadia. It's a new acting school for children— I'm on its board—and it's very impressive." He talked about the directors of the school, and young actors who were coming from it, and from those stories he went on to others. The more he talked, the more questions Jessica asked, and he roamed widely through the world they both knew so well, spinning anecdotes about people and places, describing new actors and directors who came from television or from regional theaters, mentioning new
restaurants and old nightclubs, and even vividly portraying the heat wave of the past summer and the view from his terrace of a wilting New York.
"But your rehearsal space was cool?" she asked, focusing directly on the only important thing to an actor in a heat wave.
"Noisily," Luke said, and they laughed, both having experienced plenty of old and laboring air conditioners in rented rehearsal spaces. Startled by her laughter, Luke stared at her, at the brief animation that gave a glimpse of the woman he remembered from the past. She would never look like that again, he thought, but if she laughed more often, if she took the world more lightly—
But even as he thought it her face sank back to its drawn, gray look. It was as if, for an instant, the sun had pierced through heavy clouds, and then was swallowed up again. Luke found himself wanting to make her laugh again and he cast about for some gossip or a humorous anecdote, but nothing came to him. To bridge the silence, he picked up the coffeepot, but it was empty. And that was when he became aware that the rain had stopped.
176 ~ Judith Michael
They turned to the window at the same time. They saw their faint reflections and those of the candles, now burned almost away, but they had not turned to see but to hear. And they heard nothing. No rain struck the windows and the wind had died. Luke felt a rising panic. He would have to leave. And all he wanted was to stay.
He had not found answers to any of his questions about Jessica; they had talked only on the surface and he was hardly any closer to knowing her than he had been when he arrived. He had done most of the talking, and whatever she had said about herself had never come close to revealing the person she had become. But that was not the only reason for his panic, or even the main reason. He wanted to stay because he was happy where he was.
But he could not invite himself, and so, in slow motion, giving Jessica time to stop him, he put his napkin on the table, pushed back his chair, and stood up. "I think by now my clothes and shoes should be dry." She turned from the window, and he was stunned by the sadness in her eyes. But she said nothing and so he walked past her into the living room and then to her bedroom, closing the door behind him.
Jessica did not move until she heard the door close. Then, automatically, she began to clear the table. She thought of calling Angie to take Luke to the inn, but instead she kept stacking dishes and carrying them to the kitchen, one or two at a time. A quiet evening. Finally. I should have sent him away a long time ago.
But the evening that she imagined was not quiet, but empty, and, before she could stop them, the words / don't want to be alone sprang up and would not fade away. Alone in the dining room, with the cleared table and the candles flickering in melted wax, she looked about her at the perfection of the home she had created, and she imagined the silence of the hours ahead. She could fill her rooms with music and they still would be silent. She could move about the kitchen making dinner, with the sounds of a gas flame whooshing on, a refrigerator door opening and shutting, pots and pans clattering, and still she would be surrounded by silence. She could put on a videotape of a movie and still her house would be silent.
But this was what 1 wanted, she thought. Constance and I made the same kind of life.
No, that was not true. Constance had let the world into her life. Not in great numbers, but people came, mail and gifts arrived, the telephone was active.
Acts of L
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Dearest Jessica, I do not understand this life you have chosen, and none of your reasons maJ^e sense to me. What is this chasm you tal about that separates the past from the present? If you can help direct Pygmalion, what stops you from returning to Broadway and London, acting or directing, if that is what challenges you now? I read your letters again and again and I can only believe that you are still in some hjnd of shocfrom that dreadful accident. But my dearest child, if that is true you must s€e help. Do not cut yourself ojffrom the world that you know. It is your nourishment, your life and your being.
Constance had written that the year before, and Jessica had never answered it directly; she had only repeated that she was content and would not return to New York. After that, their letters fell into a pattern of news exchanged by old friends, without the intimacy they once had known. And then, just this past spring, a different kind of letter had come.
Please come to see me. I miss you and I believe that you miss me. We need to be together. Please, my dear, dear Jessica, come to see me.
The bedroom door opened and Luke stood in its square of light, still wearing her pants, still barefoot. "A damp day," he said ruefully. "Nothing dries. If you don't mind, I'll keep your pants and send them back with Angie after I get to the inn." He saw her glance at his bare feet. "I'll put on my shoes when she gets here." He walked toward her, through the living room. "Jessica, I apologize. I wanted so much to see you that I charged ahead without paying any attention to what you wanted. You made it very clear when you didn't answer my letter that you didn't want me here, but I ignored it. I shouldn't have come; I shouldn't have invaded your house, and taken up your whole afternoon, and forced you to feed me—"
"You didn't force me. I took pity on your audible stomach."
It stopped him short. She had so taken him by surprise that the rest of the apology he had spent time formulating in her bedroom flew out of his head and he could not think of anything else to say.
The dog stood, luxuriously shaking herself, and padded across the room. Jessica watched her, glad of the diversion. She wanted to ask Luke to stay; she wanted to tell him that he was her link to Constance and to the theater, but even more than that, she was happy to be with him. She knew he had enjoyed the afternoon, but she also knew he would not invite himself to stay. That had to come from her, and she felt rusty and halting. The words would not come.
Luke made the first move; he went to the telephone. "My stomach and I thank you, but it's far past the time for me to go." He picked up the
178 ~ Judith Michael
receiver and turned, his other hand poised above the dial. "It's been a u'onderful afternoon. I felt very much at home, and that had to do with far more than the fact that I've been wearing your clothes. I'm sorry we didn't get to know each other better, but perhaps someday—"
"I'd like you to stay."
Luke stood still, watching her. She had put her hand on Hope's head, as if for support. "We still have so much to talk about. . . we could have a late supper and then I could drive you to the inn. If you'd like that."
He hung up the telephone. "Very much." Hope went to him and nudged his hand with her nose. He knelt and rubbed behind both her ears, and looked up at Jessica, smiling. "It's what I was hoping you'd say."
JLhe Inn at Swifts Bay sparkled in the morning sun, washed clean by the deluge of the day before. The stuffed rabbits cramming the living room hutch eyed Luke with bright eyes as he walked through on his way to the kitchen, where Robert was making pancakes and muffins.
"Good heavens," Robert said, his whisk stopped in midair. "So early! After such a late night!"
Luke's eyebrows rose. "Eleven o'clock?"
"Well, later than I expected you'd be. I gather Jessica gave you a ride; I caught a glimpse of her car."
"Yes," Luke said, amused. "But I don't want to impose on her again and it seems there's no place to rent a car. Would it be possible for me to use your truck again? I'd pay you whatever a rental car would cost."
"How long would you want it?"
"I don't know."
Robert whisked thoughtfully. "You booked your room for three nights; someone else is coming in after that."
"If I'm still here, I'll change to another one."
"We'll be full. A bike group from Vancouver."
"Well, I'm not going to worry about it now." Impatiently, he brushed it aside. He had awakened with a feeling of deep well-being and he was looking forward to the day that stretched ahead. He had no time for minor details. "I'd like the truck for three days, if you can spare it. I don't kno
w what will happen after that."
~ 179 ~
180 ~ Judith Michael
Robert nodded. "We use it mostly in the winter, so it won't be a problem. I can't take money for it, though; just keep the gas tank full. Are you ready for breakfast.?"
"No, I won't be eating here."
Robert looked alarmed at the idea of anyone leaving his inn with an empty stomach.
"We're going riding first," Luke said. "You're not ready to serve, anyway; it's far too early. No one else is awake."
"I make exceptions. Not even a piece of toast, or fruit?"
"Nothing except the keys to the truck."
Robert found them in a drawer and handed them over. He eyed Luke's blue jeans and cotton turtleneck shirt. "I could loan you some riding pants."
Luke shook his head, smiling. "I'll wear my own pants today; it will be a novelty. Thanks, Robert." He turned to go, then turned back. "I don't know how late I'll be tonight. Is that a problem?"
"No, the front door will be open. Have a good time."
"I will." He walked back through the living room, stopping to pick up his leather jacket and Jessica's gardening pants, dry now from hanging over a chair in his room all night. Outside, he was surprised by the sharp chill in the air, and stopped beside the truck to pull on his jacket. Then, once again, he drove along the water, turning inland past the small lake, past Lopez Hill, to Watmough Bay Road, looking for the sign with the fountain. This time, unlike his first trip along these roads, there would be no surprise awaiting him; this time he anticipated what lay ahead.
He thought of the hundreds of women he had gone out with over the years. He could picture himself getting dressed to go out, and driving to pick them up . . . but he could not picture any of the women. Only Jessica was clear in his mind: leaning toward him as if memorizing everything he said, missing nothing as they talked about the theater and, always, about Constance. They always came back to her, as if she were their lodestar.
In fact, they never strayed from those two subjects, but there seemed to be no end to them, and so the afternoon had passed in anecdotes and memories and technical discussions of plays they both knew. Jessica made another pot of coffee and brought two mugs to the living room and they sat at each end of the white couch, facing each other, talking and talking with no break except when she returned to the kitchen to take a casserole from the freezer and put it in the oven. At nine o'clock Luke made a salad
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