by Bobbi Marolt
“No. What did I miss?” She went into the kitchen and grabbed the paper from the table.
“It’s a gossip piece that might amuse you.” Liz took the paper and turned a few pages until she pointed to the column. “Read this.”
Marty read silently. Stage starlet Felice Tate was overheard at Sardi’s: “Marty’s aging. Her voice is changing, and it’s time for her to move over.” She laughed and continued with the author’s take. It seems Broadway’s top girl remains at the top of—she stumbled over the final words—Tate’shit list.
Liz pointed to the last spelling of Felice’s name. “Look how they inferred a typo. Shit list.”
“Felice never stops. At least she’s getting some press.” She closed the paper and dropped it to the floor. She playfully poked Liz’s shoulder. “Are you going to tell me if you have that purple dildo in the prop box?”
“Damn you. Yes. It’s there. Now stop saying that word.”
She moved within an inch of Liz’s ear. “Dildo. Dildo. Dildo.”
“What about them?”
“Do you like them? Vibrators maybe?”
Liz turned and looked directly into her eyes. “No toys. I want flesh. A warm tongue. Fingers and hands. A hungry mouth.” She pressed her hand against Marty’s hip.
“Not even for private penetration?” She touched her lips against Liz’s.
Liz moved her fingers across Marty’s stomach. “Not even when I masturbate.”
“I’d love to watch you.”
“We could do it together.”
Marty’s lip was nibbled and released. “I’d like that.” She made a conscious effort to stop her pelvis from moving against Liz’s leg.
“Do you know the one thing that would disappoint me about you?”
“What?” She almost lost control when Liz’s thumb pressed deeply against her lower abdomen. She wanted to grab the hand and stuff it into the front of her pants. “What would disappoint you?”
Liz moved her hand to the waist of Marty’s pants. Her fingers moved slowly, back and forth against the buckle and her stomach. She teased and Marty ached.
“I’d be reduced to tears if I put my hand between your legs and found out that you shave.”
“Oh my God,” she said and moved away. “I can’t take much more. You win.”
“I didn’t know we were engaged in a contest.”
“We weren’t, but you still win.”
“Good. You’re my prize and I want to make out with you.”
Liz pulled Marty on top of her. Ravenous, Marty pulled Liz closer. Her hips moved freely against Liz’s thigh. She kissed, sucked, and caressed Liz until she gasped for air. Marty’s breasts united with Liz’s against the limit of fabric, but she wanted their flames to burn through their clothes to complete their union.
Liz’s breath was hot against Marty’s cheek. “I want to move my cheek against you and feel curly, dark hair tickle my nose. Tell me now. Do you shave? Or will I reach into your pants and feel soft curls surround my fingers?”
Timing was everything, in the theater. Marty waited, yet screamed inside for Liz’s hand to dive beyond the buckle and zipper. “Curls,” was all she said and Liz’s tongue drove straight into her mouth.
Marty fought increasing desire. Liz led Marty’s hand to her breast but not under her blouse. When Marty reached between Liz’s legs, Liz groaned but gently placed it back on her breast. Liz pressed her thigh against the inseam of Marty’s pants and bit into her neck.
“Do you want me?” she asked against Marty’s ear.
“Madly.” She pulled their mouths together. Shallow breaths forced quick kisses. Oral penetration required space for breathing. She wanted to scream in pleasure from the friction of their bodies that had finally collided.
“I’ve waited twenty years for you. I want you, but not like this.”
She pulled Liz’s tongue into her mouth and released it. She pressed into her thigh, held tightly, slowed her kisses, and caught her breath. Marty didn’t want sloppy and fevered as their foreplay any more than Liz did, but it sure felt good.
“Now you have me saying ‘Holy shit.’ That was your version of making out?” She straightened her clothes.
“With you it was my way.” She bit into Marty’s shoulder. “I love what you do with your tongue.”
Marty fanned her face. “If we get this show on the road, I hope to have a couple show-stoppers for you.” She stopped fanning and studied Liz. “You look adorably ravished. Your hair is everywhere, your clothes are rumpled, but you have the sweetest look of satisfaction.” She reached over and straightened Liz’s hair. “The best part is I gave you that look.”
“I enjoyed you. I needed to satisfy a bit of desire.” She looked serious. “I won’t let you down. I don’t have a sexual past with women, but wanting you feels natural to me.” She straddled Marty’s lap. “My guesses are you’re afraid that I’m on the rebound from my marriage and that I’ll be a clumsy fool in bed with you.”
Warm kisses were soft against her cheek. “Those thoughts crossed my mind. Not to mention the ‘roll in the sack with a Broadway star and write about it afterward, scenario.’ ”
“Sounds exciting. Do you think that’s what I want?” She nibbled Marty’s ear. “A quickie? Get out the big purple? Hmm?” She breathed hot air onto Marty’s neck.
Marty pushed her away gently. If she hadn’t, she’d have both their clothes off within a few seconds. She looked into Liz’s eyes. Among the many things she saw, malice wasn’t among them.
“No. You’ve already told me you want flesh.” She studied Liz’s features. She was petite in many ways, and her eyes simply looked fabulous. “And curls.”
“Curls. Liz want curls.” She played back the words and moved away. “Liz want you, but that will keep. It’s time for me to say a memorable good-bye.”
Had she been right all along? A few satisfying moments for Liz and boom, she’s gone? “What? Why? What are you talking about?”
“I’m going to Connecticut tomorrow and won’t be back until Sunday.”
That settled her. “Good. My heart can’t take much more of you.”
She pushed Marty’s arm. “What if I said I was going to see a cute blonde?”
“I wouldn’t feel jealous at all. You want…” Her voice trailed and she twirled a lock of her hair.
Liz blushed. “A lot of it. I am seeing a blonde, though. My editor.”
“The quiche eater. She is cute, I’ll say that much.”
“That’s her. We’ve decided to complete all of the edits for the final book at once. Then I won’t have to worry about more deadlines.”
“It sounds like a lot of work. Do you think you’ll miss writing about Abby?”
“No, and if things work out, maybe I’ll have her inspiration all to myself.” She stood and put her arm around Marty. “I have to go home and pack a suitcase. What will you do for the next few days?”
“Work out, study the play, chase women.” They walked slowly to the door.
Liz playfully pinched Marty’s cheek. “No way,” she said with confidence. “You’ve got me.”
Marty knew she was right. “I’ll keep you in mind. Now give me a hug. I like you and I might miss you a little bit. Will you call me when you have time?”
“I’ll try to squeeze you in.” After a soft kiss, she closed the door behind her.
Marty sat at the table and looked alternately from the package of Q-tips, to the daisies, from practical, to frivolous, from her life, and then to Liz. She picked up the cotton swabs.
“My life has been constant for the past two years. Neat and constant, like a box of Q-tips.” Marty set the box aside and pulled the vase of flowers in front of her. She rearranged a few stems, sat back, and studied the flowers. Some stood tall, while others had a slight bend. “Like Liz, you won’t stand for neglect. You’re demanding of my time.” She looked back at the box and then studied the flowers.
“Few things are perfect. Sondheim writes th
e perfect lyrics. The Stanwyck’s acoustics are perfect. What about love? I thought I’d found love with Rachel, but she shattered me.” A white petal fell to the table. Another fell beside it. “I dropped Liz into a field of debris. Maybe we can pick up the pieces together.”
Chapter Six
Outside the Stanwyck Theater, Marty propped herself against a pillar and waited for Nina to arrive. Nina would set up the dressing room with Marty’s personal items while wardrobe took Marty’s current measurements. The sunny street was naturally busy for two o’clock on a Sunday afternoon. Large groups of excited theater patrons gathered for photos of the marquees and then waited for the matinee doors to open. A police officer sat in his cruiser and sipped his coffee.
The narrow road stretched one way, and litter lay scattered in the gutters. A half block to her left and right, paint-stained scaffolding marred the dignity of the theaters, all but the Stanwyck. Near the curb, pigeons warbled and pecked at the ground. She took a deep breath and smiled. It was a great afternoon on 44th Street.
“Good morning, sugar,” Nina said when she stepped from a cab. The driver opened the back of the vehicle and pulled out a large trunk. He wheeled it to the door. Nina handed Marty a cup of coffee. “Why are you standing in the sun? You know your skin’s sensitive to UV.”
She tore off the tab on the coffee cup. “A few minutes won’t roast me to cinders.”
“It better not. We have a hard enough time getting your makeup right.” Nina pulled Marty by her arm to a concrete bench and set a shopping bag at her feet. “Did you try on your black pants?”
Marty stretched her legs in front of her. An early morning massage had relaxed her to the point of wanting a nap. She was content to spend a few minutes watching the pigeons and listening to Nina. “That’s another reason we’re here,” she said and sipped her breakfast.
“Look in the bag,” Nina said.
She pulled the bag onto her lap and removed a fold of red satin. “This is pretty,” she said and brought out another piece. “You bought yellow after all.”
“You look great in both. Wardrobe gave me a go-ahead. Clive is directing and he approved the teddies.”
Clive’s direction was a major plus to Marty feeling more settled with the show. Beginning when she first stepped foot on a Broadway stage, they had worked together on several of Marty’s shows. Their history was good and Clive was like the Stanwyck’s owners: flexible and ready to take on a challenge.
“Ready to get measured?” Nina asked.
“I guess so.”
Marty wheeled the heavy black trunk and followed Nina through the cinnamon scented hall until they reached the door to the dressing room. Nina opened the door and turned on the light.
“Here you go, queenie. Your palace waits.”
She let go of the trunk and sat at the vanity. “We haven’t worked this theater in three years. Who was here last? LuPone? The room smells like Patti’s perfume.”
Nina pulled the trunk through the doorway. “I don’t keep track of you gypsies.” She unlocked the oversized box and pushed it open. “Come on. Help me.”
Marty first took the framed photograph of Joyce Manning and set it on the vanity next to the mirror. With Nina’s assistance, they set up makeup and hair products. She pulled out a bottle of hair dye and then returned it to the compartment. While Nina hung blow dryers and curling irons against the wall, Marty stocked the bathroom. They completed the arrangement of the dressing room just as Anna from wardrobe arrived. Marty stripped off her pants and shirt.
“You won’t wear your bra onstage. Would you mind removing it?” Anna asked. Marty discarded her bra and Anna wrapped the tape measure around her bust. “Forty,” she said.
“Was I right?” Nina asked. “A full inch and a half. Your fat goes right to your boobs.”
“Just keep quiet, Nina.”
Anna wrapped the tape around Marty’s waist and then her hips. “Your waist is twenty-eight and a half, and your hips are thirty-eight and a half.” She wrote down those numbers.
“That’s almost two inches on your waist and half an inch on your hips,” Nina said.
“Still a C cup?”
“Not by much,” she said and measured from Marty’s shoulder to four inches below her crotch. She wrote down the final numbers.
“That’ll change after lunch,” Nina said.
Marty scowled at her. “Can I get dressed? It’s chilly in here.”
“I’m done.” She pulled the dress dummy from the trunk and adjusted it to new proportions.
Marty dressed and watched Anna wrap and pin the satin around the dummy. “I’m not overeating that much. I think trying to stop smoking has slowed my metabolism. I’ll run or something to get the fat off.”
“That might work,” Nina said.
“I’ll set you up with Nina’s yellow and red. You can choose your preference. I found some nice piping for this material,” Anna said through the pins in her mouth. “You’ll want to take these costumes home with you.”
“They’ll be gorgeous. Thanks.”
“Go study your lines or something,” Nina said. “I’ll keep Anna company.”
Marty grabbed her script and a pencil and walked through the hall. When she reached the wing, she picked up a metal folding chair and dragged it to center stage. Beneath the dim stage light, she opened the script and spoke her first line, but stripped it of punctuation and emotion.
“For thirty years, I conducted my life under the guise of knowing what I was doing.”
She wrote in a pause after “years,” drew a line through “guise,” and penciled in “pretext.” She underlined years to stress the word. She stood, turned toward the house, and spoke the rewritten line.
“For thirty years” She paused. “I conducted my life under the pretext of knowing what I was doing.”
“Eh,” she muttered, still unhappy with the line. She crossed out “was doing” and added “needed.”
“Got a new show going?” the security guard asked from in front of the apron.
“Soon. Hey, can I borrow your gun?”
“Well, I don’t know, I…” He pulled his handgun from the holster. “Yeah, why not.” He emptied the chambers into his hand, looked down the barrel, and then handed the weapon to her.
Marty took the gun into her right hand. “How does this sound to you?” She looked back into the house.
“For thirty years…” She paused and pointed the gun barrel against her chest. “I conducted my life under the pretext of knowing what I needed.” She stroked her cheek with the barrel of the handgun and looked down at the guard. “What do you think?”
“It’s better with the gun.” He took the weapon back.
“I think so, too.”
He went about his rounds and she continued marking the script and repeating lines. After two hours, she’d had enough, proving once more that she wasn’t a writer. When she headed toward the wing, clapping sounded from the mezzanine. She stopped and turned to the dark house.
“Who’s there?” she asked and watched a shadowed figure approach.
“The Lady in White.”
Liz’s soft voice carried gently toward the stage. Marty waited for her to emerge from the shadows. How was it that she turned Marty into five feet and nine inches of contentment? What of Liz so demanded respect that Marty hadn’t gone further the evening they turned warm into blistering? She sighed and tingled with anticipation as Liz stepped into her vision. First a foot, then up to her hips, and then white to her shoulders, the curtain came up and revealed a showstopper. Marty stepped to the edge of the apron. She took Liz’s hand when she ascended the steps and walked onto the stage.
“You are wearing white.”
“Another hot and humid day. It’s much cooler in Connecticut. Trish and I edited until we couldn’t take each other any longer, but we finished early.” She held Marty loosely. “Hello. Miss me?”
“Never,” Marty said and Liz looked up at her with eyes that always fil
led Marty with delight. “Maybe.”
“Show me how ‘maybe’ feels.”
Marty couldn’t breathe. She captured Liz’s mouth with authority, but Liz’s lips moved as slow and delicate as a warm tide. She drifted in and pulled Marty away. Welcomed moisture cooled her lips. She stopped kissing and let Liz’s mouth make love to hers. Marty quivered from a tenderness that she’d never experienced.
She broke their kiss and smiled. “How about going away for a few more days? Then come back and kiss me that way again.”
“I think I’m spoiling you, Marty Jamison.”
“Yeah. Do that. Spoil me.”
“Nope. We’re going out for a bit. I want to do something daring.”
“Aw,” she whined, “but you kiss so nicely.”
Liz winked. “And don’t you forget it.”
*
At the corner of Times Square and 44th street, Liz flagged down a pedicab. “Caution to the wind,” she said, entered the confined space of the cab, and paid the cyclist. “Through the park, Bitterman. You know how much I love the park.” The driver looked at her indifferently but took the cash and pedaled into traffic.
“You know, don’t you? That we’re about to die?” Marty said.
As she’d expected, their ride was harrowing. The driver dodged every possible taxi, private vehicle, pedestrian, and at least two police officers on horseback. She held one side rail, Liz white-knuckled the other, and their free hands melded. They laughed, squealed, and promised to attend the funeral of the other, should one of them survive the ride.
“Stop here!” Marty shouted when they reached the curb of Central Park West and Fifty-Ninth Street. “This is fine, thanks.” She helped Liz from the cab. “I’ll never do that again.”
“I’ll take you to my favorite place,” Liz said. “It isn’t far.”
Amid the smell of burned pretzels, Central Park bustled with summer sounds: the laughter of children, grunts of tired parents. Music wailed from a new direction with each twist in the walkway, and horse drawn carriages clopped lazily. Aside from an occasional slow cab or automobile, traffic sounds weren’t harsh in the park. Hand in hand, they walked to an area near the pond.