by Bobbi Marolt
“Introducing the phone to the Hudson or my comment about the hurricane?”
“Both, you jackass.”
Marty glared at Felice. “Where do you get off calling me a jackass?”
“It’s hurricane season and she could well get caught up in something horrifying. Jackass isn’t strong enough for you.”
She didn’t respond, but quickly regretted her comment to Liz and now worried about the weather. She’d never wish harm to either of them. An hour on a hot tarmac would be nice, though.
“Don’t be an idiot. Call her back. You still have to work with her.”
“You’re not so afraid of me after all.” Marty took a deep breath. She looked at the phone in Felice’s hand. “Hit redial.” Felice pressed the button and handed the phone to her.
Marty walked several yards from Felice and stood against the railing. Liz answered after four rings and there was a cool reserve in her voice.
“What can I do for you, Ms. Jamison?”
The edge to Liz’s voice was foreign, but deserved. “I’m sorry. I reacted. I didn’t think.”
“Are you making a conscious effort to destroy what we’re building?”
“No. I was out of line.” Silence. “Say something.”
“I will. I have the show to worry about, and I’m by no means happy while stuck in Nassau. You have something to deal with and until you do, I won’t be wrapped up in your drama.”
“Liz—”
“There’s no debate, Marty. I’ve wanted you for twenty years and here you are, larger than life itself, but you’re allowing your past to tarnish what we could have together.”
“I know.”
“Obviously, I have to wait a little longer.”
“Patience is a virtue for you.” She wished she hadn’t said those words.
“Maybe a curse. I’ll find out, won’t I?”
“What are you saying?”
“Beyond a professional level, I won’t see you.”
The words crushed her. They left Marty skewed, and she wished she’d never met Rachel. “Wait. No, Liz. Can’t we just take things slower? We should have done that from the beginning.”
“We’re miles beyond that pale. I don’t like telling you that I won’t see you, but you need to shed a few tears or find some type of closure with Rachel, before we can consider a loving relationship.”
Her eyes stung. Somewhere, there was an answer. She’d find it if it killed her. “Then don’t tell me you won’t see me. Tell me we’ll talk about this when you return.”
“I can’t say that with meaning. I know how you feel about me, and if I didn’t feel the same for you, I’d never wait another year. I just hope you won’t take that long.”
Marty’s timeline reappeared on crisp white paper, but it didn’t begin at zero. She saw multiple negatives to get through.
“I’ll see you Tuesday. I should have a completed script by then.”
“Yes, of course. I know you’re right about Rachel, but not see you?”
“I feel it’s best that way. Maybe you should contact her. That could mean all the difference between us.” She sounded sad.
Marty wiped tears from her cheeks and eyes. Frustrated and weakened by her past, she didn’t want to end their conversation. She wanted to feel the comfort of Liz’s arms around her and hear her assurance that they’d work it out together, but she’d already been given that chance.
“Okay. I’ll call Rachel.”
“Thank you. Those words mean a lot to me.”
To overcome her defeat, she attempted to keep Liz on the line longer. “I’m anxious to see the new script.”
“You’ll approve of the work. Good-bye, Marty.”
“Do you have to make that sound so damn final?”
“I’ll see you Tuesday.”
“Tuesday.” Marty choked on the word and closed the phone. She rested her arms on the railing and stared at New Jersey. Footsteps came from her left.
“You okay?” Felice asked. Marty shook her head. “I guess today isn’t a day I’d want to be you. Do you want to talk about it?”
“No.” She wiped more tears away.
She didn’t say much on their walk back to her apartment. Liz was too prevalent in her thoughts to give any real attention to Felice’s attempt to converse. She couldn’t shake Rachel from her mind, either.
Marty had dealt with monsters in her theatrical life. Monsters who’d threatened her legally, monsters who’d promised to throw her to the dogs, and none of them could lay a scratch on her or her reputation. She wasn’t afraid to stand up for herself. Marty worked in logic. That was easy. Working in matters of the heart, that was obviously altogether different. She had to locate some form of logic for the degree of fear that held her prisoner.
“Do you have a boyfriend?” Marty asked.
“Yes. David. Nice guy.”
“How long have you been together?”
“About two years.”
“Are you happy?”
“Yes. He travels a lot, so he can be gone for weeks at a time, but I know he’ll be back. When he returns, he’s all mine.”
“Do you ever feel—never mind.”
Felice looked over at Marty. “Do I feel what?”
“If you went home tonight and—” She stopped.
“No, go ahead. Do you think Liz is cheating on you?”
“Not really.”
“So finish. I go home tonight and find what?”
“And you find your boyfriend in bed with your best friend. What would you do?”
Felice stopped dead. “Liz did that to you? Oh my God.”
“No. It happened in another lifetime.”
“Oh. Good. What would I do? After I trashed his face, I’d send both of them out the window. That would be good. Our apartment’s on the third floor.” Felice smiled. “Well, not the last part, but I’d trash his face. Maybe just slap the crap out of him. I’m not really violent, but I might be violent in that situation. Maybe I could go nuts. Damn. I don’t know now. I might talk to him about why he cheated. Then I’d trash his face. I just pity the bastard if it happens. Wow.” Felice threw a right hook into the air. “Bam!”
Marty laughed until leftover tears streamed down her cheeks. Felice talked gibberish just as freely. Nina was in for a treat.
Felice’s eyes widened. “You did find her in bed with someone else.”
“No. That happened in another relationship.”
Their walk continued in silence until Felice stopped in front of Marty’s apartment. “This is where I leave you.”
“Do you want to come in for a while?”
“And ruin my reputation?” Felice smiled. “Maybe another time.” She held up the business contacts paper. “Thank you.” She turned away and stopped a cab.
Marty entered her apartment and headed directly to the bar. She poured a glass of wine. At her desk, she opened the massive Manhattan phonebook and searched the name Carr. There was no listing for Rachel Carr. She closed the book and fished around in a drawer until she found an old address book. When she opened it to the letter C, Rachel Carr was the first entry, and her name throbbed like the neon in Times Square. She sat back in the chair and swooshed the wine around in her glass. Her stomach trembled with negative anticipation of Rachel’s voice. She dialed Nina’s number instead.
“Hey, sugar. I thought I’d hear from you sooner.”
“I’ve been busy.”
“Are you okay? You sound down.”
“Just thinking about a call I have to make soon.”
“You need some support? Is that why you called?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay. Go get ’em,” she said and laughed.
“I knew I could count on you. Did Anna make any headway on Felice’s costumes?”
“She finished both. Felice is thin as a rail. Nice girl, too.”
“Turncoat.”
“Who do you need to call that you’re frazzled?”
“Rachel.�
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“What took you so long?”
“Obviously, I’m the only clueless one regarding her. What do you mean?”
“You never closed that door. You threw them out of your apartment but kept the vision of them inside you. You’ve been happy with Liz, but now you’re gloomy. I talked to her a few minutes ago and she sounded gloomy. I’m guessing Rachel is the key to putting some spark back into both of you.”
“Maybe you’re right.” She finished her wine.
“Just make that call and then come cry on my shoulder if you need me.”
“Okay.” She hung up the desk phone and looked back at the neon-black name. She closed the book. “Screw you, Rachel. I’ll get through this.”
Marty worked fitfully to occupy her weekend with exercise—dance for her body and reading for her mind. Three pages into a murder mystery, she realized she’d read the last page twice, and still hadn’t a clue what she’d read. Distracted and dwelling on Liz and Rachel, Marty was unable to concentrate. She returned the book to the shelf and went into her dance studio. With her stereo blasting, she’d perform some warm-up exercises.
Jelly. Not just her hands, but also her limbs were jelly. Everything quivered in negative ways. Her dance timing was off, and her body refused to move where and how she’d wanted. Instead of working the boards, a simple turn and break flung her into an uncontrolled twist that threw her backward and ass first onto the floor. She landed with a thump and loud “Ooph.” With a second attempt, she tripped herself at the ankle and never pulled through to the break. Marty quickly crumbled into a sweaty heap. Staring sideways at worn lacquered floorboards and a dust bunny, she blew a quick breath and the dust slid across the floor. She sat up and looked at her disheveled appearance in the mirrored wall. She brushed her hair back with her hands.
“Focus, Martina. What is it you need?” She glanced at the dust bunny. “Aside from a housekeeper?” She looked over at the freestanding ballet bar, and then to the bar mounted on the mirror. Ballet bars weren’t her immediate need. She scanned the room in the mirror and stopped at her desk. The house phone, in plain view, held her attention. “I can’t make that call,” she told the mirror. “I thought Rachel was an old wound, and I don’t want to hear her voice.” She stood, headed toward the front door, kicked the dust bunny under the chair, and left her apartment.
Through the din of traffic, Marty crossed the scrambled street patterns of the West Village. She wished the phone in her pocket would signal a call from Liz. She checked the battery level twice. Three times, she stopped short of pushing speed dial number one. A short call would be fine, if only to say hello, but that call never came. Liz was busy with the play. Wasn’t she?
She continued her route, beyond the construction site of the new World Trade Center, until she reached Battery Park. There, she purchased a bottle of water and found a spot under a shady elm. Sweat slid down her back and between her breasts. After a long swallow of water, she turned her attention to the distant and green Statue of Liberty in the harbor.
“Tempest tossed. That’s me.”
Her phone rang. Nina. It rang again. Clive. With each call, she jumped. She obsessed. “This is nuts. How do I stop the crazies?”
An hour later, she reversed her course and headed home.
“I’m not needy.” She slipped into bed. “I can live without Liz, but I’d prefer she shared my life.”
Marty had lived better weekends.
Chapter Fourteen
Clive called late Monday afternoon. Liz had e-mailed a completed script to him.
“It’s a fun read. She’s rewritten almost everything. Will you come into the theater tomorrow?”
Marty looked forward to reading the new script. For her, there was magic in Liz’s writing, with her sickeningly intelligent and evocative word placement. She expected the new script would deliver the same quality of work as Liz’s novels.
“I’ll be there at eight. Is Liz home?”
“She’ll return tonight. Also, I’ve hired two of the readers as understudies for you and Felice.”
She perked up even more, anticipating the sight of Liz. “Good. It sounds like we almost have a show. Did you locate any money?”
“A boatload. I called in some favors and they agreed to back us. We’re looking good for a while. I’m sorry for the fiasco last week.”
“Ah, Clive, that was last week. We’ll start fresh in the morning.”
“Okay. See you tomorrow.”
She closed her phone and jumped from the ring that instantly followed. She turned the illuminated face of the phone slowly toward her, hoping the name would be Liz. Blue letters spelled the name and Marty’s heart skipped a beat, or maybe half a dozen, while she waited for the third ring.
“Hello.”
“Hi, Marty.”
Liz sounded happy and her voice was enough to collapse Marty into her chair. With each word, Liz sat on Marty’s lap and cradled her heart in her hands.
“Hey, Liz,” she simply said, but wanted to say how much she missed her. Instead, she remained businesslike. “I hear we have a new show already.”
“I finished the script late yesterday, sprawled on a secluded beach I’d found. My tan looks great, too.”
She thought back to those tan lines and how they curved and dipped around her breasts. She wanted to know in person how the whiter flesh of Liz’s breasts clashed with her newer tan.
“I’ll bet you look lovely.”
“Thank you. I worked like the devil to finish the play. Did you read it? I e-mailed a copy to you.”
“I told Clive I’d wait until tomorrow. I’m looking forward to a first read-through with Felice.”
“You like her, huh? That’s a relief for the rest of us.”
Marty smiled. “She’s okay. Are you home from sand and sunshine?”
“Yes. We signed the papers early this morning. I just walked through the door a few minutes ago.”
A block away still felt like the distance between Manhattan and Nassau. If nothing else, she’d called quickly.
“I won’t keep you, then. I’m sure you have a lot of things to do before tomorrow.”
“Not really. Unpack. Bathe. Not an evening packed with fun. I’ve missed you. It’s good hearing your voice.”
“I’ve missed you, too. I’d hoped you would have called to say hello.”
“I needed to focus on the show. By the way, I got in touch with Betty Tomlinson. We should have some songs by the end of the week. You said Monday, but we have to give her a break on time.”
“You did well, Madame Producer. Betty knows what I like. I’m sure they’ll be good songs. Do we have an orchestra?”
“We’re going a different route. A cappella. At least we’ll try it that way first.”
“Just voice? That’s intriguing. We’re breaking the rules of Broadway left and right, aren’t we?”
Liz laughed softly. “Breaking rules has always been our way, ki—uh, Marty.”
You almost called me kitten. “Yes, it’s our way, Liz.”
“I guess I’ll unpack and make some dinner. I’ll see you tomorrow morning.”
“Good night.” She hung up the phone with a smile on her heart. “I’ll do this. I won’t let this be the end.”
Marty dug out her address book again. Time would stand completely still if she didn’t get past the call to Rachel. She punched in Rachel’s phone number and waited. Four rings. Five rings. Voice mail. “Shit.” She waited through Rachel’s announcement.
“You’ve reached Rachel Carr. I’m on vacation and I’ll return your call soon. Please refer any business to my office number.”
Anxiety set in, just hearing Rachel’s voice after two years. “Rachel, it’s Marty. Would you give me a call soon? I need to speak with you. Thanks.” She closed her phone. No indication of when Rachel would return left her in a funk.
“Damn it. She could be away for weeks.”
*
On Tuesday morning, Marty found Felic
e—in the role of quintessential tourist—standing outside the Stanwyck. Felice looked up at the marquee and smiled broadly. Her neck bent at such a severe angle that she might be in for some serious injury, or at least a few nights of hot compresses and mild pain relievers. The illuminated sign, splashed of white lettering and a bright blue background, read Marty Jamison-Felice Tate. Below, in larger letters and the perfect exclamation point, the title read I’ve Got You!
“What do you think?”
Felice kept looking up. “I’m playing on Broadway and I might miss it because I’ll still be standing here looking at this gorgeous marquee. Isn’t it beautiful? I can’t believe that’s my name beside yours. Let’s get some pictures. Can we do that?”
Marty enjoyed sharing a step forward on Felice’s timeline. “At some point. Come on.” She put her arm around Felice’s shoulder. “Let’s get to work.”
They entered the house and sat in the third row. The curtain was down, but spotlights lit the massive red drape and gold arch. The ambiance fit her mood—colorful and bright—now that Liz sat near. She and Clive sat in the row ahead and had their heads together. Both looked behind them when Felice said a quiet “good morning.”
“We’ve got stars,” Clive said. “Let’s make ’em shimmer.”
Dressed in white, Liz looked fabulous and healthy with her Bahamian, light chocolate tan. She smiled sweetly at Marty who returned a bigger smile and wished a hug were involved.
“Good morning,” she said, and then looked over at Felice. “Nina has bagels and coffee in Marty’s dressing room. We need about twenty minutes before we can use you two.” She turned back to Clive.
*
“Good morning,” Nina said when they entered the dressing room. “You’d think you two were something special.”
Marty looked at Felice. “Ignore her,” she said and poured a cup of coffee. She sat at the vanity. “What’s the big secret?”
“I don’t think it’s a secret. Your set is nearly completed. Clive paid the set designer, Bert, and their crew to work all weekend.”
“I guess he did find some money.”
“I can’t wait to see the set,” Felice said. “The script, too.”