by Bobbi Marolt
“Moving on to the second light…oh, wait. That light was Liz. Let’s come back to her.” Rachel pointed to the third light. “Ah, yes. Felice Tate called you a jackass and said you’d wind up like your character: alone, bitter, and beige.” Rachel turned the light on. “I’m giving you this one because I think it’s great she told you like it was, and I also think this light has something to do with Liz’s light.”
“To which we’ll return.”
Rachel smiled. “Exactly.”
“Do we have to do all of these? I feel badly enough.”
“We’re almost done. The next light is the songbird that’s lost her voice.” Rachel shook her head. “Again, and with more precision, the show is not all about you.” She turned the singer’s light on without waiting for a response. “The fifth light, our queen. We’ll do her light last.” Rachel pointed back to Liz’s light. “Tell me about her. What does she mean to you, and who is Paul?”
Marty tearfully told her story from the beginning. When she finished, Rachel was quiet. “Felice is right. I’m a jackass.”
“Yes, you are, but part of your problem stems from me and the big lie. If I had been more honest with you, you might not feel afraid of Liz. I’m an equal jackass.”
Marty removed Liz’s light and held it in both hands. “She’s never given me reason to feel insecure, other than the night of her dinner with Paul. When I think back, she was probably telling me the truth.”
“How do you feel about her?”
Marty flinched when butterflies invaded her tummy and her flesh danced happily. “I love her.”
Rachel took the light from Marty and turned it into the socket. “That light stays dark for now. Liz told you she’s waiting for you. What will you do about that?”
“I don’t deserve her.”
“She thinks you do. Don’t let our bungling interfere with your relationship. Your life with Liz is the show that matters.”
“I’ll try talking to her when she returns from Aspen. Maybe I haven’t destroyed everything.”
“Maybe you haven’t.” Rachel looked at the darkened Queen Marty light. “What becomes of that one?”
Marty turned the light until it shined. “I have some work to do, but I’ll get it back before I do any permanent damage.” She looked back at Rachel. “I lied to you. You don’t look tired. You look great.”
“Thanks.” Rachel stood. “You’ll be fine. Things don’t seem beyond repair, and I have to leave now.” When Marty stood to walk her to the entrance, Rachel stopped her. “I know the way out.” She proceeded down the steps and up the aisle. “You stay here and think about Liz’s light. Good-bye, Marty.”
“Good-bye, Rachel.” She watched her leave and knew they’d never see each other again, unless accidentally, and that settled well with her. Their show had closed.
Marty faced the dark house that swallowed her. “Jonah and the whale.” She walked back to the armoire. She picked up the prop gun from the floor, faced the empty auditorium, and pointed the gun to her head. “Bang.” She threw herself backward and onto the bed. “I don’t need another bullet.” She stared at the catwalk. “I need lessons in respect and then groveling.” Light footsteps followed her words. Expecting Bert to tell her to clear his stage, she sat up. “Liz,” she said after a lost heartbeat. Liz stood near the darkened footlight.
“That whale saved Jonah,” she said and then pointed to the dark footlight. “Looks like you need a replacement.”
“No. I need to find out if it’s beyond repair. I thought you were on your way to Aspen.”
“I told you I’d be here for you. I meant it. Come talk with me.” They settled in front of the darkened light. “Clive and I had a brief meeting. Then I stopped by your dressing room and Nina said I might find you here.” She looked around the stage. “We’ve come full circle.”
Heavy hearted, she took Liz’s hands into hers. Marty’s eyes blurred from tears, but she looked into Liz’s eyes. “I’ve missed you and I’ve mistreated you. Will you forgive me?”
“Time and I are old pals. I’m still here.” She brushed away Marty’s tears.
“If you knew how wonderful that sounds.” Marty pulled Liz into her arms. She felt peaceful but still regretful for any hurt she’d caused.
“I’m the one who cries at night when you aren’t there. We’ve talked about falling in love, haven’t we? We can’t do that unless both of us are present.”
“I cry, too,” Marty said and tightened her embrace. “I talked to Rachel just now.” She felt Liz stiffen.
Liz pulled away and cleared her throat. “I…about Rachel. Since we’re here, I have another confession.” Her expression was full of concern and fear, just as it had been their first night on stage together.
“I’m easy to talk to.”
“I invaded your privacy.”
“How?”
“I came backstage to find you. When I heard you and Rachel talking, I stood in the wing and listened.”
“You heard everything?”
“At least from vichyssoise onward.”
“Great.” Marty shook her head and stared at the dark light. “For you, that clarifies my ignorance of people.”
“I apologize for listening, but I’m not sorry. I needed to hear what she had to say as much as you needed to listen.”
Marty suddenly looked up at her. “Then you heard me say—” Liz’s smile and nod stopped her.
“I love you,” Liz said.
Marty knew what to do. She knew to tell Liz she loved her. She knew to hold her so closely that it would take that bitch of a glacier to separate them. She also knew she’d wanted so badly to hear those words that she’d never prepared herself for the moment Liz might actually say them, and there they were, larger than the theater around them and small enough to burrow deep into Marty’s heart. Liz reached over and turned her light until it brightened. She looked back at Marty.
“Is there something you want to say to me, Ms. Jamison?”
“Yes.” Marty took Liz into her arms. When their lips met, Marty’s body turned giddy in full thank you. Every inch of her returned to life. She kissed Liz gently first, and then as though they’d never been apart. “I love you. You’ve had faith in me when you should have walked away.”
“I want to be with you. I know you aren’t a monster, but felt you needed a little education. I’m glad Rachel appeared here today.” She rested her head on Marty’s shoulder. “We’ll work beyond what’s happened.”
“The irony is that I remember thinking you’d have a warehouse of baggage.”
“If you learn to trust your intuition again, we’ll be fine.”
“Trust myself?”
“From the moment I kissed you in your dressing room, you were determined to find out what I was all about. I tried forgetting our encounter, but I couldn’t. The day I pried the apple from your mouth—well, I needn’t go further.”
“When you told me you were straight, I wanted to bust a gut laughing. What changed your mind? Why did you come over that day?”
“Honestly?” Liz laughed. “Hormones and twenty years of lusting for you walked me to your door. You were smart, keeping me on my toes at my apartment. When we talked on this stage that night, I loved hearing your tale of what this theater means to you. I adored your passion for the Stanwyck. Then I wanted to know you and not just your body.”
Marty listened, but her head swam from the scent of Liz’s delicate perfume. She was quietly intoxicated. “Paul’s kiss wreaked havoc on my brain. I need to de-program.” She touched Liz’s cheek. “Do you still want me?”
Liz smiled broadly. “I want my kitten home with me tonight, and we’ll talk until daylight if we have to.”
“I’m sorry about the champagne and rose.”
“You damn well better be.” Liz pulled Marty up from the floor. “Let’s go and get them.”
Considering all things, Marty’s day on 44th Street turned out the best ever.
Chapter Sixteen
Marty extended several apologies within the cast and production team, and added a promise that the Diva Jamison was no longer a part of the show.
Five days after their initial preview, I’ve Got You! played favorably to Clive’s martini-drinking theater critics. Clive invited all of them to Sardi’s afterward, where he personally mixed their cocktails. Preliminary reviews were favorable.
Liz applied some brush strokes to selected dialogue and, several previews later, their show opened to the public to an almost full house. Marty and Felice had such fun sharing the stage that Marty never missed the songs Clive had cut. Reviews were flattering, touting the duo of Jamison and Tate as surprisingly palatable.
One month after their opening, Marty and Liz shared a hot bath. Liz read her favorite review.
“‘No respectable audience or management team ever dreamed the duo of Jamison and Tate lurked on the horizon. Chances are Jamison and Tate never dreamed of the moment. Given the tenure of her Broadway mystique, Jamison audaciously shucks her dramatic skin and slips easily into a relaxed style of dramatic comedy. Tate, known for her flare of publicly ribbing the Grande Dame of Broadway, was ever on the heels of Jamison’s self-deprecation and gun slinging. With perfect timing, sharp retort, and comedic skill, Tate foils Jamison’s nightlong flirtation with suicide.’ ”
“Imagine that,” Liz said. “I’m in a bathtub with the Grande Dame of theater.”
“And don’t you forget it,” Marty whispered into Liz’s ear. She pushed her hair away from her neck and nibbled Liz’s soft shoulder.
Liz set the review on the floor and splashed warm water and bubbles over her breasts. She turned her head toward Marty. “You’re happy, kitten. Your talk with Rachel has done wonders for us.”
“I’m deliriously happy.” Her biting segued into kisses.
Liz moaned and then leaned against Marty again. “You spent two hundred dollars on an antique brass box today. What will you do with it?”
“I thought I’d polish it and place it right there.” She blindly pointed to the vanity and never missed a beat with her nibbling lips. “It’s perfect for Q-tips.”
“A girl can never have too many Q-tips. You know, of course, I might ask you to marry me one day.”
“Maybe I’ll ask you first.” Marty reached between Liz’s arms and cupped her breasts. She moved on to shoulder kisses, in between her words. “Maybe I was thinking ahead with the brass box.” She turned in Marty’s arms. She glowed and her words came softly.
“One day we might get hitched. I know how you are with timelines.” She warded off a poke in her ribs. “Marty?”
“Yes?”
“I need a lot of years to show you how much I care for you.”
Marty wondered again if Liz saw rockets fire and heard champagne corks pop. Her heart fluttered and burst into shimmering pieces again. Marty drew Liz closer. “Let’s make love until the sun comes up.”
“I’m sorry, kitten. I’d love loving the night away with you, but I can’t chance missing the video conference with my associates. I like producing. I like the greater scale than just writing.”
“You’re a natural for the job. You still don’t know what show they want to do?”
“I’m clueless, but I’ll find out in a few minutes. They’ve promised something big.” She snuggled against Marty’s shoulders. Liz looked up at Marty. “Kiss me.”
With all the love in her heart, Marty kissed her.
*
Liz powered up her computer. “Come and watch, kitten. Maybe you’ll find the meeting interesting.”
Marty pulled up a chair and watched Liz insert a DVD. For a conference? She was even more puzzled when Liz and Felice appeared on the monitor and stood on the stage of The Stanwyck.
“What is this?”
“Shh. Just watch.”
Felice paced in front of the brightly lit stage curtain and she babbled. “I don’t think she’ll do it. Not with me. Maybe with knocked-up Allison. God, I think I hate Marty for not wanting me there. Why does she have to be so damn fussy? I’m a good actress. I think you should make her play the ass end of Caroline the cow.”
Marty laughed.
“She’ll play Rose,” Liz said. “It’s her life dream. Marty would dump me in a minute for the chance.” She walked to the end of stage left and manually raised the curtain. Larger than half the size of the stage, a sign lowered. Its lights flickered and then fully brightened.
Marty read aloud. “Marty Jamison and Felice Tate.” The names disappeared and, in lights larger than she’d ever seen on a marquee, the show title flashed. “Gypsy.” Marty looked over at Liz. “If this is a joke, it’s not funny. What does this mean?”
“You’ll have a contract in your hand tonight, if you’ll do the show. When I’ve Got You finishes its run, we’ll begin production for Gypsy.”
Marty stared at the illuminated title. Gypsy. That wasn’t work. Gypsy was her piece de resistance of musical theater, and she’d almost take the role without pay. Move over, Midler. Step aside, Tyne. Clear the stage Ethel, Bernadette, Patti, and those who appeared between them. Marty Jamison was born to play Mama Rose.
The camera operator zoomed in on Felice. She put her hands on her hips and looked directly into the lens. “Well, hot shot? Do you think you’re still woman enough to work with this Broadway actress?” The lens panned back to the show title. Liz let the title flash on her monitor.
Marty glared at Liz. “Absolutely not. This is not proper protocol for signing Marty Jamison to a work contract.” After a moment of letting Liz feel the disappointment, she embraced her. “Gotcha back. Yes! Of course I’ll do the show. I’m not crazy.”
They celebrated with a pint of Ben and Jerry’s Cherry Garcia ice cream.
“Am I playing Rose?” Marty teased and dipped her spoon into the ice cream carton.
“Would you prefer playing the ass end of Caroline, as Felice suggested?”
“My purr is much more interesting than my moo. And I’ll have a talk with Bert about Felice.” Marty kissed her full on the mouth and then took the mouthful of Garcia that Liz offered her. “Can I safely assume you don’t actually have a video conference?”
“You may safely assume I have no meeting.”
“And that means we can make love until the sun comes up?” Marty leaned toward Liz and licked at a drop of ice cream that had melted at the corner of her lips.
“That’s what it means, kitten. I have to keep the Grande Dame of Broadway happy, after all, and that same Grande Dame had better pull out all the stops tonight if she wants that contract.”
“I’ll break a leg.” She dropped her spoon into the now empty carton and turned Liz toward her. “I’m happy. Thank you for Gypsy, and I would never choose any show over you.”
“Good, and I expect you to thank me all night long,” Liz said and threw her arms around Marty. “I do love you.”
Marty’s heart burst again and beat in time to the flashing show title on the monitor. “I love you, too.” She held Liz tighter.
Life was damn sweet.
About the Author
Bobbi Marolt was born in Pennsylvania and upon graduation from high school enlisted in the United States Army, where she specialized in telecommunications. After an honorable discharge and two and a half years in Texas, she ambled into Connecticut “to go to school.” That stunt landed her between New York State and Connecticut for the next several years, jammed into quality assurance positions in various types of manufacturing. After a brief move to Las Vegas, she again resides in New England. Somewhere in the midst of these journeys, she published the romance Coming Attractions, from Rising Tides Press. Her interests include films and classical music.
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