Premiere: A Love Story

by Ewens, Tracy

  “There, happy? I’m looking at you. Now what did you need to say?” Good girl, Sam, she thought. Oh, for Christ’s sake I’m praising myself like a dog now.

  “I didn’t need to say anything, I wanted to say that it’s good to see you.” Peter’s hand moved along her back. It was a small movement, only an adjustment, but his fingertips brushed her skin, and she forgot where she was. She was drowning in his eyes and unable to call anyone for help. There were so many questions, but the most urgent, the one aching to get out, was . . . why? She would never give him the satisfaction of asking and she was positive his answer would never be enough.

  “Good to see you too, Peter.”

  “Really? Because it seems like you’re dancing with your old uncle Joe. You know the creepy one that always used to kiss you on the lips?” He smirked.

  The announcement that the auctions would be closing in fifteen minutes brought Sam back to reality, and she glanced over toward the tables. Her mother was watching them. She smiled. Her mother gestured that everything was under control. Sam didn’t have time for dancing, but she couldn’t let go, not yet.

  “Uncle Joe died last year,” she deadpanned. Peter’s face fell.

  “Oh, Sam. I’m so sorry.”

  His cool playwright exterior was gone, and he looked like fourteen-year-old Peter standing against the wall at his first etiquette class. Sam buried her face in his shoulder and laughed. It felt good to laugh. Peter spun her around and she felt his breath on her neck. Some kind of wood? Cedar, maybe? Is that his new smell? God, whatever it is, I’ve missed him so much.

  “I can’t believe you. Did he really die?” Peter whispered. They were now dancing chest to chest, his arms around her waist, hers intertwined over his shoulders.

  “No, he’s living in Florida. He still kisses all of us on the lips.” They both pulsed with laughter, and the tension spilled onto the dance floor. That was all it took, one laugh, one gesture, always. During the most intense times in their lives Sam and Peter could still manage to make each other laugh. In that moment it felt so natural, as if Peter had never left.

  Sam was certain those biceps were new as she allowed herself to be held just a little longer. Then the song changed, and it all became too much.

  Peter’s smiling gaze shot through her chest, and she knew with all her being that she could not do this again. She would not survive it. Things had changed. Peter had changed them when he chose to ignore what happened between them. He left, and as much as she wanted to, she couldn’t forgive him for making her feel so, so lost. The music continued, but they were no longer dancing. Sam unwrapped herself from his arms and smiled politely.

  Peter knew the instant she was gone. He could feel it. She came back to him for a flash, and as his heart warmed, he felt the cruel pain of someone being torn away. He deserved it, all of it, but his mind scrambled for something to hang on to. Maybe she wouldn’t forgive him, but he had to try.

  “Peter, it was nice to see you. Please excuse me.”

  “Sam,” he followed her off the dance floor and grabbed her arm, stopping her. Sam glanced around to assess how much of a scene they were making. No one seemed to care.

  “Peter, please let me go. I have a million things to do.”

  “We need to talk.”

  Sam turned quickly.

  “We do?” Sam released a pained laugh. “What exactly do we need to talk about, Peter?”

  “About the . . . play, we need to talk about that, yeah.” He settled for a bit of distance, because the look on her face was killing him. “Candice tells me you’re handling my production. We should meet. There are a few things that need ironing out.”

  “I’ll be there tomorrow, the first day of rehearsals. We can get everything taken care of then. Peter, I need to go.”

  Sam turned to leave without giving him a chance to respond. He gave up and realized he could still smell her on his jacket. She had worn Coco Chanel since her father had first given it to her on her sixteenth birthday. Peter loved it. Was he actually sniffing his jacket? Get a grip, man.

  Walking among the patrons and swirling waiters, Sam stopped to clap for Mr. Weaver who had won the trip to Vail in the silent auction. She chatted her way through the crowd and noticed the petits fours and coffee service. Sam accepted gracious praise from Candice who was wearing a tight red dress and long gold earrings. She looked more like a statuesque model than the creative director for The Pasadena Playhouse. Candice was thrilled with the turn out and in a great mood. Grateful that things were going well, Sam turned to make her exit, and ran straight into Grady. Fantastic! The third musketeer has arrived, late as usual. Growing up in Pasadena, it had always been the three of them. Peter, Sam, and Grady had been best friends until that day. Peter had moved on and while Sam knew that he and Grady had kept in touch, she hadn’t heard one word from Peter Everoad in four years. Not until today.

  “Whoa, where’s the fire? Wow, is this silk? You know how I love silk, Sam. Did you wear this for me?”

  Sam swatted at Grady’s hands, and right as she wanted to swat his face, he leaned in and kissed her cheek.

  “You’re late and not even fashionably.”

  “I know. But I’m here now, so you can’t leave me here alone.”

  “I can, and I will. I’ve been on my feet all day and it’s time for me to go.”

  “You love this stuff, and the night is young. I, at least, deserve a dance if I’m going in there to play Happy Senator’s Son. Why are you so quick . . .” Grady saw Peter and looked back at Sam. He ran his hand over the stubble on his obnoxiously beautiful face, and even though Sam’s eyes pleaded for him to let her go, he called, “Peter!”

  He smiled, wiggled his eyebrows, and pulled her back into the fire.

  “Sam, look, Peter’s here.”

  “I can see that, Grady.”

  Her eyes were daggers.

  “It’s been a long time since we’ve been to one of these swanky events,” Grady said, gently pullng Sam across the crowd and extending his hand to Peter. Peter shook it, and Grady pulled him in for the one-armed hug and pat on the back. Grady looked perfect, as always, decked out in black Armani and with that dazzling smile. Expertly cut honey brown hair and a day’s worth of stubble that said, I’m rich and successful, but I don’t care about any of this.

  Sam and Peter both knew him better, but Grady, who had spent his life in the public eye, was a master at the game. Sam noticed the light in Peter’s eyes changed, softened. Grady could tap into a side of Peter no one else had access to, and he was one of the few people Peter could truly be himself around. They had their quirks, as all friends do, but they were bound by a deep brotherhood.

  “It has been a long time. You’re late, missed the shrimp and cream cheese thingies,” Peter said, handing Grady some champagne.

  “Wrapped in the little wontons? Damn, those are my favorite.”

  “Um, excuse me, we did not have cream cheese anything here tonight.”

  Peter and Grady both laughed. It was still fun getting a rise out of Sam.

  “Did you guys have a chance to catch up?”

  Sam was pretty sure she was going to kill both of them.

  “She tell you she recently broke up with Brian? Remember that weekend we all went to Vegas, and you and I were going to get married, Sam?”

  Grady had a way of making the most inappropriate comments sound like standard fare. It was clear to her now; Grady, at least, would have to die.

  “Oh yeah, you dropped to your knee right there at the blackjack table,” Peter added, laughing.

  “Who is Brian?”

  “He was not on his knee! I would have never. Christ! Do you guys ever grow up?”

  Peter and Grady both looked at each other and shook their heads. Sam rolled her eyes, grateful the Brian question had been dropped. Her face felt warm. Grady leaned over to touch her cheek, she squirmed, and his hand dropped.

  “See,” Grady smiled, “the passion. Someday you’ll wake up
and I’ll be gone.”

  “Oh, and that would be a shame,” she said with more than a hint of sarcasm.

  Grady feigned a broken heart by holding his hand to his chest: “Ouch!”

  Sam knew it was time to get even.

  “Grady, you are an incredibly attractive,” he lifted his eyebrows as Peter shook his head, “self-absorbed man, and though during a drunken trip to Vegas several years ago, I did agree to marry you, I believe I’ve recovered. I’m sure there have been, and are currently, dozens of women waiting to be Mrs. Malendar, but I’m not one of them. I love you, always have, like . . .”

  Peter slapped Grady on the back as an early condolence.

  “Oh God, don’t do it. Don’t say it again,” Grady begged, and Sam once again dropped the bomb.

  “I love you like a dear, sweet, immature, brother.”

  “Ahhhh,” he fell back into Peter’s arms and the two of them laughed.

  “The pain. Well, sis, I’m off to get a beer to numb the ache of rejection. Do they have a decent beer in this place? You two kids stay out of trouble, or hell, get into trouble for a change. Pete, we still on for tennis tomorrow?”

  “We are. Ten o’clock. You promise to go easy on me? It’s been a while.”

  “Oh please, I make no such promise. You’re all grown up now. I’ve seen that fancy gym of yours in the city. Don’t pull that ‘I don’t work out at all’ shit with me.”

  Grady kissed Sam’s hand: “Samantha, you look ravishing as always.”

  “Thank you. You know some day I may flirt back when I’m sober and then where would you be?”

  “I would love to see that, sweetheart,” Grady said over his shoulder as he walked away.

  Peter laughed. “Some things never change. You know, I’m pretty sure he was actually on one knee.”

  “Not talking about it,” she said cutting him off. It was now past time to leave. “I’m checking on the swag bags and going home.”

  “Do you need any . . .”

  “No. No, Peter I don’t need anything.” She turned to him and saw her message was received. Things had changed. She’d changed, and Sam needed to close this memory lane in honor of self-preservation. There was nothing left to say. She put her empty glass on the nearest linen-draped table and walked away.

  Chapter Three

  With her ridiculously high heels now put away in the closet and her face free of makeup, Sam sat in pajama bottoms and a UCLA tank top, a mug of tea beside her, looking over images of the Peter and Grady years, before it all went to hell. She had not meant to pull the box out from under her bed. She hadn’t looked through it in ages, but she had been in Peter’s arms a couple of hours ago, and something in her wanted to remember.

  Since she had returned two years ago with a pretty tattered self-image as just another out-of-work actress who hadn’t made it in Hollywood, Sam had been living in the guesthouse. Built in the same style as the Cathners’ sprawling mansion, this space was more accessible. Dark hardwood floors and pale yellow walls topped with white molding. Sam was aware that this little guesthouse was larger than many people’s homes, but not the homes she grew up around. Compared to those, this was a tawdry little shack, but she loved it.

  Sam had taken a photography class in high school and from then on and all through college she snapped tons of photographs. Grady used to call her “the preserver of all deeds good and evil.” As she took a small sip of her tea, Sam realized that she hadn’t taken pictures in years. Sure, there was the occasional shot, but she used to want to hold on to everything, and now, well, she didn’t know.

  Cool air of a late spring evening trickled through the open windows. The smell of lavender danced around her space. Looking over at the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves across from the couch, Sam reflected on the images she’d framed. There used to be many pictures of Peter, but they had been put away and replaced with landscapes or family and friends. She had kept the bamboo photograph and the jar of rainwater. They both sat among her books on the fourth shelf, up by the window. A subtle reminder of Peter that her heart could handle.

  She looked back at the images on the floor, the ones she had taken from the box, and Peter was everywhere. The tea warmed Sam’s cheeks, and she allowed him in, knowing it would hurt later. A lot of the photos were black and white, and most of them made her laugh. All through high school and college Sam had considered herself a lucky girl. Grady went off to Stanford—father’s orders—but he came home often. She had loved them both and then she found herself loving Peter differently. After Peter left, she had wondered if there were any signs. Sam had always felt something with him: a kindred spirit maybe. Looking back on it, he was her type. Brooding artist, tormented soul, and clearly that was her weakness when she was young, but she knew better now. He was a self-centered ass.

  There were times in their past, late-night study sessions, when they had spent midnights talking about their families or issues they were dealing with, but it was always in the context of the three of them. Sam went to high school dances with Grady and Peter; they all dated other people through college. They talked boyfriends and girlfriends, but nothing was ever serious. Grady dated more than Peter and Sam put together, but that was part of his DNA.

  Sam sipped her tea and thumbed through shots of her and Peter’s first year at UCLA, the weekend they met Grady in San Francisco, and one Spring Break in Mexico. They had a tradition of posing seriously for any event and then making the most ridiculous faces for the second shot. A wave of warmth washed over her now looking at the photos. These were great years and she had always imagined they would be together forever. Live on the same block, talk crap about each other’s spouses, laugh together, vacation together, and grow old together. Sam realized a while ago how naive she had been. Unlike a photograph, people don’t freeze. People grow up and they leave.

  Peter had always had a roaming spirit. He talked about wanting more, or wanting something different. After high school he backpacked alone through England and France. He was gone for two months and called it his “deep breath trip.” His father had died two years earlier, and he “wanted out,” as he put it. Sam should have seen it then, yet he always came home. They had both gone to college close to home. She had known he didn’t want to start his career in Hollywood. He talked a lot about New York, but she never thought he’d leave. Maybe she knew, but after what happened between them, she thought he would have at least asked her to go with him.

  Well into her second cup of tea and feeling quite relaxed, Sam picked up the stack of shots from their last day at the Huntington. That day, the day everything changed. Mostly pictures of plants in the gardens at first and then one of Peter standing next to Diana of the Chase with her bow outstretched. It was a famous statue near the entrance to the rose gardens.

  He looked younger, but those green eyes were the same ones she had been lost in only hours earlier. If in fact eyes were the windows to the soul, Peter’s soul was glorious. The picture took her into the memory. He loved that statue and on that day Sam had asked, “What’s with her? With everything else here, why do you always come back to her?”

  Peter had put his hand on his chin like a philosopher, then looked up at the statue, and said plainly: “I think it’s because she’s naked. Yup, that’s it, the lack of clothing. I like that, and that bow, my God, what guy’s gonna resist?” For all his culture and prose, Peter was still just a guy.

  They had both laughed like children, and she had snapped Peter’s picture with his arrow-wielding ladylove. Looking at his big grin now, tears pooled in her eyes. She was at home and alone, so she let the hollow empty pain in and then quickly wiped it way. Sam was fine. In fact she was good, great on some days. Hearts broke all the time, she knew that, friendships ended, but this was bone deep. While she had learned to stand on her own in the past four years, at this moment she just wanted to jump into the photograph and go back to that time when she and Peter simply were, when it had been effortless.

  She set the ph
otos down, closed her eyes, and leaned back on her hands. She would need to deal with the way things were in the present, but not tonight. She’d had enough for one day. Sam finished her tea, wiped her eyes again, and crawled to the couch.

  Peter arrived at his mother’s house, at what used to be his family home, shortly after midnight. He’d played the part of successful playwright most of the night. He’d sucked up and danced with his mother’s friends. Grady’s mom was a personal favorite. He genuinely loved Bindi Malendar. She had been his mother’s best friend all his life, and no one knew better than Peter that his mother was often hard to love.

  She was asleep on the couch when he got in, having opted out of the fundraiser because she “had absolutely nothing to wear.” Truth was she preferred to stay home and drink. Peter carefully carried her to her room and ignored the fact that once again she was too drunk to wake up and notice.

  Now sitting at the dimly lit dining room table, Peter opened his laptop to check his email and the call schedule for the next morning. He kept thinking about Sam. She had left early; Peter had pretended not to feel hollow for the rest of the evening. She hated him, and he didn’t blame her. What man, even a young, insecure, and stupid one, would leave a woman like Sam? She was essential even back then. It had been a long time, but Peter still remembered feeling small. Needing to be more if he was ever going be enough for her.

  Peter answered a few emails from his agent and agreed to two telephone interviews the following week. He started to do a little research for the play he was currently writing. It was a comedy, a full comedy. Thank God his new play had nothing to do with his actual life.

  His eyes became heavy, and he picked up his phone. Maybe he could hide behind a text, maybe she would listen, let him explain. That all sounded great to his exhausted brain, but he hadn’t yet figured out how to explain. Sitting back, he could still feel her in his arms. His heart, the heart he thought still dead in his chest, pulsed at the memory of the brief moment in which she had let him back in. Peter swore at his foolishness, plugged his phone into its charger and decided to call it a night.