Premiere: A Love Story

by Ewens, Tracy

  “And . . . and, I also hear Miss Cathner that the Playhouse is putting on some new play, this Looking In one, which has lots of teenage angst and I’m guessing flagrant premarital sex! Again, how can you tolerate this? How can you allow young people to watch that kind of behavior? It’s outrageous!”

  “Gary, I’m sorry you feel that way. I respect your need to tell everyone else what to do with his or her life. Yes, yes, I hear you, and I’m sorry you’ll be wasting your time upsetting our patrons. Yes, I know . . . yes, a petition. That’s fine. Thank you for letting us know, and try, Gary, please try, to have a nice day.”

  Sam hung up before he could get another word in, took a very deep breath, and dropped her head to the desk. No wonder her family always thought she looked tired. Peter’s play was reduced to teenage angst and premarital sex? Didn’t these people have jobs, hobbies? Wait, how does he even know what’s in Peter’s play? I barely know. Sam tried not to let Gary get to her, but the mention of Looking In obviously hit closer to home than she was used to.

  Opening the bottle of water sitting on her desk, Sam wondered if Peter had to deal with advocates, aka crazies, during the runs of his first play. After all, it was about his father’s suicide. Did anyone find that offensive or was violence and death all right as long as there wasn’t any premarital sex? Maybe Sam was a touch defensive because Gary was somehow privy to things so intimately personal. She didn’t want someone like Gary anywhere near her memories. Sam shook it off and decided to call her mom. She usually made things better, put things into perspective. Sam probably had several more fires to put out, but they’d have to wait. She decided to spare fifteen minutes for discussions about new bed skirts, or her mother’s latest finds at the open markets. Susan Cathner was the perfect antidote to Angry Gary.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Peter sat on the patio after breakfast. His mother ran into the house to get photo albums. They had started talking about Cynthia’s wedding, and, per usual, his mother felt nostalgic. Of course, the buzz of the three Bloody Marys she managed before finishing her eggs was a factor too.

  “I . . . you know what we should get the pictures, let’s get them and we can rem . . . remin . . . reminisce. Be right back,” she slurred.

  Vivvie, the maid, kept her from bumping into the couch and guided her around the corner. Peter could actually feel his chest tightening. He loved his mother, but it was a challenge to like her once the vodka set in. He could write the coming scene before she even returned to the table.

  They would start with his and Cynthia’s births, touch on some school plays, move to the luxurious family vacations, and then she would ask Vivvie for another drink. They would skip over all pictures of his father and the little annoying fact that the pressure of keeping up with all the crap in these photos actually killed him. She would leave out the times his father stayed behind to work while she went to the spa in Ojai or to Palm Springs for weeks on end. When something became too much at Junior League or the Mothers’ Guild, she would say she was stressed and needed “a little sun and shopping.” His father always obliged and off she went. There would be no mention of those trips.

  His mother would then jump straight to Peter’s graduation from UCLA, Cynthia’s engagement photos, and the picture of them at the Plaza on the night his first play opened in New York. Nice tidy story with a nice tidy bow. That’s how his mother liked it. She sucked the life out of him a little more each time. It was all a lie without the details, the rough spots.

  She could never handle the rough spots. After his father died, she ran to the bottle and begged it to smooth everything out. His father died the summer of his junior year in high school, and Peter escaped into himself, closed off whole sections of his childhood, in an effort to keep himself from completely crumbling apart. They never discussed his father’s suicide, it was like it never happened. One minute he was there, the center of Peter’s universe, and then he was gone. No discussion. Christ, it was a miracle he and Cynthia were even somewhat normal.

  As she swept back to her seat with albums in hand, Peter’s childhood surrounded him again. Everything he loathed and loved all in the same place, and even though he was four years older, he still couldn’t sort it all out.

  “Oh goodness, look at this one from when you were born.”

  And here we go again, Peter thought, taking another sip of his coffee as his mother flipped through the pages.

  “Yes, mother, Cynthia was a beautiful baby,” Peter sighed trying to feign interest in his mother’s delusions.

  After what seemed like an eternity of endless pictures, his mother retired to a chaise lounge in the shade for “a little nap,” as she called it. Just as well, because Peter could no longer breathe. He helped Vivvie, whose hands were now shaking a little more than he remembered, clear the dishes, but she shooed him off while she cleaned up the photo albums. She was used to the routine and a faithful protector of his mother’s madness. He was going to take a run, but it was raining, so he hit the gym in the basement. His father had built the gym when Peter was little. Peter learned the value of exercise when dealing with stress after his father died. After he moved to New York he found a gym and worked to exhaustion every day, finding that he needed it. A few rounds with the punching bag and he would be as good as new.

  When Peter came down the stairs after his shower, his mother was on the couch. He was late meeting Grady for lunch, but still bent down to kiss her sleeping face. April’s hand swept the hair from her face as her blurry eyes opened slowly.

  “Why do you live in that dirty city? You should be home.”

  “Okay, Mom. Please rest.”

  Peter turned to leave.

  “Marry that girl and come home. I need grandkids.”

  “There’s no girl, mom. You really need to . . .”

  “Don’t be obtuse, Peter. Sam, marry her and get back home. You two will make such cute grandchildren.”

  She reached out to touch him. Peter let her hand fall and left. As the door closed behind him, he took his first full breath of air all day. His sister pulled up as Peter was getting into his car. She was carrying big binders.

  “Need any help, Cyn?” Peter called, walking toward her.

  “No, I’ve got it. Is mom still . . .”

  “Sober?”

  He tried to smile and Cynthia sighed.

  “Yes, is she?”

  “Well, she’s taken her ‘nap’ so she’s slept off breakfast. If you hurry in you may be able to catch her before the lunch rounds begin.”

  Cynthia kissed him on the cheek.

  “What was that for?” he asked, walking her to the front door.

  “Just for being you. Sometimes I’m not sure how I would have gotten through it all without you and that smart mouth.”

  Peter’s face softened, and he opened the door for her.

  “I’ve missed you. I’m glad you’re home,” she said, stepping into the house.

  “I’ve missed you too.”

  And with that, Cynthia called to their mother, and Peter closed the door. How either of them turned out normal, he would never know, Peter thought as he pulled out of the driveway.

  Grady was already at the high top table when Peter entered a dive bar that doubled as a restaurant in Grady’s eyes. The guy had a thing for holes in the wall. With all his money, Grady was known for his . . . eclectic taste in hangouts. Peter didn’t mind; it was refreshing, he thought, as the band went on a break, and he took the seat next to his best friend. Grady was of course flirting effortlessly with the well-endowed blonde waitress wearing what would be considered a very short skirt by any standards.

  “Friend of yours?”

  “Friend? Hmm . . . not sure I would call her a friend. Friendly, she’s very friendly.”

  Grady laughed and patted him on the back.

  “I’m pretty sure she has a friend. We could . . .”

  “Yeah, I’m okay. Still trying to recover from the last time we ‘blew off steam.’”
r />   “Right, so when are you going making things happen?”

  Peter ordered a beer from the bartender with PEACE tattooed on his fingers.

  “Uh, clarification please? I thought I was making things happen. The play is going . . .”

  “Not that. We all know about the play. I’m talking about the real reason you came home. When are you going to crack that mess open and start luring her back to New York with you?”

  Seeing the two of them at the wedding shower, Grady was hopeful they could put the past behind them. He knew now, years later, that Peter was meant to be with Sam. When they were younger, Grady had always found their mutual attraction annoying. It upset the balance, and he’d been sure it would pass. Now, watching them dance around each other was painful. He needed to do something. Peter looked around at the collection of beer and liquor lining the bar mirrors and didn’t know what to say. After his mother’s drunken endorsement of Sam and marriage, he had no idea how he was going to make anything work.

  “I’m here for the play, it’s my hometown, and this play belongs here.”

  “Sure, tell that bullshit to someone else. You two are doing this little dance, and it’s as fast as a glacier. While the face touching at the baby shower was promising, it doesn’t seem like much is getting done. Have you said you’re sorry or told her how you feel?”

  Peter laughed, sipped his beer, and pretended to watch college basketball.

  “You told me yourself. She was better off here. She belongs here, remember?”

  “Oh Christ, man. That was a long time ago. I was stupid.”

  Peter looked surprised at his candor.

  “Yeah, well who the hell ever listens to me? Peter, she does belong here. We all do, it’s our town. I get that you needed to leave, but man, it’s all over you.”

  “What’s all over me?”

  “She is. You’re so in love with her. You always have been. When we were kids I thought it was lust or adoration, then you guys went to college together, and she started looking at you the same way. Even after four years apart, even now . . . it’s tragic. I’ve seen you in New York, and you are ‘the man’ there. I saw you make your own life, where no one knows that you and I had a lemonade stand every summer or that your dad offed it. I understand, it suits you, but since you’ve been home, no, actually when you’re around Sam, you’re warm.”

  Peter raised an eyebrow at Grady’s word choice.

  “Fine, call it cheesy, but it’s true. You did grow up here, there are parts of you here. And when you filter the shit out, when you’re with Sam or even me, all that’s still there. Don’t you miss that history? That foundation? Because you sure as hell didn’t take any of it with you to New York.”

  After a brief stretch of silence, Peter put his burger down.

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “Of course it matters. You’re the drama guy, love is everything, isn’t it?”

  Peter laughed.

  “Not in this case. She doesn’t want me. She’s hurt and angry, and I don’t blame her. She’s moved on, and even if she did give me a chance, I can’t give her this place. I know there’s history, but it’s stifling.”

  “When has Sam ever said she needed to live here? That’s in your head. Maybe from some crap I fed you years ago, fine, but it doesn’t have to be only one way. Compromise, man. I’d give up a lot of things for a woman to look at me the way Sam looks at you.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  “I’m serious. Okay fine, I’m trying to be serious. She fell apart when you left, Pete. Really fell apart.”

  “I know, and I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “Well, maybe you need to. She loved you then and despite all that female temper she’s throwing at you right now, she still loves you. I can see it when she’s pretending to be too busy to care. She’s trying to survive and protect herself. Can’t blame her there. If you don’t love her, then why did you come back? I travel to New York to see you. I accept our friendship on your own selfish terms.”

  Peter rolled his eyes.

  “Selfish, I’m selfish now? That’s rich.”

  “Why can’t you love her and have a life with her?”

  “Being back here isn’t good for me.”

  “Oh, bullshit. This is where you come from and it’s your home. Complicated as all hell, I’ll admit, but you need to work that out. You can’t run forever, man. You know what I think?” Grady asked, stuffing several fries into his mouth.

  “Please, do tell.”

  “I think you came back to get your woman and now that you’re here you’re letting the past creep back in. You’re chickenshit.”

  “Is that what you think? Well, thank you, Mr. Relationship Expert.”

  “Yes, I do.”

  Grady grinned while wiping his mouth and finishing his beer.

  “I came back to put on this play and, yes, maybe I wanted to see her, be near her, but that past is still there. What happened is not going away, and I’m starting to think I should have stayed in New York. Maybe I’m hurting her more by being here. She seems like she moved on, she’s fine.”

  “She’s made a life for herself, sort of like the life you’ve made for yourself in New York. You two are a fine pair, a shut-off, shut-down, going-through-the motions pair. But she doesn’t know why you ran. You left her hanging, and she doubted herself for a long time. That’s not right, man.”

  “Christ, Grady, I know. Do you think I don’t know what I did to her? I couldn’t see any other way and it’s not like you were super helpful, so I’m not sure where all this advice is coming from now. I would never have been enough for her back then. It was a mistake to cross that line.”

  “Then fix it. Talk to her, tell her what happened, tell her why you bolted. Get it out there.”

  Peter took a deep breath and finished off his beer.

  “I’ve tried, but the words sound stupid. ‘I left you because I couldn’t cope with my own shit. You were too much for me.’ Lame, it sounds absurd.”

  “She won’t think so. She has nothing right now. For all she knows, she was a quick lay from the hometown girl before you ran off to your new and exciting life. You can’t leave her with that.”

  “Shut the hell up. I never treated her that way.”

  “Really? Because it didn’t seem like the two of you talked much at all after that night.”

  “Christ, this is perfect, Grady. You were all for me leaving her alone that night, remember? She would never be happy in New York, right?”

  “Don’t start, we’ve already been over this. I was an asshole. I didn’t want the party to end, still don’t, but it’s time to man up. You’re a different guy now, and you need to get it out, that’s all I’m saying.”

  “Or I could work to get this play up and leave her alone. Why would anyone want to deal with all my crap anyway?”

  “Beats me.”

  Grady bumped him with his shoulder and they both laughed. Grady wasn’t going to push, but he loved them both, and this thing they were doing right now was going to hurt one, or more likely, both of them.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Peter woke up in a bad mood. Sleeping in his old house and dealing with his mother was not helping. He needed to find some balance, put some things back into perspective. He spent breakfast talking on the phone with his agent. Alexis would be in Los Angeles for a conference that afternoon and said she would stop by the theater. Peter was feeling a bit more like himself, maybe even a little cocky: Alexis told him his first play had been nominated for a Drama Desk Award. Peter was feeling good. He needed to put this stifling town back where it belonged. He wasn’t that bumbling, lovesick, insecure guy anymore, he thought, as he entered rehearsal.

  Twenty minutes later, Sam ran through the door late and exhausted. She hadn’t been sleeping well since Peter arrived back in town. Managing the summer programs along with Looking In became too much at times. Today seemed one of those times. Her eyes were itchy, and she had that sick, n
ot enough sleep, feeling. Carmen asked for help with the props for the Christmas scene. How could she say no to a pregnant woman?

  Walking in through the lobby, Sam noticed Peter was two or three rows up from the stage talking to a woman with dark hair. He was smiling and kissed her on the cheek. She sat and crossed her very long legs. Even from a distance Sam could tell she was attractive, and the dress she wore was very urban-sophisticate, sexy.

  “Peter, can we look at the scene from yesterday? I’d like you to talk us through your notes. I’m not quite understanding,” Spencer finished his coffee, crumpled the cup, and tossed it in the trash backstage.

  Peter hopped up on the stage with teenage Phillip and Sally. Spencer was standing on the edge of the stage. Sam quietly walked toward them.

  “Sure, okay, in this scene they don’t have . . . it’s not quite right yet,” Peter said.

  “I hear you, but I’m not sure what you’re saying. What’s not right? They’re too . . . comfortable?”

  “Yeah, the audience needs to see that she shines, she’s in her element, and Phillip is the background. He never has the space to grow with her there.”

  Peter wasn’t sure what he was saying. Sometimes it felt like he was working out his actual life experiences through this damn play. He needed to focus on getting the story right.

  “It’s written in the dialogue, but I’m not feeling it in the scene. They’re great friends, but there’s tension. She’s the Queen of Pasadena, and he sometimes feels like her sidekick. Get it?”

  Sam stopped before anyone saw her. She . . . Sally was what? Did he really say the Queen?

  “Peter, I’m sorry I’m not following.”

  “Okay, in this scene Phillip’s teaching Sally. Well, he’s not teaching her, but they’re practicing the waltz. She has a big dance coming up, and Phillip’s helping her. She, she’s always so damn concerned with being correct, accepted, and well, he is helping her feel the music and be herself.”