A Tender Thing

by Emily Neuberger

  The following day, Eleanor hadn’t put down her pocketbook before Harry beckoned her over to him. Charles was already there, changing out of his street shoes.

  “Your meeting scene,” Harry said. “Now.”

  The first kiss. She was unprepared.

  Harry walked her through the scene. “Enter up right, Luke intercepts right of center . . .”

  All Eleanor could think about was the kiss. Charles did not look embarrassed or fazed. She was waiting for someone to hoot or tease them, but it didn’t happen.

  “All right,” Harry said, walking to the front of the room so he could watch. “Now, from the top.”

  While she couldn’t descend into the character, she recognized the emotional beats she needed to hit. She entered, looking around for the street signs. Luke was already onstage watching her. In the production, there would be musical underscoring.

  “You lost, miss?”

  She jumped. “No. I’m meeting a friend.”

  “I’m not trying to frighten you.” He held up his hands, palms out. “I don’t normally see girls like you in this neighborhood. Can I help you call somebody? Walk you someplace?”

  “No, thank—” She looked up. It was a quintessential musical-theater moment; Molly’s eyes locked with Luke’s, and she froze for a long beat.

  She was overcome. “How do I get to the Blue Line?”

  “It’s too late for the train.” Luke stared at her, his expression kind and mixed up with the same puzzled look she had.

  Molly swayed. “Walk me?”

  They “exited” in the rehearsal room, then walked around to where they’d enter again after a scene change.

  Luke did not release her hand. “What’s your name?”

  “Molly. Yours?”

  “Luke.”

  It was time. Harry was assessing her, and out of the corner of her eye, she saw Don watching. Charles was in character, and she felt moved by how good an actor he was. Under his eyes, she felt more beautiful than before. In a feat of intense bravery, she went up on her toes and kissed him. His lips were warm and chapped. That was all the information she could gather before Harry clapped his hands.

  “Scene.”

  Eleanor broke away. She caught Charles’s eye.

  “Nice job,” Charles said, then turned to Harry for notes.

  Her insides felt like they were dancing. She could not stop herself from smiling. It was far more exciting than her first actual kiss.

  Chapter Nine

  The musical flowed from Don like wine from a barrel. During the first weeks of rehearsal, the cast, at first just Eleanor and Charles, swelled to include the other characters: Molly’s parents, Luke’s sister, the ensemble. Every day, the stage manager distributed new pages. Sometimes they were for songs the cast had never seen, other times they were edits on songs they’d just learned. Eleanor spent late nights memorizing the new additions, only to have them wiped away in favor of new material. It was exhausting—and fascinating.

  Don was playing piano for the rehearsal, which was all but unheard of. Usually a hired pianist played rehearsals.

  “Gives me more time to know the music,” he had explained. “Going over and over sections, I’ll see the problems. I want this work to be perfect.”

  Eleanor had always imagined rehearsals to be nuclei of creativity. In fact, they were, but the ideas generated from Harry, Don, and the designers, and the creativity demanded of her and Charles was more specific, a distributary of creators’ visions. She was surprised to find her role as an actress increasingly disappointing. Her job was confined to the material given, her interpretation restricted to the lines and music. She felt silly for being put out by something that was obvious to most everyone. One morning, after they had run a scene no less than fifteen times with differing notes from Harry, Eleanor sat on the floor and rubbed her temples, not hiding her frustration.

  “I thought I’d be allowed more interpretation. Not just act as a vehicle for Harry’s,” she said to Charles.

  “We’re paid to do the material. There’s enough to keep you busy.”

  Eleanor had never thought of it that way, like she was doing a job the same way a schoolteacher might do hers.

  “But what about the story?” she asked. “Do we ever get included in that part?”

  Charles looked at her, confused. “Playing another person is complicated, honorable work. There’s infinite material there, in discovering who they are.”

  Eleanor found that she was less interested in her character, Molly, than she was in the show as a whole: how all the characters fit together, how their actions affected the larger story. Hearing this, Charles shrugged.

  “I don’t know what to tell you. You’re an actor. This is the job.”

  “All right.” Harry clapped his hands for their attention. “Right before you begin ‘With You,’ Molly, Don is changing the line from ‘I feel I’ve always known you’ to ‘When you called for me, I felt a chill, right here. Do you feel?’ And, Luke, take her hands. Got that? Now again from the top.”

  “Yes, sir.” She always soaked up the edits she got, trying to understand why he and Don might have made such choices, deconstructing the musical from the inside. Every decision Don made fascinated her; she watched him whenever she wasn’t in a scene, anxious to learn all she could about the process, the building of a musical. Of course he never confided any of this to her, so she tried to read it all through his decisions.

  Harry’s reputation for cruelty was well earned, and she never would have survived even one rehearsal without Charles. Though she had gone into the show thinking her relationship with Don might protect her, it was Charles who offered her a comforting smile after a harsh adjustment. Don was all business, either correcting her with fastidious care (“Why didn’t you enunciate both T’s in ‘meant to be’? It’s not ‘men to be,’ it’s ‘meant to be’”) or concentrating on the music as if staring long enough at the lines would fix the problems before his eyes.

  During private rehearsals in his apartment, he was more generous with his time. Don loved discussing music, so asking a question about an accent or dynamic marking was a quick way to an actual conversation.

  Once, after going on ten minutes about the dramaturgical significance of composing in the Lydian mode and how it connected the romantic and jazz periods, Don looked embarrassed.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m not used to people who care about this. I’m boring you.”

  He wasn’t. Eleanor had so many questions, and Don was happy to have someone with whom he could deconstruct his work. He put so much thought into every piece that most people would never notice; he was delighted to share these details with her. Their rehearsals often ran late.

  Where Don was technical, Harry was physical. His choreography was central to his directing, even in the nondanced sections. Character, he said, lived in the movement of the body. If she gestured with her elbow the wrong way, he’d stop the scene but refuse to tell her how to do it correctly. “It needs to come from you,” he’d say. “But that? That’s wrong.” She spent breaks crying in the bathroom, though she did this with pride, as if crying in rehearsal meant she was a real actress.

  Harry segregated the cast in order to keep the performers—who had to hate each other onstage—from becoming friendly. He kept the groups separate so they spent long days rehearsing dance numbers and creating relationships with only the people their characters cared for. When Harry complimented one group, the other tried harder. For her part, she and Charles were made to eat lunch together every day. She had nothing to do with the other cast members. They were allowed to speak when rehearsing, but only in lines from the script. Eleanor was privately relieved; she was overwhelmed as it was by keeping up with the social niceties.

  But she couldn’t resist Freddie, the dance captain, who drew her eye every time he moved. At twenty-five
, he already had seven Broadway shows under his belt. He had years of ballet training, and Eleanor had never seen a professional dancer in person before. His body electrified the air around him. Harry’s choreography seemed organic in his body, and Freddie tried things out on breaks, turning, stretching his leg, laughing when he flubbed a landing or did not prep a jump properly. His talents lived in his body, and even among the other dancers, he seemed impossible to ignore. Eleanor didn’t have to dance in this musical and was relieved—she had no idea how, and watching someone as effervescent as Freddie was frightening.

  A month into the process, Freddie was rehearsing a turn sequence. He tightened his stomach in order to get around another time, his back muscles moving under his shirt. Don approached her as she watched.

  “Another kind of genius,” he said.

  “I can’t imagine ever moving that way,” she said.

  Don watched Freddie a moment longer before shaking his head. He reached into his coat pocket and presented her with a 45. “It’s Rodgers’s newest song,” he said. “Are you interested in taking a listen?”

  “Yes, of course, yes!”

  “I’m curious to hear your thoughts on a work in progress.”

  All day she thought of the demo—what would Pat say? Back in Wisconsin, she had dreamed of spending her evenings listening to new music. After rehearsal, she rushed home and put on the record. It was a crackly, muffled sound, and then a thin male voice. With a chill, she realized it was probably Rodgers himself. It took more than one listen before she could hear it as the song would really sound, sung by a woman, with an orchestra. She lay on her back in the middle of her floor listening to the song, then sat up and reset the needle when it ended. She liked the melody, though some of the lyrics were clunky, particularly a rhyme in the bridge. She noted down her observations and returned to rehearsal the following day bursting with thoughts, but Don was busy with Harry.

  When they broke for lunch, Don stayed at the piano, working out a transition between numbers. She lingered beside him, but he didn’t appear to notice, playing the same four measures again and again. Finally, she cleared her throat. When that didn’t work, she spoke. “Don, I loved it.” She handed him the 45. “I’ve always loved Rodgers’s music.”

  He took it from her, looking almost disappointed. “Funny, I thought his earlier work was better. Anyway, enjoy your lunch.”

  She was struck by his dismissal but still thought it a win. After all, he hadn’t asked anyone else to listen to the record.

  Almost suddenly, they had six weeks before A Tender Thing moved to Boston. Apparently most other shows were put together with far less rehearsal, but Harry thought art was built slowly. He referred to the show as a piece of clay. It took him a long time to choreograph and he was not above making the cast work eight hours on something that he’d abandon the next day.

  “Again,” Harry said, the first cold day of the year. Eleanor was tired, her feet hurt, it was five o’clock, and she wanted to get out of the rehearsal studio. It was the first day she was unhappy to be there.

  “Come on, lady,” Charles said. “You’ve got one more in you.”

  She disagreed.

  “You’ll be mad at yourself if you let yourself quit now.”

  She leaned against him. After their day at the Met, she had become more comfortable with Charles, a mixture of their daily proximity and his kindness. Kissing and touching someone every day in rehearsal had a way of breaking down boundaries. He held her by the scruff of her neck and gave her a shake. “You’re a professional now. Come on.”

  “I hope you aren’t complaining,” Harry said from the far end of the studio, where he was studying his notes. “One minute and we’re going again.”

  Eleanor restrained a groan.

  “Everyone’s replaceable,” Harry said. “Especially you, Eleanor.” He looked up, making sure she’d heard him.

  Harry’s words made her hate him enough that she wanted to show what she was made of. The scene was from act one, right when they met. Luke was still terrified of being caught, afraid that Molly couldn’t possibly love him.

  “And now, with you / I waited so long for you / But here you are, and I’ve no words to say.” Soon, Charles joined in. Molly put her hands on Luke’s cheeks, feeling the roughness there. When she was singing, her mind moved slower. She felt instead of thought. After the last note, she rose on her toes to give him a long, slow kiss. It was stiff, coming in the right place with none of the passion.

  “Good enough,” Harry said.

  Eleanor had never been happier to hear that.

  * * *

  After that difficult rehearsal, Eleanor was nervous to attend her next one-on-one with Don. He let her into his apartment and offered her a piece of lettuce.

  “For Sullivan.”

  She felt childish that he’d noticed how much she liked the turtle. “Thank you.”

  “You seemed down yesterday.”

  “It won’t happen again.”

  Don nodded at the couch. So far, their rehearsals had been confined to the music studio. She sat.

  “How do you think the show is going?” he asked.

  Wondering if he meant her part, she was unsure how to reply.

  “I’m having trouble with act two,” he said. “I think the picnic scene is running long.”

  Molly and Luke were barely in the picnic number; realizing that he was asking her for her opinion, not critiquing her performance, Eleanor considered her words.

  “I think it will be different once Harry finishes the choreography,” she said. “But I agree. The audience will be wondering about Molly and Luke running away and might grow restless during a long dance number.”

  “Hmmm, I think I’ll cut two verses.” Don rubbed his chin. “You have good instincts.”

  Her tongue was dry. “Thank you.”

  Don nodded at the script in her hand. “Everyone has bad days. I didn’t write at all yesterday. Tried for hours, nothing happened.”

  He met her eyes, without the careful deliberation he usually mustered up before doing so. Don covered her hand with his. She felt his touch all the way up her arm. “I have faith in you.”

  His touch and words rendered her speechless. He took his hand away and brought her to the studio. The rehearsal that followed was far better than the previous ones, distracted as she was by the memory of his hand on hers.

  * * *

  On a Friday in November, Eleanor was to accompany Harry and Don to a party where she would sing a cut from “Morning ’Til Night” and promote the show for investors.

  “You’re new meat,” Harry said over a lunch meeting. She’d ordered a burger, and he waved at the waiter, correcting it to soup and a salad. “The audiences might be excited for a novice, but the producers will hate the idea unless they think they’ve picked you themselves.”

  By now, Eleanor was getting more comfortable performing in the context of the show, but she was nervous to sing in a rich New Yorker’s apartment. She glanced at Don, who was picking his way through a salad. He never ate anything that wasn’t lean chicken or vegetables.

  “You’ll be fine,” Don said. “You know how many hits Harry and I have between us?”

  “Six,” she said.

  “Correct. So we know better.”

  “Is Charles coming?”

  Harry gave her a look. “It’s not that kind of party.”

  When they finished their meal, Don hailed her a cab.

  “Head to the costume shop,” he said. “I laid out some dresses. The girls there will alter them for you.”

  Eleanor imagined Don pulling dresses off the rack and envisioning them on her body. A warm flutter went through her.

  “You have pearls?” Harry asked. “Pearls are good for young women. I’ll bring some of my wife’s.”

  Harry had a wife? Eleanor h
ad noticed the way Harry chatted with the chorus boys, correcting their posture with open, slow hands on their backs and complimenting them like a prince distributing flowers to girls at a ball.

  “You’ll look beautiful,” Don said. “I have good taste, remember?” He raised his eyebrows, smiling, and she recalled his knowledge at Mr. Rabinowitz’s shop. She was thrilled that he also remembered that day.

  “A car will pick you up at seven thirty,” Harry said. “See you there.”

  As she sank into the seat of the cab, Eleanor’s fear must have shown on her face, because Don reached over and grasped her hand quickly before leaning out to shut the door. She felt it all through the ride to the costume shop.

  * * *

  At seven fifteen, Eleanor sat on the floor in her underwear in front of the mirror. She threw a pillow at her reflection. She’d tried several different lip colors and wiped them off until her lips looked twice their normal size. With a charcoal pencil, she’d attempted a flared cat’s eye and ended up looking like she’d been punched. Who was she kidding? She wasn’t cut out for the circus, let alone a Broadway musical. Rolling onto her belly, Eleanor knocked her forehead against the floor. This was going to be a disaster.

  The phone rang. She ignored it, but it rang again. She groaned loudly before rising to pick it up. “What?”

  “Heya, Eleanor.”

  “Tommy, I don’t have time for any chitchat.” She propped her hip against the kitchen counter. There were entire days when she did not think about Tommy. Since their time at the beach, his presence made her uneasy. Tommy was great fun—after the lobsters, he’d once brought a handle of rum from a navy trip to Cuba—but while he never complained about her rehearsal schedule, she sensed his exasperation. She often let the phone ring in case it was him and spent her free time studying lines. Moreover, Tommy’s companionship did little to fill the void of Rosie’s, which she missed more than she’d thought possible. “I’m having a crisis, Tommy.”