“What’s the matter?”
“I’m a disaster. A phony.” She pouted, her reddened chin scrunched up.
“I wanted to wish you luck.”
“I need more than luck. I need a miracle.” She threw her hands in the air. “Clowns aren’t allowed at parties.”
“I’m sure you’ll be fine.”
“You know nothing about it.”
“Well, have a good time, Eleanor.”
She hung up without stopping to feel bad about being so rude.
Eleanor had thus far been able to fake her way through all the new experiences. She hadn’t known what to expect from a Broadway rehearsal but stayed cooperative and professional. Theatrical jargon was foreign to her, but Charles was quick to whisper what things like “blocking” and “cheating out” were. When it came down to it, Eleanor felt in her bones that she deserved the chance to be the first person to sing Don’s music. He had chosen her, and she trusted him. If she believed in Don, she had to believe in herself. So nothing in rehearsals would rattle her—she wouldn’t allow it.
Parties were different.
To make herself feel better, twenty minutes earlier she’d begun eating pickles out of a jar. Now she lay on the floor with a stomachache. The doorbell rang. Wrapping a blanket around herself, she poked her head out the window to see who it was. She leaned over the fire escape and saw shiny black hair, a white shirt, expensive shoes.
She ducked inside. Damn. She pulled on a robe and took the stairs barefoot.
“Don,” she said. “What a surprise.”
He clicked his tongue when he saw her feet. “What if you step on a nail?”
A flutter at that.
He followed her up the stairs. Before she opened the door she cursed herself. Dirty dishes filled the sink, and if she remembered correctly she’d hung hand-washed panties over the shower curtain rod.
“Looks exactly like I imagined.” Don examined her records in the living room, stacked against the player, then lowered himself to the couch.
“What are you doing here?”
He rested his arm on the back of her couch. Though Tommy was younger and fitter, Don—one leg crossed wide over the other, exposing dark dress socks over a thick, strong ankle—filled the whole room.
“I thought you might need bucking up.”
“I can’t do this.” She flopped down, the robe opening and exposing freckled flesh before she tugged it closed. He was watching her. Too nervous to reopen the robe, she left her hand there, as if suggesting the option.
“I thought the same thing at my first industry party.”
“You were a student at Juilliard,” she said. “You couldn’t have been unfamiliar.”
“Only two years out of Indiana,” he said. “And I barely knew society there. Most people don’t know I was sickly as a kid.”
“You were?”
“Weak heart. They only let me serve in Japan because I’m good with equations and details and could do paperwork no one wanted to. And growing up in Indiana, I was cooped up. My parents didn’t know what to do with me.”
“That’s terrible.”
“All I did was study and write musicals. By the time I was ten, I’d written three.” He waved off her look of awe. “Garbage. The point is, I had more company inside my own head than with humans. My first industry party was a disaster. I couldn’t speak to anyone, and when they spoke to me, I either laughed or said something rude.”
Like insulting Cole Porter? Was the story he’d told her weeks before nothing but bravado, put on to impress her?
“I thought I was so brilliant that everyone would listen to my opinions,” he said. “But it doesn’t matter how brilliant you are if people don’t like you.” He leaned over so they were almost side by side. “You, Eleanor, are going to be a star. People need to like you.”
She was wearing white cotton underwear and had mascara smudges all over her cheeks. Sitting there, she’d never felt less like a star.
“You are,” Don said, though she hadn’t spoken. “And I’ve written you a great show.”
“Rehearsals are more difficult than I thought they would be.”
“Of course. Making a Broadway show is one of the hardest things there is. But trust me, this is going well. And you, my dear, are doing exactly what you need to do.”
“I don’t feel prepared for any of this. I know how to sing. I don’t know how to be an actress.”
Don placed a hand on her hair. “You’re going to dazzle them.” Her scalp prickled where his fingers landed. “And it’s nearly seven thirty. Put your dress on.”
Eleanor wanted to groan again but didn’t think that would help her appear the mature paragon. If she was going to be a star, she’d need to muster some mystique. She went into her bedroom and closed the door. Her dress was cherry-red taffeta with a full skirt that fell to her knees, sleeveless with a high neck. Youthful, elegant.
She appeared in the living room, shoes in hand.
He stood up to approach her. She felt a flip in the base of her stomach. He brushed her hair from her shoulders. “People always say redheads should avoid red. But you look like a flame.”
She swallowed, unable to respond.
“Pearls are wrong for that,” Don said, his voice returning to business. “We need gold. Nothing on the neck. You have such a pretty neck and arms; let them speak for themselves.”
The compliment floored her. “The costume shop lent me some things,” she said. “In case Harry forgot the pearls.”
Don searched the velvet jewelry bag until he held out two gold circle clip-ons. “These. And a red lip. All the men will imagine kissing you.”
If she were bolder—if she were Rosie back when she was fifteen—she might have asked if he included himself in that group.
“How do you know?”
“I told you in the tailor shop. I’ve been in musical theater my whole life. I know what people like. Unity, dear. As Oscar Hammerstein said, ‘the orchestra should sound the way the costumes look.’” Don took her by the shoulders and turned her toward the bathroom so she could finish her makeup. “We’re a unique breed.”
Taking more care this time, she applied her makeup as he watched from the doorway.
“Careful,” Don said. “Don’t cover that fresh face with paint. Just that is perfect.”
“Hair?” She gathered it in one hand, turning her neck, then let it down.
“Let me. You fix your lips.” He took the comb. Eleanor tried to focus on applying her lipstick. She wanted to glance at him but was afraid of meeting his eyes in the mirror. Don ran the tip of the comb across her scalp above the inside of her right brow, creating a new part. She shivered. Gently, he combed her hair on either side and worked through the tangles until it hung around her shoulders.
“I’ve never seen hair this color,” he said. She felt the warmth of his breath on the top of her head. “So many shades of red and gold.”
She swallowed, hardly breathing. Though he was not touching her with his body, she could feel the heat of him all the way from the nape of her neck to the backs of her thighs. She had only had flirtations with boys. Eleanor wondered what things Don might know about, or have seen, that Tommy had no experience with.
She turned around, short of breath. Don stepped back, a pleasant grin on his face, and gestured for her to exit the bathroom first. It took her a moment to realize he was not going to kiss her.
She was glad she faced away from the mirror; she was probably as red as her dress.
“Are you all right?” he asked, casual as could be.
“I think I’m dizzy,” she said.
“You lock your knees?”
She brushed past him to her bedroom. She found her purse on the bed and dropped the lipstick into it.
“It’s past seven thirty,” she said over h
er shoulder. “I bet the car is outside.”
“You’re probably right,” Don said. She met him at the front door, and he gave her an appraising glance. “You look lovely.”
“Thank you.”
“Now,” he said, offering his arm and opening the door. “The snake pit.”
Chapter Ten
Harry made it clear during rehearsals, at lunches, and even on the sidewalk right before they entered the party that her role in the Broadway production was not a done deal.
“People have to sign off on you,” he said. “Then their people have to sign off. Then their people. Do you understand?”
Eleanor wanted to tell him that she was not an idiot, but he had moved on.
“I like the flat shoes. Good choice.”
“Don’s idea.”
“We’re going to shove you down everyone’s throats until people are talking about you in Scarsdale, Upper Saddle River, Garden City. The bridge-and-tunnel crowd has to like you. But we’ll start with people whose opinions matter: rich Manhattanites.”
Don took her arm and tucked it within his. He touched her chin with his knuckle and raised it up.
* * *
Eleanor was not sure what she’d expected—bite-sized food passed around on silver platters, maybe. Champagne. Expensive clothes. All of those things were present, but something was off. At first she wasn’t sure what was strange. She followed Don and Harry through the crowd as they shook hands with people, Harry businesslike and magnanimous, Don more reserved, made jumpy by the numerous guests. They introduced her to many people, most of them wealthy business owners or theater producers, but a few other creatives. She recognized Meredith Wilson, the composer, talking with a young man near a window. Spotting him, Don touched her arm and excused himself to say hello.
After a moment, Don held out a hand to her, and she crossed the room, feeling chosen. A small crowd had gathered, asking him about the musical.
“My inspiration, right here.” He tucked her hand against his arm and turned her to face the group of men.
“I am so excited for all of you to see the piece,” she said. “I’ve always been a fan of Don’s work, but this is something truly special.”
The crowd continued to ask questions, and Eleanor—though her feet were sweating in her shoes—found more confidence. Don kept his hold on her arm and took her around the room, scarcely speaking. Eleanor felt astonished by her fortune: she, a young woman in a beautiful dress, on the arm of a brilliant man. It wasn’t something she’d thought would ever happen to her. She felt alluring, which in the context of the party felt almost better than talented.
A tall young man with a classically handsome chin approached Don, showing off his dimples. He greeted him by first name. “It’s been ages.”
A smile hung around the corners of Don’s mouth. “I’m sorry, I don’t recall your name.”
“Peter Whitman,” he said. “We met at Lulu Martins’s party out in the Hamptons, two years ago. The one where the daughter ran off with her mother’s arm candy.” He raised a glorious brow. “If I recall, there was a bit of a snafu with the hostess during the fireworks?”
Don kept his face blank.
“Anyway, I’ve been surprised not to see you around more. Those parties are so dull, there’s never anyone to talk to. How’s the new show coming along?” He drank his champagne as if he couldn’t be bothered to hear the answer and was waiting to be asked a favor he could deny.
“We’re in rehearsals now,” Eleanor said. Peter turned to her, his lips pursed with surprise at her contribution. He reached out and tapped one of her earrings.
“You must be the starlet.”
Eleanor felt heat on her neck. “I’m loving the process so far,” she said, keeping her voice even.
Peter turned to Don. “The rumors about your project are rumbling through the audition studios, my friend. People say it’s dead scandalous.”
Don adjusted Eleanor’s arm in his. “Dear Eleanor is about to sing for us,” he said. “If you’ll excuse us, I’m going to get her some water.”
Eleanor followed him through the crowd. When they reached the bar, Don rolled his eyes.
“Did you actually meet him at that party?”
“Who knows?” Don said. “I can’t walk down the street without some young actor auditioning for me.”
Eleanor accepted the champagne. “I suppose that’s what I did, during Charades.”
Don frowned. “You were never so false, my friend.”
“No?”
“I would be naïve if I blamed you for taking advantage of such an opportunity. Young actors have to use every trick they have. The difference is you never pretended to be sophisticated enough to fool me.” He drained his glass. “There are scores of young men and women like him, thinking if they play slick and bawdy I’ll be dazzled into casting them. You, Eleanor, were too green, and too smart, to pretend to be anyone but yourself.”
She wished someone were there to hear what he’d said. “Thank you.”
“I didn’t bring you here for the champagne,” Harry said from behind her.
“Eleanor and I were escaping the hangers-on,” Don said.
“Unavoidable minnows.” Harry took Eleanor’s arm. “Come, come. Get back to work.” She followed him as he stuck out his thumb at her with phrases like “fresh from the country” and “green as a leaf.” When speaking to investors, he sold her with more finesse: “Don and I were floored when we heard her sing for the first time. I’ve never heard a voice like hers. I can’t wait to share her with you.” He sounded so convincing that Eleanor even believed him, until he turned to her and said, “Marketing, toots.”
It wasn’t until Eleanor had a break and accepted a shrimp from a waiter that she realized what was strange about the party. There were hardly any women. Only a few investors had brought dates. Eleanor was the only woman there on business. The men talked in tight circles, trading industry stories and jokes, while the women perched beside them in brightly colored dresses. Eleanor, caught somewhat between, was unsure of herself. Even the waiters were pretty young men, passing napkins with slender hands.
Once the guests had been greased with champagne, Harry directed everyone to a library with a piano. Eleanor was afraid that these men would not like her performance, but a large part of her was eager to show them that Harry and Don were right. She was good. The closer she got to Don’s material, the more she felt their connection. Out of her mouth, his words felt like her own. Even his music felt at home in her voice; she never had to stretch for a note.
“Thank you, everyone, for coming,” Harry said, champagne glass in hand. “As you know, Don and I have been working together for years now.”
Eleanor noticed Don’s stiffness, the way his fingers twitched toward the keys. He wanted to play. She joined him near the piano.
“We’ve had some success,” Harry said with an attempt at modesty that he abandoned halfway through. “But believe me when I say that A Tender Thing is different from everything we’ve done before. Ten years ago I promised Don I’d work on anything he wrote. But even if I hadn’t, I would fight to work on this piece. Don has outdone himself. I’m sinking my teeth into rehearsals. But you’re lucky because tonight you’re going to get a glimpse behind the curtain.”
Harry turned and raised his eyebrows at her. Eleanor smiled, her heart pounding, her fingers tingling. Her mouth was dry; she bit the inside of her cheek to moisten her tongue. Everyone was looking at her.
“You’re in for a treat,” Harry continued. “May I present to you one of my favorite numbers from the show, ‘Morning ’Til Night.’”
Don began to play. The sparse notes of the introduction comforted her with their familiarity.
They had edited the song to skip Luke’s lines. Eleanor allowed Harry’s praise to lift her. She was ready to sing for new people. They expecte
d greatness. She would ascend.
“From morning ’til night / Your face comes to me clear . . .”
At first, she focused her eyes on a painting on the back wall, so she wouldn’t see anyone staring. But the music enveloped her in sensuality, until she was imagining Don’s touch, the way he’d searched for her at the party like he needed her. She sang about holding Luke close; even in the packed room, Don’s simple melody was intimate. The notes seemed to create threads between her and the listeners, drawing her nearer to each one. Though she didn’t look any audience members in the eye, she engaged her body and felt herself grounded to the floor. Her hands rose in an unrehearsed gesture that felt right. The lyrics worked on her until she was as comfortable as Molly was with her lover.
When she finished, the room was quiet. She heard a murmur, then clapping began. A true beam felt like it was emerging from within her, and she looked around the library. People smiled at her, talking among themselves with raised eyebrows. Pride unlike anything she’d felt before, greater even than she’d felt when she was cast, crept up. So this was what it was to have an audience.
Soon after, Harry whisked her through the crowd for more introductions and felicitations. Even Peter Whitman complimented her beautiful voice. She was eventually spat out near the bar, where a black man gave her a glass of champagne.
“Thanks,” she said, accepting it with a sweaty hand. She was still breathless from the performance. She wondered if this man had heard her sing.
He offered her a napkin.
“Do you always work the parties here?”
“No, ma’am,” he said.
She smiled, her fingers fiddling with the glass stem. She thought about the show. Suddenly she felt a desire to connect with this young man, impress her openness onto him. “You know, both of us are misfits here,” she said. “I don’t have any money at all, really. I grew up on a farm. I’ve never been to a party like this.”
Again he didn’t say anything. She finished her champagne and, feeling uncomfortable all of a sudden, handed it back.
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