A Tender Thing

by Emily Neuberger

  Then Luke entered. She let him work on her, and it wasn’t hard; he was so handsome. Molly wanted him to want her, felt her power as a woman crackling like fire. They moved easily into “With You,” their fingers interlacing, his hands warm on her waist. But when he moved to kiss her, her walls went up. She felt everyone watching. She was stiff. She missed a beat and flicked her eyes over to Don on the piano. Catching herself, she didn’t think, and sang, “My love, with you / Forever now, with you / For every night and every day.”

  When they got to the end of the first act, when Molly and Luke plan to run away together, she was in tears. Kneeling, she clasped him around the neck and sang “Morning ’Til Night.” Don had expertly blended blues and jazz with classical music, brassiness cutting through the sweetness of the melody. It was dark, a love song filled with sorrow, with the desperation of desire. She sang with everything in her, thinking of the party with Don, how badly she had wanted his kiss when they sat close at the piano. She clutched Charles, sang her heart out.

  When they finished, the cast applauded.

  It took her a moment. The world came back to her like it was being poured in through the top of her head. She sat back on her heels and caught her breath. Charles looked over at her and smiled. They’d done well, and he knew it.

  “Nice job, everyone,” Harry said.

  “An hour for lunch,” the stage manager said. “Meet here at one thirty.”

  She and Charles had no energy to go out, so they sat in the stairwell sipping water. For a long time they were quiet, tired from the run-through, hungry. But they were satisfied and excited. Eleanor asked if Gwen would be joining them in Boston.

  “Yes,” he said, smiling. “We have news.”

  From his expression, Eleanor could guess what it was.

  “I’m going to be a father,” he said. “In May.”

  “Oh, Charles, that’s wonderful!”

  “Thank you,” he said, the smile still in his eyes. “We’ve been trying for a while.”

  “God’s will, my mama says,” Eleanor said, though she wasn’t sure why. It wasn’t what she believed. “I hope your baby inherits your voice.”

  “Gwen’s a singer, too, you know,” Charles said. “That’s how I met her—we sang in the same club. I thought she was the prettiest thing I’d ever seen, with a rough hoot of a voice.”

  “Does she want to be on Broadway?”

  Charles shrugged. “She’s not as comfortable, down here.”

  Eleanor wasn’t entirely sure what “down here” meant, but she was sure it had something to do with white people. “But you are.”

  He shrugged. “It’s my job.”

  “You really seem to love it.”

  “I do,” he said, but his voice was quiet. “But I like to keep it in perspective. Family first.”

  “But you must love the theater, too. You’ve been so successful so far. But it’s just a paycheck to you?” Thinking about a real career in theater made her heart race—she imagined being at the center of musicals for a decade. Even if acting wasn’t what she imagined it to be, she’d endure it for the chance to work on new material.

  “Sure I love it. But I can’t afford to give everything to this business. I have to take care of myself. I’m not going to give everything to a bunch of fellas who wouldn’t stand my friend if the tides turned, you know?”

  A wave of loyalty for Don rose up. “Do you mean Don? He adores you.”

  “He doesn’t know me. He adores my talent. He thinks I’m handsome,” Charles said. “And I never trust a man who can’t meet my eyes.”

  Eleanor looked away, her whole body hot, whether from fury or fear she wasn’t sure. She wanted to argue, but she realized he was right. Don didn’t look anyone in the eye. But she felt that it didn’t come from shiftiness or conceit; Don was sensitive, uncomfortable. “He’s shy. You know that. He’s a genius.”

  “I didn’t say he wasn’t. And I’ll defend his work to the grave. This show is special. All I’m saying’s I’m not going to trust him. The man isn’t totally honest. Do you understand?”

  She assented like it was a question on a test she wanted to get right. But she didn’t believe it. Every criticism of Don felt wrong; he was odd, but she didn’t find him suspicious. Charles’s warnings assured her that Don was misunderstood.

  Charles didn’t press the point, and reached over and patted her knee. “Boston will be tougher than New York,” he said. “For me.”

  It wasn’t fair to be upset, Eleanor realized, not if she cared about him. He was the one shouldering the burden.

  “I’ll have to be careful. I’ll have a child to take care of.”

  In truth, Eleanor was afraid of the audiences, too. This show felt as exposing as if she’d been asked to take off all her clothing onstage. But she also knew it was different for Charles; by kissing him, Eleanor was stepping away from the safety of the crowd. Charles was venturing into a mob of enemies.

  “The audience won’t be happy.”

  He looked in her eyes; though they did this often onstage, she felt bare this time and had to look away. “I’m not worried about the audience,” he said. “I’m worried about some nut job taking a swing at me outside the stage door. I’m worried about someone following me home. Following Gwen.”

  “You can’t live your life afraid of some freak occurrence,” Eleanor said.

  “Freak? Eleanor, I’m a black man, kissing you, a white woman, in front of hundreds of people. At least one of them is going to have enough of a problem with it to want to punish me.”

  She twisted her skirt in her hands. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

  “I’m just saying, I have to be careful.” He stood up. “But then again, I’ve never seen anything like this show before. What if it changes someone’s mind? What if someone sees it and thinks differently? What could that mean for my son?”

  “You’re brave, for doing this,” she said.

  He looked at her. “This show is important to me,” he said. “But it’s not nothing, being in it.”

  * * *

  When Tommy came by the apartment, Rosie kept busy, poking her head out of the bedroom to say hello.

  “Nice to see you again,” Tommy said, then to Eleanor, “How long is she staying?”

  “As long as she wants.”

  Tommy’s annoyance clung to him even as they descended her stairs into the night.

  He rubbed his hands together. “It’s colder than a well digger’s ass.”

  She couldn’t help it; she laughed. But when he touched her, she walked forward, a step ahead of him. She couldn’t look in his eyes, didn’t want him so close.

  “Something my dad says. Hey, you never let me know about Thanksgiving. It’s this week, you know.”

  Eleanor kicked a piece of ice on the sidewalk. “Things are different now that Rosie’s back.”

  “Rosie’s welcome.”

  “I think it might be nice for the two of us to spend the holiday together.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “My family would miss me.”

  “I meant Rosie and me.”

  Tommy looked away. She could tell by the set of his shoulders that she’d troubled him. Suddenly, his presence was too much; she had to tell him she was going away to Boston soon but was not up to the task that night. It had been an exhausting day.

  “You know, Tommy, I’m sorry. I’m really not feeling well.”

  He turned back. “Hey now. I came all this way from Brooklyn.”

  “It’s not you,” she said. “It’s a headache. Long day.”

  The set of his mouth was taut, but then he took a breath and the tension went away. “Let me walk you back.”

  She nodded, tamping down her relief. “I’m sorry about Thanksgiving.”

  “That’s all right. I know you want to be with your friend.”


  “Tell your mama thanks.”

  “I will.” They reached her door. He took her in his arms. “Hey, we’re all right, aren’t we? I know things went pretty fast the other night.”

  Oh goodness. This conversation might be even worse than the one about Boston. “Tommy, we don’t have to talk about this.”

  “I want to make sure everything’s swell between us, Eleanor. I know it’s a lot for girls. You know what I mean. I didn’t think about that. I was so excited.”

  “Tommy, I promise I’m fine. I’m not rattled.” Suddenly she thought of his apologizing to Jeff in the bar. “Tommy, I need to go inside.”

  “Look here, Eleanor . . . I haven’t been going out with anyone else. I’m not good at this. Do you know what I’m trying to say?”

  She turned and looked through the glass door at the mailboxes beyond. She’d never added her name to the front slot. Suddenly she felt a powerful urge to do so, as if her presence in the building would not be official until her name was inscribed there.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “But I told you I had a headache. I don’t want to talk about this.”

  “Jeez, Eleanor. What’s a guy have to do? I’m standing here freezing trying to tell you I want to go steady. I like you. I think you’re super.”

  The longer Tommy looked at her, the more sure Eleanor was that she did not want this. She remembered the heat of Don’s body as he brushed her hair. Was that love? Was that what it meant? Her most passionate moments with Tommy evoked only the barest stir of the heat that, in Don’s presence, overwhelmed her. Standing there looking at Tommy, she was hit with the knowledge that she had fallen in love with Don. She’d come to New York halfway there. It was natural. It made sense. This realization felt like something clicking into place.

  When she didn’t respond, Tommy blushed, looking more Irish than ever. “You know what I mean. I’m not good with words. Tell me you understand.”

  “Tommy, going steady won’t change the fact that I still can’t take that risk.”

  He looked hurt. “Eleanor—who do you think I am? I like you.”

  She tugged her hand away so he wouldn’t feel her sweaty palm.

  He looked at her for a long time before he shook his head. “You’re right. You aren’t feeling well. We can talk later. Friday night?”

  “Sure.”

  He leaned down and kissed her. Upstairs, Rosie was listening to music on the radio, stirring a pot of homemade soup.

  “Oh no,” she said. “Back already?”

  She thought of Tommy outside, his shoulders hunched against the cold as he walked to the subway. “I don’t want to talk about it. I’m fine. In fact, I’m marvelous.”

  Rosie looked doubtful. She offered Eleanor the wooden spoon. “Taste?”

  “Rosie, it’s just going to be you and me on Thursday. Can you make a turkey?”

  “What happened?” Rosie asked.

  But Eleanor did not want to talk about Tommy anymore. “Can I tell you something? It’s about Don.”

  Rosie looked at her with trepidation. A roll went through Eleanor; she needed to seize the attention, needed to see the momentousness of her feelings reflected in Rosie’s reaction.

  “Rosie, I’m in love with him.”

  Rosie dropped the spoon into the soup. “Eleanor. He’s . . . how old is he?”

  “What does that matter?”

  “Don’t be silly. You’ve heard the same stories as I have. A young actress, a director.”

  “He’s a composer.”

  “Eleanor.”

  Rosie’s suspicion was infuriating. Eleanor thought of all the ridiculous double dates she’d gone on, how many pieces of advice she’d doled out regarding dippy farm boys. Here she was, a Broadway actress with feelings for a real man, and Rosie was pretending she knew better.

  “It isn’t like that. He likes me. We talk, after rehearsals sometimes. He tells me about his work, his process.”

  She thought about how close they were growing, circling each other. Don was afraid of his feelings, but Eleanor understood him. That arm around her, at the piano.

  Rosie stared. “Eleanor, do you know what you’re doing?”

  Eleanor spun around the kitchen. “Does anyone, when they’re in love? Rosie, he’s the most incredible man I’ve ever known. He’s going to fall in love with me. Just give me a few weeks.”

  Chapter Twelve

  After Thanksgiving, rehearsals went on hiatus until they met up in Boston. Charles and Eleanor were the exception; Harry scheduled them private rehearsals in Don’s apartment. These excited Eleanor, though she had hardly any alone time with Don. By the time they finished rehearsal, Harry had a list of things to go over with Don, so he stayed behind. No more intimate dinners. No more demo records. A few times, Don called her over on breaks to go over a bit in the score and would watch her so closely she could feel the blood rising in her neck. Boston would come soon, and Eleanor nearly trembled at the thought of so much time together.

  When she arrived home, Rosie usually had dinner waiting. She knew all sorts of things, like how to get stains out of clothes or when to substitute canned tomatoes for fresh. When Eleanor tried to help, she got her hand slapped. So she’d come home, accept a glass of wine, and tell Rosie about her day, and Don. Rosie often had a knotted-up look on her face that Eleanor started to despise.

  “I suggested a rhyme,” Eleanor said one night in December. “He couldn’t find the right ending to a phrase and I thought of it.”

  “Eleanor, that’s fantastic.”

  “It’s going in the show. At least for now—things change so fast. He said I have wonderful instincts.”

  “I’m sure you do—no one knows musicals like you.”

  “Don does.”

  Rosie’s smile became stiff.

  “He’s written me beautiful, passionate music.” Eleanor knew she was talking about him too much. “I think I inspire him.”

  “Does Tommy know that?”

  Eleanor looked up. “You’re supposed to be on my side.” She picked up her wine and went to her room to review lines before dinner.

  One rehearsal near Christmas ran long. Everyone said she and Charles had chemistry, but Eleanor was still somewhat uncomfortable touching him, and it showed. This rehearsal was dedicated to, as Harry said, “beating that out of” them. Eleanor planned to meet Tommy after, and she would finally have to tell him that she was going to Boston. She’d managed to go two and a half weeks without being alone with him long enough to broach the topic. They met for quick dinners and walks in the park. Tommy attributed her flightiness to the pressures of the show. He was quick to criticize Harry’s long hours, which she rebuffed without much passion; it was a good excuse, if untrue. But she would need to tell Tommy the truth that night. So despite how tired she was, she did not want rehearsal to end.

  “I’m going to stand here and watch the two of you kiss until New Year’s, if that’s what it takes,” Harry said. “Charles, you’ve got a wife. Don’t you know how to grab a woman?”

  Charles did not reply, merely turned to Eleanor and gave her a smile that showcased both his weariness and his commitment to continuing. “Nothing to worry about, Eleanor,” he said.

  So frustrated that she blinked back tears, she gripped his hands and spoke more to herself than to him. “That’s right. We’re friends.”

  “No, you’re lovers, and this is the most passionate moment of your lives.” Harry slammed his hand on the piano. Don flinched. “I am sick of hearing you talk like you’re Charles and Eleanor. You’re not some attention-starved actors from New York. This is about passion and true love. This is about people brave enough to shirk the binds of society in favor of love. No one would watch a show about you. You’re a bloated, virgin, desperate actor. Not even Don could make that interesting.”

  Eleanor didn’t d
are look at Charles, but she was holding his hand and felt it stiffen.

  Don was looking at the music. She half expected him to say something. But he stayed quiet. He was focused on what was important: the show.

  Harry approached her, getting close to her face. “Are you going to cry, girl?”

  If she replied, her voice would crack.

  “If something like that makes you cry, I shudder to imagine your reaction when the New York Times rips you a new one for trotting out this shit opening night.” He sniffed. “Not that I’d let you get that far.”

  Harry turned away and waved his hand in the air. “Again.”

  She was almost unable to continue, but she’d rather have died than display such weakness. One day Harry might like her, another he’d think she was garbage, and there was no way to predict it. She couldn’t rely on Harry. She couldn’t even rely on Don, who would never interrupt a rehearsal for something as trifling as words of encouragement. She had to learn to know when she was good. She straightened her shoulders and focused.

  “Luke,” she whispered. “What are you doing here?”

  “I had to see you.”

  “If my brothers see us, they’ll kill you.”

  Charles lunged forward and clasped her arms. “I don’t care, Molly.”

  She liked Charles, but somehow his closeness still chafed at her, so she was always aware of her body, dreading his touch. It translated to stiffness. If she kept that up, she’d be fired.

  She imagined her mother watching her kiss Charles. She would look away. Her father would cry. Rosie would watch, wide-eyed, entranced that her best friend could kiss a Negro.

  Tommy would be jealous. Harry would be proud, if she did it right. What did Don think? What would Eleanor think, watching herself? Even now, after so many times, she could not believe she did it.

  But Charles wasn’t some stranger; he was her friend, whose face was now as familiar as Tommy’s. More so, after all those rehearsals looking into it. Furthermore, Harry was right. This wasn’t Charles but Luke, who stirred the inside of Molly enough that she was willing to run off and marry him, leaving her whole family and making a new one. Eleanor understood this kind of sacrifice; she had made it herself.