20. Donovan
TWENTY
DONOVAN
After getting all sweaty playing with Cleo outside in the rapidly climbing heat, I drink about a gallon of coffee and demolish the breakfast tacos that a newly squeaky-clean Beck somehow whips up in five minutes. I really love his breakfast tacos.
“So, what’s on your agenda for this beautifully humid Sunday?” I ask while I’m loading the dishwasher. Part of me wouldn’t mind spending the day in bed, since Beck is right here and we have both privacy and a plethora of beds to choose from. Even after scratching my much-delayed itch last night, I’m nowhere near feeling satisfied.
But I know him well enough by now to expect that a lazy Sunday in bed is not Beck’s style.
“I was going to head to the farmer’s market and get us some fresh produce for the week and see if maybe I can talk to Stacy.”
“Stacy?” Is this another member of the Rosedale chapter of the Beck Avery fan club?
“The baker who supplies Hot Brew.”
“Ah. Scoping out your competition?” I’m impressed, if a little baffled, by the way Beck’s taken to the idea of opening his own bakery twenty-four hours after latching onto the idea in the first place.
“Something like that. Maybe she and I could collaborate instead of compete. Anyway, want to come with?”
“Sure. We could grab some lunch out.”
“Sold.”
I go up to my room to get my baseball cap and my wallet and my eyes land on my notebook. I have been doing a champion job of avoiding my play most of the week, but Beck’s newfound goals are an inspiration, so I take my notebook and pen along. Maybe I can find a place to sit and write a little while Beck’s making friends with Stacy.
By unspoken agreement, Beck drives downtown. It takes a few minutes to find a parking space since some of the street is blocked off to traffic for the market. He grabs his reusable bags, and we do a circuit of the fifteen or so booths to check out what’s on offer. It’s a typical small-town market, but a nice one. There’s a local honey purveyor, a table full of jams and jellies, the obligatory fresh produce, even raw milk and cheese.
When we get to the baked goods, Beck pounces on the round, sixty-something woman behind a table piled high with breads, rolls, pies and muffins. “You must be Stacy,” he cries. I can tell he has to hold himself back from hugging the stranger.
“That’s me,” she says pleasantly, inclining her head of gray-streaked black curls.
“I’ve heard so much about you and I’m so excited to meet you,” he says. “I’m Beck Avery. I think you know my cousin Jack and his husband Pete.”
“I do know those handsome boys. Nice to meet you, Beck.”
Beck launches into a jumbled monologue about loving her stuff and not wanting to step on toes, but he’s thinking about opening up some kind of a bakery on Main Street. “Can I buy you lunch one day this week?” he finishes, a little out of breath.
“Oh, you young people and your energy.” She laughs and exchanges an amused glance with me.
“Beck is very energetic,” I agree, smiling. “And his cookies are incredible.”
“Cookies?” Her ears perk up at the word. “You know, cookies are not my speciality. But I hear cookie shops are very popular.”
“Me too! What’s your favorite kind of cookie?”
I excuse myself quietly to let them bond over baked goods and find a nearby bench to sprawl on. I’m mostly in the shade, but my feet are in the sun. I don’t have anywhere particular to be—lunch with Beck is the only thing on my agenda. I haven’t felt this relaxed in ages.
For all my complaining about the lack of excitement in small towns, there’s something profoundly calming about Rosedale, about the friendly people and their quiet acceptance. I don’t feel like I have to prove myself here, a contrast to striving hard for twelve years in the city. Here I can just…be. And being here with Beck is exciting in its own way—his plans and, yes, his energy, can’t help but rub off on me. And the fact that we’re letting ourselves enjoy each other in other ways adds a little frisson to everything. I’m almost positive I can convince him to take a dip in the pool after lunch. Hopefully naked.
I quickly get out my notebook to keep that train of thought from running away with me. I look at the last thing I wrote—“Julian doesn’t want to fall.” Julian is the protagonist of the play, such as it is. I have four scenes drafted and a sketchy outline. I owe my agent an update but keep responding to her handful of check-in texts and calls with vague replies. Joan wanted to see a complete draft by mid-July, but that’s barely two weeks away; a literal miracle would have to happen to make that deadline.
But for the first time since I got to Rosedale, I don’t not want to work on it, if that makes any sense. I remember what intrigued me about my original idea in the first place—Julian has achieved some level of professional accomplishment and now he’s wondering what’s next. With his whole life stretching out in front of him, does he choose the traditional markers of success—partner, family, home, career—or does he take a different path?
I jot some notes. Maybe he runs into an old friend. They catch up, and the friend seethes with barely repressed jealousy over Julian’s rather public success. Then?—
Then, what?
I look up and bite the end of my pen. Beck’s still talking to Stacy. A guitarist in a peasant dress is setting up a few feet away with a portable mic and a shade umbrella. A woman in cutoffs and a tie-dyed shirt is helping her, but when she sees me watching she stops, says something to the guitarist, then walks over to me.
“Hi, you’re Donovan Eastman, right?” She has a low, confident voice.
I get recognized from time to time in the city, but not very often. I definitely didn’t expect it here. “Yes.”
“I saw you in Plum Island . I loved your performance.”
“Thank you.” It’s always nice to hear someone enjoyed your work.
“It was really moving,” she says, pushing a hank of long honey-colored hair behind her multi-pierced ear. “In fact, I saw it twice. I teach drama classes at the Rosedale Art Center and I organized a field trip for some of my students to go see it.”
I dredge up Pete’s mention of the local theater program. “Are you putting on the Shakespeare play this summer?”
She beams. “I am. You don’t live in Rosedale, do you? We get a lot of weekenders, but I feel like I would have heard you were in town. I’m Dulcie Martin.”
“I’m Van,” I say, a bit redundantly, “and I’m just here for the summer. Staying with friends.” It’s an easier explanation than the real situation.
“Oh wow, that’s awesome. I don’t suppose I could persuade you to come give a little talk to the students in my summer session?”
The suggestion takes me aback. “What would I talk about?”
“Oh, your experiences in New York theater, maybe give them some insight into what life as an actor is like. Some of them have aspirations, and hearing from someone who’s been there would be so valuable. I totally understand if it’s not something you’re interested in, though. You’re probably really busy.”
She’s giving me a gracious out, but I already know I’ll say yes. If nothing else, it would make Pete happy for me to do something for the place where he teaches drawing classes off and on.
And Beck would probably encourage me to do it, too.
“Sure, why not?” I say. “When does your class meet?”
We exchange numbers and plan for me to show up at the Art Center a week from Wednesday.
“So, I know the worst possible question I can ask is what you’re doing next,” Dulcie says with a wrinkled nose, “but I need to know what shows to start saving up for. Tickets can get pricey.”
I laugh lightly. “No shows yet. I’m—” I hesitate, then plunge forward “—I’m writing a play. We’ll see what happens with it.”
“Hell yeah, that’s so cool,” she says, rocking back on the heels of her Birkenstocks. “I’m so glad I ran into you. Wait. The friend you’re staying with—that wouldn’t be Pete Blekitny, would it?”
Internally, I shake my head at the inevitability of small-town connections. “That’s right. He’s on his honeymoon, so I’m taking care of the dog.”
“Now I remember him mentioning he knew you. He is the absolute best,” she says.
“He absolutely is.”
“Who’s absolutely the best?” Beck asks, walking up to Dulcie and me and giving her a curious smile.
“Pete,” I say.
“Oh, absolutely,” Beck agrees without missing a beat.
I make introductions. “Beck, this is Dulcie. She teaches drama at the Art Center.”
“I’m imposing on Van’s generosity to get him to come talk to my class,” she says.
“I support that one hundred percent,” Beck says.
I glance at him and smirk. “I thought you would.”
Dulcie’s gaze flicks between Beck and me and she gives us a speculative look but doesn’t say anything. “Well, I’ll let you two enjoy the market. See you soon, Van. And thanks again, really.” She sways back to the guitarist, who’s playing “Brown Eyed Girl.”
“She seems nice. And look at you—doing something for the community.”
“You are way too excited about this,” I grumble, but only performatively. She does seem nice, and how bad could it be to dredge up some of my horror stories from the Broadway trenches? “What about you? I trust Stacy is your new best friend.”
“We have a lunch date for later in the week.” He raises two bags filled with bread and other baked goods. “I might have gone a little overboard on the carbs.”
I groan. “Remind me to double my workouts.”
He pats my stomach and shakes his head sadly. “Yeah, you’re really going to seed.”
“Shut up,” I say, laughing despite myself. “We don’t all have your youthful metabolism.”
“I know how we can get some more exercise,” he says, waggling his eyebrows.
“Oh, yeah?” Now we’re talking. “Tell me more.”
“Well, after dinner we can…take Cleo on a really long walk.”
A joke that weak deserves a response like sticking my tongue out at him, so that’s what I do.
He giggles. “Okay, okay. Why don’t we go for a swim later? I’ll let you put my sunscreen on,” he adds in a breathy voice.
“Better.”
Later, we do swim, but only after I’ve touched every inch of Beck’s body and made him come with my hands, then emptied myself into his mouth. We lazily swim some laps, then end up having another epic splash fight, Cleo cheering us on with her excited barks from the side of the pool.
We eat dinner on the patio—vegetables and sausages we picked up at the farmer’s market, with Stacy’s crusty dinner rolls rounding out the meal.
Beck tells me he’s going to work on a business plan this week, and I promise myself I’ll devote at least a couple of hours each day to my play.
When he starts yawning as he puts some of Stacy’s breads in the freezer, I tell him to turn in. I know he didn’t get enough sleep last night, and I’m tired, too.
“All right,” he says, standing up straight and stretching his arms over his head. There’s a suspended moment where I wonder if I should ask him to sleep upstairs with me, which is a wild thought. I rarely share a bed with someone, and it’s not like me to want to. He looks like he wants to say something, too, but he just drops his arms to his sides. “Good night, then.”
He disappears into his room and it’s not until I’m upstairs getting ready to go to sleep in my bed alone that I wonder if what he wanted was a goodnight kiss.