Chapter Twenty-Five
Twenty-Five
According to Indy and Molly, a successful outdoor concert is pretty rare even at a major festival like Dreamland—not enough access to drinks coupled with lack of shade or other inclement weather, plus poor projection visibility in the daylight, means you can quickly find yourself singing to an audience of bored, sunburned, sober people.
But this festival’s audience was as joyous as we were—Conor ripped an incredible solo mere inches from the VIP section and Tom and I jumped around to the rising bridge of “If Not for My Baby” with more playful energy than we’ve shared in our duet yet.
As we weave through the park toward our army of Escalades, overzealous fans in floral festival wear descend on Tom like ants on syrup.
The security keeps them mostly at bay, but we are still ushered along as if they might fail in holding the herd back any minute now.
Hell hath no fury like a teenage girl in a flower crown who doesn’t get a selfie with Tom Halloran.
To his credit, Tom smiles graciously at every single face.
He accepts every friendship bracelet and piece of handmade art.
Jokes with the nervous fans until they’re comfortable.
Presses his hands to his heart in genuine appreciation for those who can’t help but weep.
The love these people have for him…it’s powerful.
His music has affected each of them in ways that might last a lifetime.
His poignant love songs, somebody’s first dance at their wedding.
His ruthless ballads, the therapy to someone’s suffering.
I scan the teary faces, the handcrafted signs, the camera flashes—and my heart swells.
“Clementine,” Indy calls to me over the ruckus. “I want you to meet someone.”
My eyes follow Tom as he slides his baseball cap over his head and waves once more to the fans before climbing into his car.
Indy and I traverse the park and the sound of wailing fans dissipates.
The sun hangs low in the sky, tuckered out and ready for sleep.
That gentle summer breeze hasn’t left the trees, and the memory of our sunny, private morning shines over me.
The memory of how good it felt to gorge myself on more than just a meager slice of him.
“Jacob!” Indy speed-walks toward a Black man with a dimpled smile and thin-rimmed glasses. He stands tall in a loosely buttoned shirt and blue jeans near the back entrance of SummerStage. He’s got a VIP festival badge around his neck and is texting someone feverishly when we reach him.
“Sorry, one sec,” he says , lip held between his teeth in stress. “Putting out six different fires today.”
So this is the famous ex-boyfriend. He kind of reminds me of Jen, but in a less Machiavellian way.
Indy taps her foot until Jacob puts his phone away with a sigh and scoops her into a warm hug. “All done. Nice work, you guys. He’s something else. Best set I saw today.”
“Clementine, meet Jacob,” Indy says. “He’s an old friend of mine from NYU who produces shows here in the city.”
My eyes bulge. “Shows like Broadway shows?”
“Yeah. You were something else, too,” Jacob says. “I listen to sopranos try to hit the notes you nailed all day long. Try being the operative word.”
“Thank you so much.”
“You act, too, don’t you?”
A light turns on behind Indy’s eyes and she shines it at me until I say, “I used to. What gave me away?”
“You and Halloran seemed seriously in love up there. That’s a smart way to sell albums.”
Any blood that had been circulating through my face has drained into my shoes. I’m sure I look morbidly pale.
“Clementine is a musical theater nerd. She can sing, dance, act. She was Annie in Funny Girl back in high school.”
I cringe at the same time Jacob kindly corrects her. “You mean Fanny . ”
“ Fanny Girl ?”
Jacob just looks at her like she is the cutest thing he’s ever seen.
“The role in Funny Girl is Fanny Brice,” I explain.
“You were Annie , too, though, right? Like the orphan?”
“Yeah. And in Annie Get Your Gun .”
Jacob studies me. “That’s a lot of leading roles, and not an insignificant range. Were these touring shows?”
“Oh, no.” There’s something soul-sucking about correcting him. “This was back in my high school theater program. Amateur stuff.”
Indy isn’t a fan of sarcasm, but she still tries. “Clementine is excellent at selling herself.”
“Evidently.” Jacob half grins and Indy bats her big lashes in his direction. I’m debating slinking into the bushes to give them some privacy, when he says to me, “Well, you’d have to be a decent dancer, too, to perform nightly at the Richard Rodgers.”
The Richard Rodgers—the 1920s theater you picture when you imagine an awning dotted in little yellow lights, red velvet chairs, and decadent, gothic architecture. The birthplace of both In the Heights and Hamilton . I can’t even formulate a suitable response.
“She is,” Indy says definitively. “She’s phenomenally talented.”
“Indy,” I chastise. But casual. I’m keeping it very casual. Whose bones are tingling? Not mine.
Jacob tips his head to the side and squints at me.
I say nothing, attempting to embody whatever it is he’s looking for.
“If you’re actually interested in getting into the business, come back to the city after Labor Day weekend.
We’re holding chorus auditions for the West Side Story revival. I can probably squeeze you in.”
Me? On Broadway? In the show I’ve memorized every inhale let alone word to? “That’s my favorite show.”
“She’ll be there,” Indy promises.
The smile that splits my face is probably manic-looking. I’m positively humming—
But…I can’t.
For a hundred reasons, I can’t. Starting with a fall plane ticket to New York I’ll never be able to afford, and ending with a mom that can’t relocate to a city like this with her health.
“No, wait,” I say, catching myself. Better to shut this down before I spend even a minute under the spell of all that could be.
“I can’t. I’m sorry, you’re kind to offer, but—”
“She’ll think on it,” Indy interrupts my inelegance.
“She should,” Jacob says with the kind of confidence movies have made me expect from a New Yorker. “Life will sabotage your dreams enough. Why do it to yourself?”
—
“You did not have to do that,” I mutter under my breath when Tom and I meet on the corner outside our hotel.
He’s in a dark cable-knit sweater with a black shirt underneath, his hair tied back in that signature unruly man bun that does inhuman things to me.
He’s wearing his cap, too, which I’ve come to expect whenever he’s out in public and it’s not five in the morning.
I try not to squeak when he cranes down to brush a chaste kiss across my cheek.
He smells like a fresh shower and the light that breaks through stubborn rain clouds.
“You look just stunnin’ in it.”
The warmth on my neck as he kisses me there, too, subdues further anger. “It’s too expensive.”
Tom is fighting a smile. “I don’t splurge that often.”
“No,” I moan as we stroll off down the sidewalk. “That makes it worse!”
“Does it?”
The musical intonation of his voice kills me. It’s that Irish lilt—everything a melodic cadence. He says Does it? like I’d say Oh, really? What an insufferable flirt.
“I feel like Pretty Woman.”
He pulls me close, pressing his lips to my hair. I’m warm everywhere our clothes touch. “You’re a very pretty woman.”
Nothing could have prepared me for the knock on the hotel door this evening.
I was halfway through my blow-dry when the bellhop greeted me with a black-and-white-striped bag stuffed with delicate pink tissue paper.
Molly had thought it was for her at first so I spasmed and blurted that it was a gift from my mom.
“I thought you guys were poor,” Molly had said, eyeing the bag’s label. “Pie-grièche is a really pricey brand. I think Sofia Richie wore one of their dresses for her rehearsal dinner.”
Inside I’d found the dress from The Morning Show with Joe Jennings . “My mom has a friend who works in fashion,” I’d lied, sliding the dainty black lace between my fingers.
When we’re a block or so away from the hotel, Tom calls us a cab. This time I take the middle seat and allow myself to snuggle into him unashamedly. His hand loops easily around my waist.
“I love the dress,” I admit. “I only know how expensive it is because before I left Joe’s show, I googled it to see if I could buy one for myself.”
“It’s a very satisfying sensation, gettin’ you something you’ve craved.”
“Can I do the same for you? Need a new book of dusty Grecian fables? Another pair of high-tops?”
His laugh wreathes the cab’s interior in neon lights. “You’ve plenty I’m craving.”
Oh, God.
“I got offered to try out for a musical in the fall,” I blurt. If only just to change the channel in my mind from primal lust to human conversation.
“You did? Jesus, Clem, that’s fantastic.”
“Just the chorus, but…it was incredibly cool,” I admit. “Somewhere, my sixteen-year-old self is cheering in the streets.”
“But not the present model?”
My hands smooth the fine creases of my skirt. “It’s just not feasible. With my mom and all.”
“Are there no caretakers in your town? You could split your time?”
“Fibro isn’t really a disease that requires a caretaker.
Certainly not one insurance would cover.
My mom’s just got a statistically rough case—more flare-ups than most, worse symptoms. Sometimes her flare-induced depression is the most serious one.
Which is why this clinical trial could be so great. It’s for patients like her.”
He takes my hand. “I’m sorry you’re both saddled with this. And that this audition isn’t worthy of your cheers.”
“It’s okay. It was nice just to be considered for something that means so much to me.”
The cab comes to a stop in a nondescript alley. Bags of trash line a graffitied wall.
“Then I’ve picked a decent second date. This way,” Tom says, and I follow him, careful not to let my kitten heels sink into unidentifiable sludge.
He slips us through an unmarked door and suddenly I know exactly where we are.
A wave of astonishment smashes into me so hard it almost feels like fright. I have no idea how I’ll recover from this: we’re backstage.
“Is this the Walter Kerr?” I can tell by the jade green tiling and copper color of the hallways. It’s like wandering inside of a music box…I’ve dreamt of this place.
Tom’s impressed. “You know what’s playing tonight?”
I shake my head, biting my lip to hold in the squeal.
“A musical called Hadestown , based on the Greek myth of Orpheus and Eurydice. I’ve heard it’s phenomenal.”
I shake my head, overwhelmed. “This is the best date of my life.”
Tom huffs in amusement. A security guard guides us through a back entrance and deposits us in our seats right as the lights are dimming.
I realize, as Tom removes his baseball cap, that our clandestine entrance was so he wouldn’t be seen.
The overture picks up and the crowd’s din drifts into silence and my heart is in my throat before the first note is even sung.