Chapter Eleven
Ignoring the migraine that had returned, she decided to use the time waiting to get to work. She found a stepladder at the side of the room and dragged it over to the puppet. Climbing up it, she moved to take a closer look.
Tugging at one of the layers of tulle, she peered down at its construction.
It appeared that most of the sequins had been sewn in, but the bulk of the beadwork had been glued.
Interesting. Just to be certain, she dug into her back pocket, pulling out her phone.
Turning on the flashlight, she waved her hand back and forth, making note of the refractory lighting.
The diagnosis was clear. The shine was not coming from the beads at all, but rather from extraneous glue that lingered between them.
She put her phone away and stepped down from the ladder.
Thankfully, unlike her marriage, the glue would be an easy fix.
For a heartbeat, her mind wandered to David. It was nice of him to help her out. It reminded her of the old days, the way they existed as a team, partners and besties. She considered the extremely remote possibility that his reappearance in her life might be a good thing—a chance for closure.
She took all of five minutes to head back to her office and gather supplies to fix the puppet that evening, before returning to the studio, where she found Barry Peters waiting.
“Evelyn,” he said, his voice tinged with frustration. “There you are. I’ve been waiting for you forever! Where on earth are the children?”
Evelyn laid her plastic bag of Q-tips and acetone on a table and forced a smile. “I’m sorry about that. I had no idea when you would be arriving, but if you’d like to follow me, I’ll take you to the children now.”
Her appeasement did the trick. By the time they made their way to the elevator, Barry was in a much better mood. “It’s looking good,” he said on their way over to Medical. “The puppets. The stage design. Much better than I expected on second-day dress rehearsal.”
No thanks to you. Evelyn couldn’t help but think it.
“Shall I expect you stopping by during the rest of the week?” she asked sweetly, in an attempt to suss out his plans.
“Unfortunately,” Barry said, puffing out his chest, “I’ll be in LA starting tomorrow. So, this will be my last visit until the day of the big show.”
“I’m so sorry to hear that,” she lied. “Will the trip be business or pleasure?”
“Business,” he confirmed. “I’m actually going out there because we’re considering doing a coproduction with Paramount.”
“Paramount?” Her eyes widened. “You mean . . . like a movie?”
“It would be a new musical film adaptation of The Phantom of the Opera.”
Her heart sped up inside her chest. She loved The Phantom of the Opera. She was the perfect person to make this film happen.
She forced herself to stay calm, but this was big.
Huge. It was hard to be a woman and break into Hollywood.
That was one of the reasons she had started in television.
But now, after all her years of sacrifice, she was executive producing a major production .
. . and Barry Peters was dangling this opportunity in front of her like a cherry.
It was more than she ever wanted, a dream come true.
She puffed her chest out, cool and confident.
“And do you have anyone in mind to produce?” She knew that in film, the role of the executive producer was different than it was in television.
In film, executive producers tended to focus more on securing financing, handing off the nitty-gritty of the daily work to key personnel.
But films were more similar to producing live events versus episodic television, as they were typically stand-alone projects.
She knew that there would be a learning curve in the switch from TV to film, but she was certain she could handle it.
After all, she reasoned, the overall gist was the same.
And she had plenty of experience developing a creative vision, managing a budget and coordinating cast and crew.
More important, she wanted it. She loved a good challenge, especially when it came to her career.
Otherwise, the work could get boring. Barry reached into his pocket, unwrapped a eucalyptus lozenge and popped it into his mouth.
“No one is attached, yet. But I think it’s fair to say that if this production of A Christmas Carol goes off without a hitch, you’d be a top contender. ”
She was hoping he would say that. Her voice was firm and clear when she said, “It will go off without a hitch.”
She regretted the words almost as soon as she said them. Everyone knew it was bad luck to display early confidence on a show. Right away, she banished the thought from her mind. Pitching herself for the job, displaying confidence, was far more important than upholding some silly superstition.
Barry took her at her word. The elevator doors dinged and opened. Evelyn went to step out, but stopped. On the floor directly in front of her feet sat two piles of papers and a bunch of Sharpies.
“What the . . .” Barry said, tripping slightly. “Why is all this crap in the hall?”
David had turned the hallway outside his medical bay into a giant obstacle course.
Two trash cans sat at the end. The cot from his office had been moved and positioned on its side.
A pile of winter coats made a mountain. David stood in the center, his back turned to her, his sleeves rolled up to the elbows, the back of his neck all sweaty as he waved at two distinct rows of children.
“Give them a hard one this time!” a little girl said.
“Yeah,” a boy replied. “Last one was too easy.”
“All right,” David said. His voice boomed through the hallways. “The phrase this time is . . . aphthous stomatitis.”
As soon as he said it, two kids waiting at the front of the line took off, bolting in Evelyn’s direction.
They jumped over the trash cans, then parted ways at the cot before returning to the pile of jackets, swiftly separating them into two distinct sets of colors, and then racing her way.
Evelyn was certain she was about to face some sort of head-on collision when they both came to a stop at the papers in front of her.
Dropping down to their knees, they each attempted to scribble out the word that David had given them.
Evelyn was impressed. Not only had her ex-husband managed to keep all these kids of various ages occupied and out of her hair for the duration of their day on set, but they seemed to be genuinely under control and having fun.
David glanced over his shoulder. Their eyes caught, and that rumble of something—a feeling, a memory—returned inside her.
There were times when David could be . . . well, remarkable.
The children sprang back to their feet. They raced toward David, who analyzed their papers.
“These are both good and valiant efforts, but I have to inform you—” he let the statement linger in the air before continuing “—team You Look like a Butthole is the winner of this spelling bee obstacle race!”
There were some cheers and groans before Barry Peters finally stepped up to take his children home.
Evelyn found herself standing in that hallway with David surrounded by mess.
Despite the sweat pouring down his back, he smelled remarkable.
Familiar. Her eyes settled on his lips—that pesky smile, those relaxed features—and she recalled the way he used to kiss her.
Soft and gentle, tongue exploring her mouth, hand on the bottom of her chin.
It hurt to know they would never kiss again.
She ached for him at the same time she hated him, until it seemed that the hallway she was standing in was both oppressively quiet and troublingly dim.
“Let me help you clean up,” she said quietly.
David nodded, and they began. He put back the trash cans and other miscellaneous items. She picked up the papers, throwing out the ones the kids had scribbled their words on. But when it came to the cot, they worked together to put it safely back into the office.
“Careful,” David said, taking the lead on the bed.
“I’m fine,” Evelyn said, trailing after him.
“I just don’t want you to break an ankle,” David said, smiling weakly in her direction.
They put the cot down, returning his medical bay to a space for patients.
A thrill raced up her spine, and despite the fact she had a puppet to work on and a slowly developing headache—and even though this man was her ex-husband, the person who had left her—she suddenly didn’t want to leave him.
And her heart veered again. She found herself thinking about the possibility of forgiveness.
Or even friendship. She found herself wondering if she could ever trust him again.
“I owe you for today,” she said quietly.
“Seriously,” he said, his features relaxing, “it was nothing—”
“No—” She cut him off. “You did me a huge favor.”
It was freeing, letting go of some of her hurt, allowing herself to be more natural with David. The energy in the room shifted between them.
“Well, at the very least,” she said, touching her hair, “let me buy you dinner.”
His entire face froze in a strained smile full of dread. Immediately, Evelyn retreated.
“I didn’t mean anything fancy,” she explained, quickly, a desperate attempt to save face with her ex-husband. “I just meant . . . there’s this little deli next door. I was just gonna buy you a sandwich. Not like . . . a sit-down, low-lighting dinner sort of thing.”
She braved a glance. David was rubbing the back of his neck. “Oh, jeez,” he said, after a long and drawn-out pause. “I would love to get dinner with you. It’s just . . . I can’t tonight.”