Chapter Two #3
She rolled her eyes before she picked up her coffee. “I didn’t last a year in New York. Not a damn year.”
“Who wants to?” The very idea gave him the creeps. Crowded streets, crowded smells, crowded air.
“It’s a little tough to be an actress on Desire.”
“Honey, you ask me, you’re doing a hell of a job of it. And if you’re going to sulk, take the waffles up to your room. You’re spoiling my mood.”
“It’s easy for you.” She shoved the waffles away.
Brian nabbed the plate before it slid off the counter.
“You’ve got what you want. Living in nowhere day after day, year after year.
Doing the same thing over and over again.
Daddy’s practically given the house over to you so he can tromp around the island all day to make sure nobody moves so much as one grain of his precious sand. ”
She pushed herself up from the stool, flung out her arms. “And Jo’s got what she wants.
Big-fucking-deal photographer, traveling all over the world to snap her pictures.
But what do I have? Just what do I have?
A pathetic résumé with a couple of commercials, a handful of walk-ons, and a lead in a three-act play that closed in Pittsburgh on opening night.
Now I’m stuck here again, waiting tables, changing other people’s sheets. And I hate it.”
He waited a moment, then applauded. “Hell of a speech, Lex. And you know just what words to punch. You might want to work on the staging, though. The gestures lean toward grandiose.”
Her lips trembled, then firmed. “Damn you, Bri.” She jerked her chin up before stalking out.
Brian picked up her fork. Looked like he was two for two that morning, he thought, and decided to finish off her breakfast as well.
* * *
WITHIN an hour Lexy was all smiles and southern sugared charm. She was a skilled waitress—which had saved her from total poverty during her stint in New York—and served her tables with every appearance of pleasure and unhurried grace.
She wore a trim skirt just short enough to irritate Brian, which had been her intention, and a cap-sleeved sweater that she thought showed off her figure to best advantage. She had a good one and worked hard to keep it that way.
It was a tool of the trade whether waitressing or acting. As was her quick, sunny smile.
“Why don’t I warm that coffee up for you, Mr. Benson? How’s your omelette? Brian’s an absolute wonder in the kitchen, isn’t he?”
Since Mr. Benson seemed so appreciative of her breasts, she leaned over a bit further to give him full bang for his buck before moving to the next table.
“You’re leaving us today, aren’t you?” She beamed at the newlyweds cuddling at a corner table. “I hope y’all come back and see us again.”
She sailed through the room, gauging when a customer wanted to chat, when another wanted to be left alone. As usual on a weekday morning, business was light and she had plenty of opportunity to play the room.
What she wanted to play was packed houses, those grand theaters of New York. Instead, she thought, keeping that summer-sun smile firmly in place, she was cast in the role of waitress in a house that never changed, on an island that never changed.
It had all been the same for hundreds of years, she thought. Lexy wasn’t a woman who appreciated history. As far as she was concerned, the past was boring and as tediously carved in stone as Desire and its scattering of families.
Pendletons married Fitzsimmonses or Brodies or Verdons.
The island’s Main Four. Occasionally one of the sons or daughters took a detour and married a mainlander.
Some even moved away, but almost invariably they remained, living in the same cottages generation after generation, sprinkling a few more names among the permanent residents.
It was all so ... predictable, she thought, as she flipped her order pad brightly and beamed down at her next table.
Her mother had married a mainlander, and now the Hathaways reigned over Sanctuary. It was the Hathaways who had lived there, worked there, sweated time and blood over the keeping of the house and the protection of the island for more than thirty years now.
But Sanctuary still was, and always would be, the Pendleton house, high on the hill.
And there seemed to be no escaping from it.
She stuffed tips into her pocket and carried dirty plates away. The minute she stepped into the kitchen, her eyes went frigid. She shed her charm like a snake sheds its skin. It only infuriated her more that Brian was impervious to the cold shoulder she jammed in his face.
She dumped the dishes, snagged the fresh pot of coffee, then swung back into the dining room.
For two hours she served and cleared and replaced setups—and dreamed of where she wanted to be.
Broadway. She’d been so sure she could make it. Everyone had told her she had a natural talent. Of course, that was before she went to New York and found herself up against hundreds of other young women who’d been told the same thing.
She wanted to be a serious actress, not some airheaded bimbo who posed for lingerie ads and billed herself as an actress-model. She’d fully expected to start at the top. After all, she had brains and looks and talent.
Her first sight of Manhattan had filled her with a sense of purpose and energy.
It was as if it had been waiting for her, she thought, as she calculated the tab for table six.
All those people, and that noise and vitality.
And, oh, the stores with those gorgeous clothes, the sophisticated restaurants, and the overwhelming sense that everyone had something to do, somewhere to go in a hurry.
She had something to do and somewhere to go too.
Of course, she’d rented an apartment that had cost far too much.
But she hadn’t been willing to settle for some cramped little room.
She treated herself to new clothes at Bendel’s, and a full day at Elizabeth Arden.
That ate a large chunk out of her budget, but she considered it an investment.
She wanted to look her best when she answered casting calls.
Her first month was one rude awakening after another. She’d never expected so much competition, or such desperation on the faces of those who lined up with her to audition for part after part.
And she did get a few offers—but most of them involved her auditioning on her back. She had too much pride and too much self-confidence for that.
Now that pride and self-confidence and, she was forced to admit, her own na?veté, had brought her full circle.
But it was only temporary, Lexy reminded herself. In a little less than a year she would turn twenty-five and then she’d come into her inheritance. What there was of it. She was going to take it back to New York, and this time she’d be smarter, more cautious, and more clever.
She wasn’t beaten, she decided. She was taking a sabbatical. One day she would stand onstage and feel all that love and admiration from the audience roll over her. Then she would be someone.
Someone other than Annabelle’s younger daughter.
She carried the last of the plates into the kitchen.
Brian was already putting the place back into shape.
No dirty pots and pans cluttered his sink, no spills and smears spoiled his counter.
Knowing it was nasty, Lexy turned her wrist so that the cup stacked on top of the plates tipped, spilling the dregs of coffee before it shattered on the tile.
“Oops,” she said and grinned wickedly when Brian turned his head.
“You must enjoy being a fool, Lex,” he said coolly. “You’re so good at it.”
“Really?” Before she could stop herself, she let the rest of the dishes drop. They hit with a crash, scattering food and fragments of stoneware all over. “How’s that?”
“Goddamn it, what are you trying to prove? That you’re as destructive as ever? That somebody will always come behind you to clean up your mess?” He stomped to a closet, pulled out a broom. “Do it yourself.” He shoved the broom at her.
“I won’t.” Though she already regretted the impulsive act, she shoved the broom back at him. The colorful Fiestaware was like a ruined carnival at their feet. “They’re your precious dishes. You clean them up.”
“You’re going to clean it up, or I swear I’ll use this broom on your backside.”
“Just try it, Bri.” She went toe-to-toe with him. Knowing she’d been wrong was only a catalyst for standing her ground. “Just try it and I’ll scratch your damn eyes out. I’m sick to death of you telling me what to do. This is my house as much as it is yours.”
“Well, I see nothing’s changed around here.”
Their faces still dark with temper, both Brian and Lexy turned—and stared. Jo stood at the back door, her two suitcases at her feet and exhaustion in her eyes.
“I knew I was home when I heard the crash followed by the happy voices.”
In an abrupt and deliberate shift of mood, Lexy slid her arm through Brian’s, uniting them. “Look here, Brian, another prodigal’s returned. I hope we have some of that fatted calf left.”
“I’ll settle for coffee,” Jo said, and closed the door behind her.