Chapter 33 #2
I crack up. Laughter bubbles up, genuine and surprised. Vivi joins in, the two of us standing in her terrible art studio, laughing until tears stream down our faces.
"Come," she says finally, wiping her eyes. "I set up tea in the corner. Sterling insisted I have a proper tea service even here. Said barbarism had its limits."
The corner she's claimed holds a small table draped in white linen. Fine bone china, complete with sterling silver spoons. A proper tea service that belongs in a drawing room, not a warehouse.
We settle into mismatched chairs. Vivi pours with practiced grace.
"Tell me about Sterling," I say, accepting my cup.
Her expression softens. Warms. "Sterling wanted to give me the moon.
We met at the theater. I was there on a date from hell.
A pompous banker who spent intermission name-dropping.
Sterling was in the seat beside mine. An older, distinguished gentleman.
When my date went to the bar, Sterling leaned over and whispered, 'You look miserable.
Would you like a ride home after the show? '"
I smile. "Bold."
"Brilliant." She stirs her tea. "He gave me his calling card. Old-fashioned, even then. Said you never know when you might need one. That’s why I still carry them. Never know when you might meet someone who needs an escape route."
The parallel to our meeting at the country club isn't lost on me.
"What play were you seeing?" I ask.
"Sunday in the Park with George." Her eyes go distant.
"Sondheim. The artist struggling with his work, with love, with legacy.
I married Sterling two months later. He was twenty years older.
Everyone said I was after his money." She meets my eyes.
"I fell in love with him that night. With the way he saw art.
With how he understood passion. The money was incidental. "
My chest tightens. "Two months."
"Two months. Scandalously fast. Completely right." She sips her tea. "What's your timeline?"
"Eight weeks. Maybe nine." The words tumble out. "And it's not even real. It started as a contract, a business arrangement. I was supposed to be his date for events. Make him look stable for a merger."
"Was supposed to be," Vivi repeats. "Past tense."
"It got complicated."
"Love always does." She sets down her cup. "Tell me about him."
So I do. The elevator. Negotiating the contract. The way he chased me down the street. How he listens. How he sees me. How terrifying it is to be seen.
"He's older," I finish. "Successful beyond anything I can imagine. I'm an assistant who writes plays on recycled paper. The status difference…"
"Means nothing if he treats you as an equal." Vivi's voice firms. "Sterling's friends thought I was some gold-digger. Society pages had a field day. Do you know what Sterling did?"
I shake my head.
"He told them all to fuck off." She grins at my shocked expression.
"His exact words. At a charity luncheon too.
Very loudly. Then he took my hand and we walked out together.
" Her eyes shine. "That's when I knew. Not because of the money or the status.
Because he chose me, publicly. Proudly. Without any apology to anyone. "
Tears prick my eyes. "Everett funded my children's theater workshop for a year. He offered to fund my play with no strings attached. Said I'm free to leave whenever I want."
"But you don't want to leave."
"No, I don't."
"Then don't." Vivi reaches across the table, squeezes my hand. "Take the leap. Risk the fall. Let yourself be loved by someone who sees you."
We sit in comfortable silence. The sun angles through the warehouse windows, painting her terrible canvases in golden light.
Vivi stands and crosses to a particularly enthusiastic painting – an abstract swirls in purple and orange.
"Sterling bought my first canvas and hung it in his study.
Said it made him happy every time he looked at it.
" She turns to face me. "Not because it was good.
But because I made it. Because it was mine.
That's love, Margot. Seeing value in something simply because the person you love created it. "
My throat closes.
"Speaking of creating things." Vivi returns to the table, settles back into her chair. "Your play. You mentioned it needs funding."
"I have funding." The words come automatically. "Savings and Everett’s offer…"
"From your boyfriend who already pays you for a contract and bought you designer dresses and funds your workshop." Vivi's eyebrows lift. "Don't you want something that's yours? Something he can't claim credit for? Something that exists independent of your relationship?"
The question lands like a punch. Yes. God, yes.
"I have resources," Vivi continues. "Sterling left me very comfortable. I'm always looking for worthy projects. Theater, specifically. It's where Sterling and I began."
My pulse quickens. "What are you saying?"
She reaches across the table. Takes both my hands in hers. Her palms are warm, paint-stained, and strong.
"I think Sterling would definitely want me to do this." Her eyes hold mine. "Will you accept me as your financial backer for your play?"
The words stop time.
The warehouse, the terrible paintings, the fine china, the afternoon light, all of it narrows to this moment. This offer. This impossible gift.
"You want to fund my play?" My voice cracks.
"I want to invest in your vision. In your talent. In my belief of the future of theater." Vivi squeezes my hands again. "What do you say?"
What do I say? What can I possibly say to this woman who materialized in my life like some fairy godmother made of turpentine and old money and genuine kindness?