Chapter 19
CHAPTER 19
NATALIE
“These are amazing, Leah. Thank you so much.” I hold up one of the icicle costumes Katie’s mom has made for the townsfolk. “I mean, look at the pointy hats. Absolutely freaking adorable.”
“I’m so happy you like them,” she says.
She gestures to the costumes we’ve already taken from the box and spread across the front row of the theater. One of them is draped over the seat immediately to my left, in exactly the same spot I was last night. My face tingles with heat at the memory.
Not that I need anything to remind me—my lady parts are definitely not going to forget it in a hurry. Not only had it been a year since I’d had any kind of intimate activity, my body has never known a man of Gabe’s size.
And I guess it’s never going to know it again, since he finds me super annoying and couldn’t climb off me quick enough .
He was pretty insistent on getting my number though, so?—
“I got on a roll with the ice theme.” Leah snaps me back to reality. “And knocked everything out pretty fast.”
I give myself an internal slap across the face for even thinking like that. It was a one-off. Scratching that itch. And I’m actually kind of proud of myself for being brave enough to grab a man who’s been on the TV screen in Aunt Lou’s living room God knows how many times without me even knowing. It’s possibly the bravest thing I’ve ever done.
“Well, you’ve done an awesome job,” I say to Leah. “And so creative.”
I’m not totally sure how I’m going to incorporate the frozen fish costume, but I’ll figure it out.
“Well, hello, Miss Natalie,” booms a voice from the back of the auditorium.
We both turn to see my boss, Victor Draper, heading toward us.
“Oh, God. I’ll head out.” Leah rolls her eyes. “We’re going to miss you so much, you know.” She gives me a quick one-armed hug before skipping up the steps to the stage and disappearing into the wings to head for the street parking out back.
Maybe Victor has good news for once. Maybe he’s found someone to repair the theater in the next week and we’ll be able to perform here after all.
But that thought, which should be a relief, unexpectedly disappoints me. Guess I’m totally all in for the outdoor on-ice play at this point. And not just because it was Gabe’s idea. But because it’s a great idea. It’s original and inventive and will be a special way for me to leave my mark on my last play .
I turn back to my boss and find he’s striding down the center aisle with someone by his side—a woman whose garments appear to float behind her like she’s walking toward a wind machine.
“Morning, Victor.” I fold up the icicle hat.
“Indeed it is an absolutely fine morning.” Victor and his companion come to a stop at the bottom of the aisle, a few feet away. “Because look who I’ve brought to meet you.”
He gestures to the person next to him like a magician’s assistant drawing attention to a particularly spectacular trick that the audience should be applauding more enthusiastically.
Now they’re in the light I get a better look at her. Her neck and chest must be chilly. As must the tops of her boobs. Actually, all of her must be quite cold because she’s come in from outside not wearing a coat, and what she is wearing is somewhat diaphanous. There are certainly lots of layers, but none of them are substantial enough to protect from sub-freezing temperatures.
“Divina Montclair,” Victor adds with a flourish, taking a step back as if to leave more space for her greatness.
My heart plummets to the floor, then crashes through it. Oh, dear God. Is this my replacement?
Clearly Victor has no intention of telling her who I am. So I don’t bother offering my hand for a shake. Instead, I hold the icicle costume tight to my chest and fold my arms over it.
“Hi, Divina.”
But she’s not listening. She’s too busy looking around the place. The ceiling appears to be particularly fascinating. She tips back her head—a head that’s covered in copper-colored curls that look like they’re on invisible rollers.
“Oh, how quaint,” she cries, projecting her voice as if she’s on stage and trying to be heard in the back row of the upper circle. “You know, it reminds me of that time I worked with Al Pacino. Oh, Al…”
She closes her eyes as if drifting off into another world, and places a hand on her bare chest, pausing for a moment of reverence for his name. “We were doing Shakespeare in the Park?—”
Victor gasps and clutches his own chest. “ Romeo and Juliet ?” he asks, seemingly hoping he might have employed Pacino’s leading lady.
“Love’s Labour’s Lost,” she says as if it’s a superior play.
“You must have been the princess.” Victor is very sure of himself.
She gives him a coy smile and an almost imperceptible shake of her head.
“Rosaline?” Victor asks, having turned this into a guessing game. “Maria? Katherine?”
“It doesn’t matter who I was.” Divina wafts a little to the left. “It’s all a team effort when you’re…treading the boards.”
Maybe she worked the concession stand.
“So how is this similar to that?” I ask her.
“What?” Divina spins to face me, her skirts lagging slightly behind.
“This theater,” I remind her. “How does this small community theater in Warm Springs make you think of performing Shakespeare in Central Park with Al Pacino?”
“Oh, you know.” She circles her hand vaguely.
Clearly it doesn’t remind her of that at all. Clearly she just wants to use the words Shakespeare, Park, and Pacino. And I bet she tosses them out at every available opportunity.
“The children are going to love you,” Victor gushes.
The children are going to fucking hate her.
How can I leave the poor kids with someone who, although I’ve only known her for approximately thirty seconds, is so obviously focused solely on herself?
“When’s your next rehearsal, Natalie?” Victor asks. “It would be great for Divina to see it. She could offer some tips, some pointers.”
“Oh yes.” Divina swishes back toward us. “Always delighted to offer input.” I bet she is. “As Stephen Sondheim used to say, ‘Teaching is a sacred profession.’”
“You’ve worked with Sondheim?” I ask, trying to sound like I actually believe that might be a possibility. “That’s impressive.”
“Well, not so much worked with…” She does the vague hand-circling again while casting a disapproving look at the costumes I’ve separated out over the seats. “When you’re on Broadway it’s as if everyone in every production works together. Like one big family.”
“Oh, so you’ve actually performed on Broadway?” I’m thoroughly ashamed of the hint of sarcasm that leaks out in my voice, but she’s turning me into a bad person—or rather, the appointment of her is.
“Oh, Broadway.” She tips up her chin and focuses on nothing in particular in the middle distance. “Or Off Broadway. It’s all the same. All the same fa?—”
“Family?” I finish for her. “Yes. We’re definitely very much a family here.”
Divina’s eyes settle on the spread-out icicle outfits. “And I see an untalented and possibly shortsighted grandmother has tried her hand at costumes.” She chuckles at her own nonjoke and holds up a hand like all it’s missing is a cigarette in a holder.
“Tell me.” She leans forward to peer at what’s draped across the third seat from me, like she can’t bring herself to step any closer to it. “What’s that ?”
I put down the icicle costume, pick up the one she’s looking at and hold it up in front of me.
She screws up her eyes as she scans it. “It’s exceedingly… green ,” she says. “And what are all these bits sticking out?”
“Leaves.” I tell her.
“They’re especially large leaves,” Victor chimes in.
“Yes. This is a terrible tree,” Divina sneers.
“It’s not a tree.” It’s hard to not sound snippy.
“Then what exactly is it?” She’s getting snippy.
“A lettuce.”
Victor snorts with derision.
“Why on earth are you dressing up a child as a lettuce?” Divina asks.
“It’s an iceberg lettuce,” I explain.
And I pause. Leave a second of silence. Then another. Waiting for the penny to drop. For someone to laugh. Then another second.
“Oh,” Victor cries. “ Iceberg! Because you’re staging the play on ice. Iceberg lettuce. Yes. I get it. Very clever.”
It’s Divina’s turn to snort and screw up her nose like a bad smell unworthy of her attention just drifted under it.
“So, anyway.” She spins again and heads off toward the stage, the steps quaking under her determined feet. “When is all this going to be fixed?”
She flings her arms in the general direction of the charred area of the stage as if introducing the night’s star turn, and marches toward it, completely ignoring the two orange cones.
“Careful,” I call out, “there’s a ho?—”
“Argh.”
And the bottom half of Divina’s right leg disappears into the hole in the stage floor.
The sight of her half crouched in the pool of her voluminous skirts, arms flailing above her head, face red with a mixture of shock and anger, is too much. The only thing I can do to stop myself from laughing at her misfortune is to turn my back and concentrate on gathering up the costumes.
“Oh my Lord.” Victor snaps as he trots off to help her. “Are you all right, Divina? Nothing broken?”
“Fine,” she says. Though her tone would suggest that she’s much closer to furious than fine. “It reminds me of the time I worked with Laurence Olivier. Dear, dear Larry. You know he?—”
“Let me help you up,” Victor says.
This is so bad for the kids. Terrible. This woman is not what they need. They need someone who brings them joy and light and fun and exploration. Not someone who waxes poetic about fantastical encounters with old thespians.
Despite my horror at what’s about to be inflicted on them, I still have to cough to hide the uncontrollable laughter that bursts from me as Victor fumbles around trying to haul her out of the hole. No matter how ashamed I am of this uncharacteristic lack of sympathy, I can’t stop it from rising to the surface. And if I thought there was a chance that she’d hurt anything more than her pride, I’d be over there in a flash to help.
But I’m certain she hasn’t, so I hide my face behind the box of costumes as I carry it across the auditorium and toward the back door.
I can’t wait to tell Gabe. He would loathe her.
ME
Are you up for helping with the new script run-through after school tomorrow?
Too wordy. Too much of a question.
Delete.
ME
Next rehearsal is after school tomorrow. See you there.
Too presumptuous. And possibly a bit bossy.
Delete.
ME
Thanks for everything last night. Are you avail
Fuck no.
Delete.
ME
Thanks for last night.
Delete.
ME
Thanks for helping last night. Free to help more tomorrow?
Jesus. That sounds like I want help with orgasms.
And maybe I do. But I certainly don’t want him to think that’s what I want.
De-fucking-lete.
I drop the phone into my lap and stare out the salt-splattered window of my Jeep at the back of the theater.
Why is it so hard to write one goddamn sentence?
The man’s already agreed to help.
And he insisted I give him my number and texted me his. The accompanying message was a noncommittal “Gabe’s number.” But he sent it before the door had even closed behind him. So that must mean he wants to hear from me, right?
Anyway, he’s a man. He won’t analyze every syllable of every word for hidden meanings the way women do.
I could write, “Hey, ass face. Get your stunning giant dick to the theater for 4 p.m. tomorrow,” and he’d be totally fine with it. But I guess that does kind of contain a compliment along with the insult.
ME
Script rehearsal with the kids after school tomorrow, if you’d like to help.
I send it immediately to prevent myself from continuing to overthink it. And also because I’m hungry and need to go shopping for dinner ingredients.
I gaze at the message, the knowledge that it’s sitting on Gabe’s phone waking butterflies in my belly.
What’s he doing at this exact moment?
Is he working out in his home gym, flexing his biceps, or thighs, or doing a thousand sit-ups to keep his drum-tight abs in shape?
Maybe in a remote PT session, being put through exercises that are painful but good for his long-term recovery ?
He might be chatting with his parents on their cruise ship. Although it’s kind of sucky that he’s been dishonest with them about where he is, he was pretty adorable with them. Someone who has such a close relationship with their parents can’t be all bad.
Or maybe he’s looking at his phone and smiling because he’s pleased to hear from me.
Or rolling his eyes because he thinks I’m annoying and isn’t pleased at all.
Christ, I’m being ridiculous.
I need to lighten up.
Yeah.
Whatever. Fuck it .
I reinforce the new attitude with a dramatic shrug, toss my phone into my bag on the passenger seat and turn on the engine.
There’s an immediate buzz from my bag.
My heart jumps, and my attempt to be all whatever, fuck it , goes flying out of the window as I scramble to retrieve my phone.
GABE:
Busy all day tomorrow. Training, PT, and team meetings.
A heavy block of ice drops into my stomach. There we have it. The brush-off.
GABE:
Could do Thurs. Would that help?
Oh. The ice instantly melts.
I blow out a long breath of relief and find my heart racing. Is that with nerves, excitement, fear, or what? I’ve lost all track of the way my body reacts to this man.
ME
That’s actually perfect. Doing a run-through at the pond at 4 p.m. on Thur. See you there?
GABE
See you there.
Why do those three innocuous words make my hands shake? I mean, I couldn’t read anything into them if I tried. And I shouldn’t try. That would be an enormous waste of energy.
No point overanalyzing three words from a man I’ll never see again after I leave town just over two weeks from now.
He did reply quickly though. Thought he’d be too cool for that.
I drop the phone back into my purse, put the Jeep in gear, and head toward Main Street with a smile annoying my lips.
Everything will be fine.
If only my damn heart would stop fluttering.