Acts of Love (46 page)

Dearest Jessica, thank you for sending me
Journeys End.
It's a fine play; you're lucky to have it. I'll be interested in seeing how you develop Helen and Rex, and how you make their coming together at the end seem inevitable.

(Do you think it is inevitable that people who love each other will at some point come together? I'd like to think so.)

I'm in my library and I want to set the scene for you. Three feet of snow have paralyzed the city. Parked cars are smoothly mounded, like huge white truffles; crosscountry skiers glide down Fifth and Park and Madison—though the plows, like dark fingers of Fate, are about to overtake them; and a strange and lovely silence has settled over Manhattan so that, suddenly, we are aware of how much noise we accept without thinking, day after day. (Of course I was aware of that on Lopez, but that was a different story.) Now that the snow has passed, the temperature has fallen to something below zero, and Martin keeps fires going in all three fireplaces in the apartment. It's a little after midnight here, early Tuesday, which means it's about three p.m. Wednesday your time—I've bought a clock which I've set to Sydney time so that I don't have to figure out hours and the International Date Line when I think of you—and your summer day is hot and humid (your letters and the television reports say), which puts us at opposite ends of the weather spectrum. I'll fax this in a few minutes so it will be waiting for you when you come home from rehearsal. Your first rehearsal. I hope it went so well that already you can see glimmers of the shape the play will take, and the intimacy your actors will create with each other and the audience. I could not wish anything more for you, now, than that.

Two new plays opened here this week. One probably won't last—it drifts and wanders and never gets to the point—but the other is causing quite a stir and I enjoyed it enormously. You would, too; I'm sorry you're not here to see it. Would you like me to send you the script? Which reminds me, you didn't tell me whether you want to read Kent's play now or after revisions. Or at all. Let me know. With my love, Luke.

He can't be sitting home every night, not in New York where everything, and everyone, beckons. Where is he, in the evening hours before he writes to me? What is he doing? And with whom?

The next night Edward had tickets for a play at the Footbridge Theater, and then took Jessica to the Regency for a late supper. They sat for a long time, talking about the play they had seen, and about other plays and books and music. It was the first time they had spent an entire evening without talking about Edward and, by the time they left, Jessica was having a very good time and was sorry it was almost over. “Do you like musicals?” Edward asked as they drove to her house. “I have tickets for the Theatre Royal for Friday. I tried to get them for tomorrow, but they were sold out. But I did make reservations for supper afterward. Would you like to go?”

“Yes,” she said, smiling. “You're a thorough planner, Edward.”

“That's usually a criticism—what a dull fellow, such a thorough,
rigid
planner. But there's nothing dull about making plans to be with you; it's the most exciting thing I do.” He parked in front of her house and put his arms around her, and kissed her. “I love you, Jessica. You make me feel alive.” He bent to her again and Jessica opened to him, absorbing his warmth, the enclosure of his arms, the pressure of his mouth on hers. He raised his head and she looked into his eyes, pale gray in the light cast by streetlamps. “I want to come in with you,” he said. “I can't leave you now.”

His hand was on her breast; he kissed her mouth, her cheek, her neck. Jessica, her eyes closed, arched toward him as his mouth moved to the hollow of her throat, followed the rounded neckline of her dress and moved down. Through the thin silk, his breath was warm on her breast; the warmth filled her and drew her into him. “Let me stay with you tonight,” he murmured. “I want to be with you.”

Yes, she thought. This is now, this is my life now. Luke is the past.

He can't believe anyone would truly be attracted to him and he's terrified of being rejected.

Her eyes flew open. She had written that to Constance, a long long time ago. Who was the man? She could not remember. Someone who had attracted her by needing to be stroked, encouraged, pumped up.

“I need you,” Edward murmured. “My anchor. A place to belong and to feel alive.”

I seem to have a blind spot about men; it takes me a long time to figure them out. I have to work on that.

Not about Luke, she thought. I didn't have a blind spot about Luke. But except for him, oh, Lord, I haven't learned anything at all.

Her body was cooling beneath Edward's long, sighing breath. “Edward,” she said.

He lifted his head and when he saw her eyes his face changed. “What's wrong?”

“I can't do this. I'm sorry, but—” She felt him shrink from her; she could almost see his face shrivel. “I don't want this, not yet. It's not you, it's—”

“What else could it be?” He moved away from her and rested his hands and forehead on the steering wheel. “I went too fast. I must have seemed like some horny kid looking for—”

“Edward, stop.” She was still trembling with arousal, but it was fading quickly. “Did it ever occur to you that I might be involved with someone else?”

He looked at her in shock. “No.”

“Why not?”

“Well, because I thought you couldn't be.”

Because of my looks. You thought no one else would be interested, isn't that it?

“I mean, you're new in town, you live alone, you're always
working on the play . . . and you go out with me. Why would any woman look
twice at me if she was interested in someone else?”

Jessica stared at him, then burst out laughing.

“What does that mean?” he demanded harshly.

“I'm sorry.” She touched his face lightly. “I was thinking of something Hermione once told me was foolish, and she was probably right. Edward, there is a man I feel close to. That's all I'll say about him, except to tell you that I'm not with him and you and I are friends and that's enough for now. Besides, we're working together; why take a chance of complicating that? We have plenty of time to find out how much we like each other.”

“I said love. And when you've waited for something all your life—”

“You can wait a while longer.” She opened the car door. “Thank you for tonight. I'll see you in the morning.” She leaned toward him, thinking of kissing his cheek, then decided against it. The slightest bit of encouragement and he'd be planning the next ten years. “May I have my cane?” He reached into the backseat and handed it to her. “Thank you. Good night, Edward.”

She closed the car door and limped the short distance to her front door, knowing he was brooding as he watched her. I need someone who smiles a lot, she reflected, unlocking the door and going in without looking back. Do I think Edward will ever be that kind of person? Well, he might. What are the chances? Maybe one in a thousand.

But the next morning she awoke thinking about him, knowing that his loneliness and sadness were powerful attractions for her right now, because she needed to feel she could help someone who was even less self-confident than she.

“Are you thinking profound thoughts?” Hermione asked when she arrived at seven. “Much too early in the day for anything but breakfast.”

“Croissants, brioche, muffins, fruit, coffee,” said Jessica, leading the way to the dining room buffet. “Help yourself.” A few minutes later the general manager for
Journeys End
arrived and the three of them sat at the cluttered dining table to go over the budget of the play. They worked for an hour, adding and subtracting to bring costs low enough so they would break even by opening night. “If we sell out in previews, we're all right,” Hermione said at last. “Close but okay. The theater parties, bless them, will carry us through the first two weeks after we open, but we've got to get to them.”

Jessica sighed. “We're going to have to give up the turntables and use the revolving circles that are built into the stage. I don't like it as much because they're one inside the other and the audience won't be able to see both apartments at once, but that's what we've got so we'll have to use it. Or just have a split stage, one apartment on each side.”

“Dull and predictable,” Hermione said. “Let's wait to see Augie's blueprints and costs. We'll decide then.”

At eight, the general manager went to his next meeting and Jessica and Hermione left the coolness of her apartment to go to the Wharf, where Dan Clanagh was waiting for them. The heat was already building in the rehearsal room and they turned on the fans and opened their thermoses of iced tea. For the next hour, the three of them met with the lighting director, the managers of wardrobe and props, and the house manager. At nine-thirty everyone left, and Jessica was alone for half an hour, before the cast and the production secretary arrived.

She walked to the end of the rehearsal room, where bright blue tape formed the outline of a stage, and followed its perimeter, leaning on her cane, thinking about the first act of
Journeys End.
She went over the ways in which the four characters would come together, how they would look at each other and speak their first lines that would immediately create the tensions that would drive the whole play. But her thoughts kept skittering away, like drops of water in a hot skillet, and finally she stopped trying to concentrate, and stood still.

She closed her eyes. She was in the middle of the stage. She was looking at the audience. She saw the lights fill the set with brightness and focus on her. She heard the rustle of programs as everyone settled down. She saw the stage manager in the wings, and the other actors preparing to make their entrance. She felt the rush of energy and trepidation that swept through her each time she gathered herself together for her first line. She felt the pure happiness and exhilaration that buoyed her up after that first moment, and stayed with her through the play, through the night, through the weeks and months the play ran.

“God, it's hot,” Hermione said, bursting in and whipping off her straw hat. “Too hot to do errands, too hot even to think; I drove back here by internal radar.” She stopped short. “Shit, I'm a damn fool. Barging in, talking my head off. I'm sorry, Jessie. This is really terrible for you, isn't it? One of the hardest things you've ever— Here.” She held out a handkerchief.

Jessica wiped her eyes. “Thank you. I won't let it happen again; it's one of those indulgences that lead nowhere. We ought to be able to edit our memories so they fit the ways we've changed and the times we live in.”

“They wouldn't be memories, then. They'd be lies.”

“Well . . . fantasies.”

“Which are okay as long as you don't organize your life around them.” She looked closely at Jessica. “Do you?”

“No. Hard, clear reality all the time.” They walked to their table as the cast came in and took their places for act one. And Jessica knew that the hard reality was that she wanted to be with them, right there in that dusty rectangle marked with blue tape, right there where Angela Crown stood, and opened her mouth, and spoke the first lines of the play.

I'm jealous. Oh, God, I wish I wasn't, but I am. And I have to get rid of it or I'll ruin the play and make a fool of myself.

“Angela, I'm sorry, but I'd like to start again. These first few minutes, we have to believe that you're angry, but also that you're sure you can control your anger. We have to get that feeling of control very early, because it spills over to your greeting of Rex when he knocks on your door.”

Angela nodded. She stood for a minute with her head bowed, then took a few steps, began to pace, and once again spoke her opening lines.

Jessica did not interrupt again, but let them go through all three acts, while she and Hermione and Dan Clanagh wrote pages of notes. “Good,” she said when the last line was spoken. “How did you feel about it?”

“Good,” echoed Whitbread Castle. “I can already see the dynamics.”

“It needs an incredible amount of work,” Edward said.

Jessica smiled. If they ever were in danger of feeling happy, they could count on Edward to bring them up short. “Yes, it does, but I agree with Whit; this is a good start. We've got lots of notes here, but I want your ideas, too. This play belongs to all of us and we should talk out all our suggestions, problems, questions, whatever we think will make it better. I wish the playwright was here, but since he isn't, we'll have to make our own interpretations of the dialogue and the characters and I want you all to contribute to that.”

Whitbread frowned. “But
you're
the director. I mean, you have the final say. The theater isn't a place for democracy, you know—
I
certainly don't want that kind of chaos—I want a director who
directs.”

“If Jessica wants our ideas, I suggest that we provide them,” Hermione said briskly. “Now let's take a short break—”

Whitbread put up his hand, as if he were directing traffic. “Because you're worried, is that it?”

“Worried?”

“People are talking, Hermione. You know. I mean,
I
get a little worried when I hear that my director doesn't have any experience or know-how, doesn't—”

“I'm going to fire him,” Hermione muttered.

“No, you're not,” Jessica said quietly.

“—doesn't have any, you know,
philosophy
of directing— except, I guess, asking all of us to pitch in with ideas and so on, which I must tell you I find alarming—”

“Have you heard of Lucas Cameron?” Hermione demanded.