Premiere: A Love Story (6 page)

“Here?” she asked, making one more effort to dismiss this.

“Let’s go sit for a minute. I won’t take up a lot of your time, but, I . . . I only need a minute, please.”

Peter walked to the back of the house. He couldn’t ignore it anymore. Things were tense, and she was being so professional it was making him sick. Being near her every day and looking into the void in her eyes was painful.

“I think pretty much everything is moving along. It would be helpful if I could see a bit more of the script.”

“Sam . . .”

“I know there are issues with needing to add lights to the opening scene. I told Candice yesterday, and that supplier is in town, so it shouldn’t be too difficult.”

Sam’s hands were now moving on their own, flipping through papers in her binder as she babbled. Peter put his hand on hers, and she froze.

“Stop, please. I don’t want to talk about the play. I want, I need, to talk about this.”

He moved his hands indicating something between them.

“This weird, awkward situation. It has to be strange for you. I know it is for me, and I really want to find a way.”

“Find a way to what?”

Sam felt her face warm and she turned to look at him. This was what she was trying to avoid. There wasn’t a discussion that would explain, so Sam saw no reason to discuss anything. The play: that was the focus. Not the actual content, because that was proving difficult, but the details of the production. Sam was choosing to stay focused on paint, lights, timecards, union breaks. She was comfortable as long as they stuck to the details.

“I want you to. . . I want to be able to . . .”
Jesus, you
’
re a writer, man. Spit it out!
Peter took in a deep breath. “I guess I want us to be able to work together and not . . .”

Spencer and Gordy walked up the aisle and Peter was grateful for the reprieve. They looked at Peter and Sam, noticed the tension, and wisely kept moving.

“Goodnight, guys. You’re the last ones here,” Spencer said. Peter nodded.

“Hey Sam, thanks again for getting me those gels,” Gordy added as they reached the back door.

“Oh sure, you’re very welcome. Have a great night.” Sam grinned as both men left through the lobby and then her smile dropped as she turned back to Peter.

“We are working together. Done. Is there something you’re not getting that we need to address?”

“No, it’s fine. The show’s getting a great start. I don’t want you to feel uncomfortable. If you need to hand this off to someone else, I’ll understand.”

“What? Hand it off? This is my job. I’m going to hand this off because, because you and I have, whatever you want to call it, history? I don’t think so.”

“I didn’t mean to upset you, I thought, I don’t want you to feel . . .”

“Peter, you gave up needing to worry about my feelings years ago. As far as I’m concerned you’re a playwright, just like any other playwright, putting on a production in this theater. We grew up together and you moved away. Period. If there’s any awkwardness, it must be yours, because I’m fine.”

“I thought, since we haven’t talked about it.”

“Please! You want to talk now? No, the time for talking is over. We have a job to do, our, my theater is counting on this. All I want from you is a good show.”

“That’s all?”

“Yup, that’s it. So, unless there’s something the play needs or your staff needs, I have to get going.”

Peter looked at Sam as she stood to leave. She took a breath, looked down at her papers, and then over at the stage.
Hand it off, was he out of his overly inflated mind?
She tried to keep a handle on all of her feelings nagging for release. She wasn’t strong enough, and the words slid off her lips before she could pull them back.

“One question before I leave.”

“Sure,” he said, standing.

“What’s the ending? How does the play end? I mean, is everyone happy when the curtain finally drops?”

“I, Sam . . .”

“You know what, forget it.”

She turned to leave.

“No, wait. It did all work out. Didn’t it? Grady is happy and you, you’re happy, aren’t you? I’m sure after I left everything eventually . . .”

“Worked out? Yeah, sure Peter, eventually.”

Sam stared back out to the stage and Peter said nothing. So, he asked if she wanted to hand it off, he had wanted her to step aside to make things more comfortable. He had pranced back into her life without an explanation other than that he was there to save the theater, and now, now after four years, he wanted to talk?
You want to talk? Let
’
s talk.
Sam let the anger course through her, it was good to feel something other than pain.

“Are you happy, Peter?”

He didn’t know what to say. There was no right answer. He went with a gentle dodge.

“I, I’m happy that I’m able to help out the theater. Yes, I’m happy.”

Sam, recognizing a classic Peter maneuver, shook her head.

“Is that easier? Walking away, skirting around things?”

“Sam.”

He went to touch her arm, turn her to face him.

“No, don’t,” she held up her hand, still looking at the stage. “You know, you write plays, ‘words to paper’ as Mr. Keeley used to say.”

Peter noticed the reference, Keeley had been his favorite English teacher in junior high school, but the memory faded as Sam continued.

“Do you ever get onstage and read your words? Step out into the light and live in the world you create, or are you always on the sidelines? Observing, sitting in the dark theater? Critiquing. Like when we were kids, always watching me onstage, watching Grady get the dates. Ever get out there?”

Sam could feel her breath quicken, but there was no turning back.

“Oh wait, you did make a move, on me, right? Confused the hell out of me and then ran back to the sidelines. That’s right. Is that what you want to talk about, Peter?”

Peter instantly felt like he did as a child when his father took him out too far in the ocean.
Shit
, he thought.

“Are you ever on the stage for the whole damn thing, Peter? The good parts and the ugly parts?”

Sam turned to face him fully now. Peter decided it was best to treat this like a bear attack, so he locked onto her eyes and spoke softly.

“Sam, I was there with you, but I needed . . .”

“You, you needed. Oh wow, yes let’s talk about what you needed.” Her anger became too much and she actually let out an odd laugh.

“Peter, it’s always been about you, hasn’t it? You’re a character of your own design. How can a person be so there with me one minute and then coldly walk away. That person . . . Christ! Do you have anything to say?”

Sam laughed again, it was all she could muster.

The cleaning crew rolled in with their equipment, Peter said nothing, and Sam decided she had had enough.

“Have a good night, Peter. Good talk.”

Sam turned and left through the double lobby doors. Her heart was beating out of her chest. He wanted to talk, and then he stood there, and she did all the work.

“Typical bullshit,” she hissed as she stormed to the parking lot. By the time she closed herself into her car, she had pushed the pain back where it belonged.

Chapter Six

S
unday morning breakfast at the Cathner house was a tradition. Henry, the oldest, lived in Los Angeles but drove over on most Sundays. He worked as film producer for a large production company. He handled mostly art films and documentaries, carrying himself with an air of casual cool that covered his ridiculous mind for business. Henry had been recently dumped by his girlfriend Britney. This thrilled Sam because last year for Christmas she gave Sam a gift certificate to the spa for what Brit called, “seriously needed maintenance.” At Christmas, in front of her whole family.
Bitch!

Sam’s parents were, simply put, great people. Like everyone else, they had their flaws and just enough dysfunction to foster a dry sense of humor and material for great stories. Sam not only loved her parents, she liked being around them. Jack, her dad, came from money, but he worked at being so much more. When someone asked him what he did for a living, he said, “I run the family business.” When asked what the family business was, he said, “Oh, we’re in tile.” There’s a sign on his desk that says CUT THE CRAP. That little piece of wood described her dad to a tee.

Sam’s grandfather, Michael Cathner, had been a tile artisan on Catalina Island. When he married her grandmother, Gwendolyn Ross, and moved to Pasadena, they became very well known within the arts community. Michael designed tile and artistic treatments for high-end homes and public buildings during Pasadena’s growth in the thirties. He worked with some of the most well-known architects and contractors, and it was hard to go anywhere in neighborhood or downtown Pasadena and not see his work.

Jack earned an MBA from UCLA and then worked closely with his father. They grew the company, Cathner Interiors, into an international corporation. Jack was a warm, humble man, with an addiction to hazelnuts and an obsession with baseball. He had even considered buying the Dodgers once or twice over the years. Jack married Susan, who was funny, independent, had a filthy mouth when anyone got her alone, and was a horrible tennis player, though she continued to try.

They were Sam’s foundation. They did have dark sides. They tended to hold grudges, they rarely forgot, and the women in the family had tempers that seemed to simmer for eternity and then explode.

Walking through the front door of the imposing two-story home built by her grandparents, Sam was filled with the familiar. She was desperate for Sunday breakfast. She needed these people.

“Samantha, is that you?”

Her mother called from somewhere in the house.

“It is. Where are you?”

“Kitchen.”

“There are flowers sitting by the door. Do you want them?”

“Oh, yes, your brother brought those. Could you bring them in here and also grab the vase on the piano?”

Sam stepped into the living room, which was filled with morning light falling on the lush red Oriental rug her parents had shipped home from their trip to China. She had always marveled at how such an intricate design could sit in such a traditional home. It didn’t look busy, but rather joined in somehow with the rest of the furnishings. Her mother had not even flinched when it was delivered. She didn’t care if it went or not, she loved the rug, and it would simply have to work. Susan Cathner was daring that way.

Sam grabbed the vase and the bundle of paper-wrapped flowers on her way into the kitchen. Her mother was whisking eggs at the counter. No makeup and her hair pulled back. She was lovely, Sam thought. No one dressed up like her mother, but she didn’t need all of that for Sunday breakfast. She had no one to impress and Sam liked her best this way. She put the vase on the counter and opened the flowers over the sink. Susan, still whisking, leaned over and kissed her on the cheek.

“Good morning, dear. You look tired.”

“You always say that.”

“Well, maybe you always look tired,” she laughed.

“Susan, I can’t find those damn little knives for the . . . Button! When’d you get here?”

Jack barged into the kitchen holding what looked like toasted muffins.

“Hey, Dad. Got here a few minutes ago.”

He tossed the muffins on the table, gave her a big, two-armed hug and a kiss on the cheek. He held Sam by both shoulders.

“Let me take a look at you. Yup, still gorgeous. A little tired maybe.”

Her mother raised her eyebrows as if to say: “See?”

“What’s with you guys and the sleep thing? I’m getting plenty of sleep. Maybe I just look this way.”

“Jack, tell me you didn’t already toast those muffins. I haven’t even finished the eggs. They’ll be cold. Oh, this whole breakfast is hitting the fan, damn it!”

He wrapped his arms around her and whispered into her ear, “They’ll be fine.”

“Your charms won’t work on me, Mr. Cathner. I hate cold muffins. At least wrap them in tin foil until we eat. The little knives are right there on the table. Put them by the butter and jam. Oh, and put that spoon in the fruit salad, please.”

He wrapped the muffins, grabbed the other stuff, winked at Sam, and walked off before he got into any more trouble.

“Where’s Henry?” Sam asked, finishing the flowers.

“Out back, two mimosas into breakfast.” She rolled her eyes.

“Flowers arranged. Where would you like them?”

“Oh, they look beautiful, let’s put them on the table outside.”

Sam walked toward the back doors and looked out on the large redwood patio. Both men were reclined around the table, and she could hear their laughter before the doors even opened. Sam loved that sound.

“The thing is, he was way too old . . .”

They both turned as Sam walked onto the patio. Henry stood, took the vase from her, and set it on the table.

“Hey, sis, could you tell our father that we saw my very ex-girlfriend in Los Angeles last week having dinner with a guy that was old enough to be her dad?”

“We did,” Sam said, kissing Henry.

“Dodged a bullet breaking up with that one, no question.”

She joined them at the table.

“Henry, come get these plates and set the table.”

Susan peeked her head out and handed him a stack of plates and silverware. Henry obeyed, while their father was ranting about what a mistake it would have been to marry his old girlfriend and that he was better off.

“Speaking of better off,” Henry added, setting the plates down, “or maybe not . . . Sam should tell us how things are going at work?”

Both her father and Henry grinned right up into their eyes. Sam shook her head and got up to pour some orange juice. They were both waiting for her response.

“Really?” Sam asked. Henry wiggled his eyebrows up and down. She laughed and pushed his shoulder.

“Are you sure you two have only had a couple of mimosas?”

They were still waiting.

“Wow, okay. Well, the play is off to a great start. You both saw Peter at the fundraiser. He’s fine, the same I guess. He works. I work. That’s all there is to it.”