Acts of Love (43 page)

We begin casting next week. Hermione has called several actors and also a management company; she thinks we'll find our cast very quickly. I hope so, I'm anxious to see this play come to life. I hope your writing is going well. Jessica.

She hesitated before sealing it. There were so many other things she could say. She could tell him how frightened she was, of failing, of disappointing Hermione, but mostly of working on a play without being in it. She did not know if she could bear that.

She shook her head. It was too personal. She'd told him enough. She sealed the envelope, stamped it and mailed it on the way to the Wharf for the first casting session.

Dearest Jessica, I'm wrapping this letter around a Christmas gift and I hope you accept it, since it comes not only from me, but also from Constance. The bracelet is from the collection that she left to me in her will, saying that she hoped I'd someday find a woman I wanted to give them to. She would have been very happy—and triumphant?—to know that you are that woman. With it I send my wishes for a very happy Christmas, and a joyous and fulfilling New Year.

Your letter about the Wharf and the Drama Theater just came. I know the excitement you're feeling; I still have it whenever a play begins to take shape. Its like working with a lump of clay for a while and suddenly seeing in it the shape of a head, the curve of a horse's mane, a leaf, a flower, a bird . . . still indistinct but waiting to be set free. That's what you'll be doing: setting free the hidden parts of the play—why people do what they do, the acts of love or hate they inflict or suffer, how they come to understand (or never understand) the life around them.

Nothing in the world brings the same good feeling as that. It almost makes up for the fact that we can't always shape our own lives the way we want. Almost. Nothing, after all, makes up for the absence of a loved one.

Hermione sounds terrific; I think you're going to have a wonderful time. As for the play, it sounds interesting, with a powerful lead, but it's hard to tell from a summary. Would you send me a copy? All my love, Luke.

The bracelet was of small square diamonds with a ruby clasp. Jessica put it on and held out her arm, the diamonds flashing in the sun. She had wanted something from Luke. Now she had something from Constance, too.

By now a letter from him arrived every day. Sometimes it was just a note scribbled in a taxi, more often it was a single page of news of the city and the theater, tales of people they knew and others whom Jessica had not met, recollections of Constance, suggestions for a movie to see or a book to read, the weather report, Martin's latest menu. He never wrote about a party or going on a date. One could assume, from his letters, that he had indeed become a monk.

Luke Cameron? Never. Of course he was seeing women, squiring them about the city, sharing their beds. There was no reason for him to write to her about them; the first she would know was when he wrote to tell her—for she was sure he would do this—that he was getting married.

But she would not think about that. She saved his letters, filling a drawer in the hutch in her living room. Then, one evening on her way home she stopped in Woollahra and saw in a shop window an Italian box covered in fine, dark green leather with a gold tooled border on the hinged lid. She brought it home and put Luke's letters inside—so many, already—then set the box on the coffee table beside the one holding Constance's letters. She stood back, gazing at them.
Not much personal contact, but there's a lot of paper in my life.

“Handsome box,” Hermione said later that evening. They were eating vichyssoise and cold chicken at the coffee table. “Good leather. Two Italian boxes. Both for letters?”

“Yes.” Jessica filled their wineglasses and held hers up. “To the cast we'll find one of these days.”

Hermione touched her glass to Jessica's. “Any day now. One box for Constance; you told me about that one. The other for Lucas Cameron?”

“Yes. He's asked to see a copy of
Journeys End.
Would you mind if I sent him one?”

“No, why would I? It'll be published in a month or two, anyway; he'd be able to buy it anywhere.”

They ate in silence for a moment. “Well, what is it?” Jessica asked. “Something's bothering you. Is it that we're starting so late on the casting?”

“Hell, no. We don't start anything until you feel ready. That doesn't bother me at all.”

“Well, something does. Come on, Hermione, you'll tell me eventually, so why not get it over with?”

“Why not, indeed. Well, the fact is, I'm not finding investors. I've got one, Donny Torville, a sweet guy, loaded, who doesn't care a fig about the theater, but he likes me. I was hoping for two or three more, but they don't seem to be out there.”

“Because they don't think I can direct it.”

“Right. I don't like to be brutal about this, but we have to face it. They ask me why I think you can come back after so many years,
and
come back as a director, which you've never been. And if you really could do it, they say, why not do it in New York?”

“What do they call me?”

“It doesn't matter. You know what it is, Jessie? They're mad at you for coming back. They remember you when you were the most gorgeous creature and the most brilliant actress, and they're mad because they don't want to know that looks can fade and bodies can be damaged; they don't want to know that bad things happen, because then they'd have to face the fact that bad things could happen to them. They want you to go away and let them believe that beauty and perfection last. What a bunch of assholes, turning their back on life.”

“What do they call me?”

“I told you, it doesn't matter.”

“It matters to me.”

“Jessie, it has nothing to do with—”

“What do they call me?”

“God damn it, you're more stubborn than I am. Well, if you really want to know . . . Washed up and a cripple.”

Jessica nodded, waiting for the sharp pain to fade. And it did, very quickly. She had felt it before, so many times, but now everything was different. “Well,” she said quietly, “we'll have to prove them wrong.”

Hermione's eyebrows rose. “Is this Jessica Fontaine speaking? A transformation. Maybe it's because we're two days from Christmas. But I didn't think you felt Christmasy, since it's ninety degrees outside and as humid as a sauna.”

Jessica smiled. “It definitely does not feel like Christmas. Do you know how odd it is to see Christmas decorations next to silk trees in bloom, all those summery pink flowers like hundreds of birds perched on the branches? I can't get used to it.”

“So Christmas didn't do it. What did?”

“You. And Luke. Knowing you both believe in me. And being back. Every time I walk into that rehearsal room, I feel alive and whole, because I'm where I belong. And none of your whining investors is going to take that away from me.”

“Well, hallelujah. You're wonderful, I love you, I have absolute, total confidence in you. In us. This play is going to make money. Therefore, I've decided to back it. I would have told you earlier, but I wanted to know how you felt first.”

“No. Hermione, you can't do that. You know you should spread the risk around; you can't assume it all yourself.”

“Don't forget Donny.”

“You need at least two more people.”

“They aren't out there. For your second play they will be, but not for this one. I'm okay with this, Jessie; I'm not worried.”

“You should be. You've got an unknown playwright and a first-time director; that's hardly a sure thing.”

“I'm okay with it.”

“Well, then.” Jessica went to the dining room table, strewn with papers and books, blocking charts, and scripts marked with colored pencils for each character, and rummaged until she found her checkbook. “How much did Donny put up?”

“Now hold on. This isn't your job. Your job is to direct this play.”

“Let's not argue about money, Hermione; it's so boring. How much did he give you?”

“Two hundred thousand. Money is never boring.”

“Arguing about it is. I'll match that and you can do the same. Can we produce this play for six hundred thousand?”

“Yes.”

“With the turntables?”

“I don't know. I haven't priced them. Jessie, are you sure you want to do this?”

Jessica was writing a check. Without looking up, she said, “You and Luke aren't the only ones who believe in me. I'm beginning to believe in me, too.”

She handed the check to Hermione. “This is on my money management account in the U.S., but I don't think you'll have trouble depositing it.” She raised her glass. “I think we should drink a toast to our play. And to all the people who will be sorry they didn't back it.”

Hermione grinned. “I haven't felt this excited for a long time. We'll knock their socks off.”

Knock their socks off, Jessica thought two weeks later, after the Christmas holidays, when they were at the Wharf rehearsal room for their first casting session. She and Hermione had exchanged gifts on Christmas morning, then cooked dinner together for a few of Hermione's friends. On New Year's Eve they had visited a couple in Melbourne, spending the night and returning the next afternoon. “We don't want you getting gloomy about holidays,” Hermione had said, and the week that Jessica had dreaded passed almost without pain.

Dear Luke, thank you for the wonderful bracelet. It means so much to me that it comes from both of you. I wore it to a quiet Christmas dinner, just ten people, and an even quieter New Year's Eve in Melbourne: four of us, Hermione and I and the couple we were visiting. He owns a construction company and she's a poet so the conversation roamed in all directions. You would have enjoyed it. I hope your holidays were good, and I wish you a wonderful new year. Thank you again. I love the bracelet. Jessica.

She had mailed it on the way to the Wharf and it came to her as she sat in the rehearsal hall that she had not meant to add that last phrase, but at the last minute she knew she could not send him a letter that was so cold, about something so special.
I love the bracelet. I love you.
He would not make that connection.

Sitting beside Hermione, she watched two actors come to the center of the room. She was nervous and it did not help that the room was very hot. The doors to the harbor were open, but the faint breeze off the water seemed to lose heart before it reached them, and no air stirred except from two floor fans that had long since conceded defeat. Thermoses of iced tea and water were on the table where they sat, and Jessica took a long drink of ice water. “Let's begin in act one where Helen discovers that Rex has moved in next door.” She turned the pages of her script, so marked up in places she could barely make out her notes. She looked around as someone opened the door and walked in: a short balding man with bowed legs, long arms, and bright blue eyes in a deeply tanned face.

“Sorry, so sorry I'm late, it won't happen again.” He held out his hand. “Dan Clanagh. Your stage manager. Hell of a way to make an entrance, but somebody rear-ended me at a stoplight and nobody but me was in a hurry to get all the paperwork done so we could resume our suicidal dash through rush hour. Anyway, how do you do. I'm looking forward to working with you. This is a truly fine play.”

Jessica was smiling as they shook hands, remembering what Hermione had said. “He's the best there is; you'll like him.” And she did.

“Act one,” she said again.

She had done this so many times that she felt disoriented when the actors began to read their lines. She was in the wrong place, on the wrong side of the table. Why was she silent while these people were speaking the lines of the play? She felt Hermione's hand on her arm. “Pay attention, Jessie. You're directing this play.”

Of course. She was directing this play. She would not be on stage. She would be behind the scenes, invisible and anonymous.

But I told Hermione I felt alive and whole and that is the truth. As long as I'm here, everything is all right.

She began to listen critically. Actors walked in, read, and left, and now and then she felt a spark of interest, but it was not a big spark and it never lasted long. “It must be me,” she told Hermione that night at dinner. “They're all competent; there must be something wrong with me that I don't think any of them are right for this play. Maybe”—she forced herself to say it—“maybe I'm jealous.”

“Could be,” Hermione said casually. “But I didn't think they were right, either, and I haven't got a thing in the world to be jealous about. Tomorrow may be better; Angela Crown's coming to read Helen and she's impressive. And the one for Rex, well, I'm not sure about him, but he might do. If nothing else, you'll like his name. Whitbread Castle.”

“What?”

“You heard me. His mother probably got it out of a romance novel. If we use them both, we'll have a crown and a castle. How can we go wrong?”

“You can't take anyone seriously with a name like that,” Jessica said, but when she heard him read the next day she sat up with sudden interest. He was extraordinarily handsome, with a deep voice and a powerful aura of sexuality, and when he and Angela Crown read together it seemed they already felt some of the tension that would build between Helen and Rex throughout the play. Jessica let them read without interruption. “He's too tight,” she murmured to Hermione at one point. “Voice and body. But we can loosen him up, don't you think?”

“Worth working on,” Hermione whispered. “He's okay.”

“And Angela?”

“Better than him. I like them both. Don't you?”

Jessica nodded. “Angela,” she said, “would you read the last two lines again, please? But first tell us whether you're annoyed or curious or maybe threatened, that he's now your neighbor.”