Acts of Love (51 page)

My love, I'm sitting at my desk watching spirals of snow swirl past my window. Every few minutes a bunch of flakes cluster together like politicians plotting a campaign and then a gust of wind shoots them straight up and out of sight. The prediction is for a foot of snow by morning, which is absurd for March, but New Yorkers, of course, will deal with it quite handily, as they did the last dump that shut us down for a few blessed hours. Martin has gone out to buy groceries and cross-country skis before there's a run on either one; I think he's quite pleased with the sense of impending crisis that the howling wind and swirling blizzard have created.

Puzzled, Jessica read to the end, then went on to the next.

Well, my love, I've just been cross-country skiing down Fifth Avenue, an exhilarating experience. I didn't do it in the last storm, but this time I couldn't resist. I wish you could see the transformation here: nothing moves but people who have taken over the streets as if time has turned backward a couple of centuries. No, even farther back, since there are no horses, no carriages—nothing but the whisper of skis on snow, the slap of snowshoes, and the exuberant shouts of children (and quite a few adults) as the city becomes a village—
their
village. It is bitter cold, but the sun gives the snow a silvery sheen and the shadows of buildings he across it like long blue-gray spikes. I skied as far as—

They were all the same: casual, warm, friendly, almost impersonal, talking about the opera, an auction at Sotheby's, a ballet at Lincoln Center. No mention of Claudia or Tricia, no mention of her coming to New York, not even a question about her play during the rest of the week in Melbourne. He's given up, she thought. He finally believes that I won't be part of his life, that what we had on Lopez is over, that what we have left is friendship. Perhaps he's already found someone else, so he won't write anything about his personal life. Ever again.

A sense of loss swept over her. She pushed the letters into a pile and left them on the couch. There seemed to be no reason to put them in the box with all his others.

When the telephone rang, she answered it dully. “Jessica, are we still on hold?” Edward asked. “Tell me we aren't. I want to take you to dinner tonight. We can celebrate Melbourne or talk about the previews starting tomorrow or not talk about work at all. Or not talk about anything; we could just eat and drink and be happy together.”

This was a new Edward. His jubilant voice made her sit straighter. “You're not worried about tomorrow night?”

“Not much. A little, of course, and it might get worse tonight—one is never sure whether anxiety will go up, down or sideways—but Melbourne, you know, those reviews  . . . They were like wine, don't you think? I feel quite intoxicated by them.”

“It was just tryouts in Melbourne,” Jessica said, alarmed by his jauntiness. “Sydney will be tougher because this is where we'll have our run. And we still have work to do; we're rehearsing tomorrow at nine.”

“Then dinner should be early. Shall I pick you up at seven?”

She glanced at the pile of letters on the cushion beside her. Why not? she thought. He cares for me and it will help the evening pass. “Yes. I'll be ready.”

She looked through her window at the hazy late-summer sky and the trees just beginning to turn color across the harbor. I'll have to talk to Hermione about another play, she thought. I have to keep busy.

Maybe one of Luke's plays.

The idea seemed to come from nowhere. But then she knew she had been thinking about it for a long time. They were fine plays; she knew they would be better when he finished rewriting them. And if she directed one, he would know there were no hard feelings.

But she could not do that. Because of course he would come to Sydney to take part in the rehearsals.

What a ridiculous idea.

She heard a click: the fax machine switching on. She looked at her watch. Three o'clock. Midnight in New York. Turning, she watched the sheet of paper inch into view. She imagined Luke standing in his library, watching his letter disappear into his fax machine.
Giving it to me to read.

She gazed across the room at the white sheet of paper with lines of handwriting that she recognized as Luke's.
I don't want another friendly hello. I already know what that looks like.

In a little while, she took the bowl of apples back to the kitchen, skirting the fax machine. She went to her bedroom and found a book to read. She changed the disc she had been listening to, putting on the Mozart clarinet quintet, one of her favorites. And then she could not stand it any more and she picked up the letter and began to read.

My dearest love, by now you must be back in Sydney. I've seen some of the Melbourne papers at a newsstand that seems to carry every major paper in the world, so I know how well you've done. I'm not surprised, but I'm enormously impressed, because I know that a brilliant acting career doesn't guarantee a smooth transition to directing, where you have to deal with everyone, not just your own character. I'm very proud of you. I hope you're as proud of yourself.

I must confess, my love, that I don't know how to write to you anymore. The letters waiting for you when you returned from Melbourne were written while I was trying to figure out what to do next. I love you, I want to marry you, I want us to be together, to achieve as much as we can, together and separately. But I don't think you want to hear me say that. I don't know what you want to hear me say. All I know for certain is that, if you don't tell me to stop, I'll go on writing, indefinitely, I suppose, because I cannot break my connection with you. Any bond between us is better than none.

If you aren't yet ready to tell me what you want, I can wait. I have no more cross-country skiing to write about (curses on a city that clears its streets all too soon), but there is always my work, and yours, and, as a last resort, opera and ballet and Sotheby's. I love you. Luke.

The sun shone brilliantly; the clarinet soared in a joyous melody. Jessica went back to the couch, picked up the earlier letters, and tucked them in with the collection in her box.
But not this one, not yet. I want to read it a few times—a few dozen times—before I put it away.

And then she thought of Edward. She had no desire to go to dinner with him—what could she have been thinking of? I'll call him, she decided, and tell him I just don't feel like going out tonight. But before she could pick up the telephone, it rang beneath her hand.

“Yes,” she said, thinking of Edward.

“Jessica Fontaine?” A woman's voice. Jessica sat on the couch, frowning, trying to place it. Too loud, aggressive, almost antagonistic, a little slurred, as if she were— She clenched her hand around the telephone. As if she were drunk.

“Yes, who is this?” she asked, though she already knew.

“Claudia Cameron. You don't know me; we never met, but you seem to know my husband. Luke Cameron.”

“Your husband?”

“He was. But we're still close.
Very close.
We care about each other—we're very close!—and I want to know why the hell you're writing letters to him.”

I don't have to talk to her. I should just hang up.

What would Luke want me to do?

He tries to protect her; he'd want me to do the same.

There was the sound of ice clinking in a glass. “Damn it, answer me! Are you afraid of me? You ought to be, you know, I can ruin you, I can smear you—”

Stung, Jessica snapped, “By planting lies with gossip columnists.”

“Oh, so you did get it. Then you know I can smear you all over New York if I want to. And I may want to. Answer my question!
Why do you write letters to my husband?”

“I write letters to your ex-husband because we're friends.”

“ ‘Friends' is what people say when they're sleeping together. I read some of those letters, all about the theater and Australia . . . who do you think you're fooling? I could tell you're sleeping with him.”

“That would be hard to do, since he's in New York and I'm in Sydney.”

“Oh, clever, clever. You actresses, you're all the same; there isn't an actress in the world I'd trust. You're trying to take Luke away from me, get him to go to Sydney so I won't have him close anymore. I asked him, and he said you were.”

“What?”

“He said you were sleeping together.”

“He never told you that.”

“He did. He said—”

“He said we were friends. He said I'm directing a play for the first time, and he helps me with problems I'm having.”

“You don't know what he said!”

“I know him. I know what he would say.”

“If you think you know him that well, you're sleeping with him.”

It was so illogical that Jessica burst out laughing.

“Don't you dare laugh at me!” Ice clinked in her glass. “You're finished! Do you understand? You won't have Luke— ever!—and you won't get any work in this town. Ever! I have powerful friends who'll stop you, and when Luke hears how you laughed at me he'll never look at you again. He'll throw away your letters, and if you call and beg and beg he'll hang up on you. I know how he is when he's pushed. So stay away from him! If you do, my friend won't print those other things she has.”

“She has nothing. You don't know what you're talking about.” The hell with her, Jessica thought furiously. They've been divorced for over eleven years; who does she think she is to tell me whether I can be with Luke or not? And does she really think she and her gossip friend could keep me away if I really wanted to come back? “This is crazy—”

“Don't tell me I'm crazy!”

“You're being ridiculous. I'm not after Luke and I'm not coming to New York, but, believe me, if I wanted to you couldn't stop me.”

“Oh, can't I. The minute you get off that plane—”

“There is no plane. What is wrong with you? I told you I'm not—”

“You're lying! Listen, I'm telling you, if you take Luke away from me, I'll kill myself. I mean it! He's all I've got.”

“You said you had powerful friends.”

“I do. Or I did. I don't know exactly what happened to them; I haven't seen them lately. Maybe they're out of town. But it's not important because I've got Luke, he cares about me, and if you take him away, I'll kill myself. I've decided, you know; I'm serious. You should know that before you get on that plane.”

“Claudia, listen to me.” Jessica's anger was gone; she felt only a deep sadness. “I'm not coming to New York. These are terrible things you're saying and there's no reason for them. You have so many things to live for—”

“Like what?” Jessica heard her crunch ice in her teeth. “You don't know anything about it! You've always been in the spotlight, you've never suffered or failed at anything, you're clever and beautiful and people applaud and say how fantastic you are. What do you know about failing? What do you know about waking up every day and not having
any idea
what you'll do that day
because you're not good at anything!
I lost Luke, you know, and now I don't see my friends anymore, I've lost people all over the place, but what would you know about that? You haven't lost anything, you
find
things, like other women's husbands, and then you take them away. You take and take and take, and people clap for you, but nothing works for me; everything's a failure.
I'm
a failure. Luke doesn't care; he loves me anyway. He doesn't love you! And if he does  . . . If he does I'll kill myself.”

“Don't say that. You're young, you can get help—”

“You mean a shrink?”

“Someone to help you find things to fill your days and give shape to your life. You have years to meet new people and find new ways of living. I know what it is to feel despair and loneliness—”

“Bullshit.”

“I've had some terrible times; I had to—”

“Bullshit, bullshit, bullshit. God, you actors, you lie through your teeth. I hate all of you. I hate the theater. I hate New York. I hate Luke. No, that's not true, Luke is all I've got. I love Luke. He'll miss me when I'm dead. He'll cry and say it's his fault. No, he'll say it's your fault. Then he'll hate you. And kaput, that's the end of you and Luke. I wish I could hear him curse you for what you did, but I won't be here, will I?”

“Claudia, stop it. You're not going to kill yourself; you don't
want
to kill yourself. You need help.”

“Don't give me any fucking advice, lady, I don't need it! Just stay away from my husband.
STAY AWAY!”
The phone slammed into its cradle.

Jessica sat for a long moment still holding the telephone, as if Claudia's voice might miraculously reappear. But at last she hung up. She was shaking from the violence of Claudia's rage and desperation, and from her own helplessness. There must have been things she could have said that would have been more helpful, more encouraging, less confrontational . . . And if Claudia really did kill herself . . .

But she wouldn't, Jessica thought. People who talked about suicide seldom actually did it; talking seemed to diminish the urgency. Was that right? Hadn't she read that somewhere?

The truth was, she knew almost nothing about suicide and almost nothing about Claudia.

I should call Luke. He should know she's talking this way.

She looked at her watch. Damn it, she thought, why can't we be in the same time zone? Almost one
A.M
. in New York. He would be asleep. I'll call later, she thought.

The telephone rang. “Jessica,” said Edward, “how about Catalina for dinner? I don't want to make a reservation if you don't want to go there.”