Acts of Love (54 page)

Jessica laughed. “You have the most amazing way of making what I say sound absurd.”

“Only when it is absurd. How did Lucinda do this morning?”

“Not good.” Absently, she tore her paper napkin into small pieces. “This is my fault, you know. I shouldn't have approved her. I knew her background was weak, but I was so anxious to finish casting and begin rehearsals—”

“Hold on, you didn't do this alone. Her reading was good; did you forget that? And her videos were good. So were the letters from Melbourne; they liked her there. We had plenty of reasons to approve her.”

Jessica shook her head. “I should have seen that she wasn't ready for a major part. I should have seen her fear.”

“Right, if you were a sorcerer. None of us saw it.”

“It's my job to spot those things.”

“Well, we'll take you to the woodshed some other day. Right now, what do you think about her?”

“I don't know. I'm trying to convince her that she's good and that Helen is a great part for her. If I can do that, I'm pretty sure she's got the talent to pull it off.”

“Hypnotize her.”

Jessica laughed. “You and Luke would get along. He thought of that, too.”

“Well, great minds. I wish I could help with Lucy.
Is
there anything I can do?”

“You're doing it. A sympathetic ear and a friendly face; the most important things I need right now.”

“Then let's do more of it. Come for drinks tonight, seven or seven-thirty, whenever you're finished with Lucinda. I might even cook dinner.”

“Don't forget to turn on the oven.”

“I'll keep it in mind.” Hermione watched Jessica limp down the corridor from the cafe to the small rehearsal room where she and Lucinda were working.
That damn cane; that would be a problem.

But not insurmountable.

She finished her cappuccino, scowling fiercely, so that a friend coming to talk to her veered off, thinking another day would be better. Hermione never saw her; she was too deep in thought. The night before, she had lain in bed, consumed by an idea that was absolutely crazy, that even a gambler such as she would be wise to avoid, but that became absolutely irresistible the more she thought about it.

Go over it again. Why do I want to do this?

Because I love her. She's the daughter I always wanted, and my dearest friend, and even though she won't admit it, she's being eaten up inside by directing other women in that part instead of playing it herself. Who wouldn't risk a lot for a daughter and a best friend?

And one more reason. I do not want Lucinda Tabor to play Helen.

That does it. A list of reasons no one could quarrel with.

She fished in the clutter in her vast and sagging purse, brought out her cellular phone and walked to a corner of the empty cafe, peering in all directions like a secret agent watching for spies. Leaning against the wall, she got the number from an operator and made the call.

When she was finished, she switched the telephone off and paced around the silent room.
Dear God, if this doesn't work I will have screwed a lot of people who'll think a lynching party is much too good for me.

She folded the telephone into its slim rectangle and put it away, staring unseeing at the harbor, the water dancing with raindrops, the trees swaying in the wind. Finally she gave a decisive nod.
Let's do this right. Either I'll be a pariah for the rest of my life, or the heroine of the Pacific Rim.

She drove home and sat at her computer, composing a letter. She typed the single paragraph and printed it out. Then she called the long-distance operator.
Please, please let him be one of those farsighted people who list their fax number in the phone book.
“Both numbers,” she said. “Office and fax.” The operator read two numbers and Hermione let out a long sigh.
It was meant to be.
She took the letter to her fax machine, skimmed it once more, and then sent it.

Dear Lucas Cameron, there is a ticket for you at the box office for opening night of
Journeys End
, next Tuesday: the seat next to mine. I hope you'll consent to have dinner at my house first; it's time we got acquainted. With my very best regards, Hermione Montaldi.

“You've gone mad.” Jessica flung the words from the other end of the room. She had walked into Hermione's house carrying a bottle of wine, a loaf of bread and a book she knew Hermione wanted to read, but within a few minutes, her gifts, and dinner, too, were forgotten. “You let Lucy go? Why? How could you? My God, Hermione, what have you done?”

“Can we sit down and discuss this? Maybe open that excellent wine you brought and talk in leisurely, dulcet tones?”

“In one week we've lost the star and her understudy, and you want a leisurely conversation? I want to know what happened. What did you tell her? Where is she? We have to get her back. Hermione, damn it, where is she?”

“Melbourne, but—”

“Oh, thank God. So close. I'll call her—”

“Don't do it, Jessie. And don't glare at me.” Hermione let out a long breath, trying to control the tremors of fear that suddenly were racing through her.
I shouldn't have done it. What got into me? Jessie's right; I was mad. And what do we do now?
She felt unsteady on her feet. “Listen, I'm sitting down, even if you're not.” She took her place at the end of the couch and reached to the coffee table to open the bottle Jessica had brought and fill two glasses. “Very nice,” she murmured, swirling her glass and tasting the wine. “Penfold's Grange Syrah.” Each word was clipped in her effort to keep her voice steady. “You've learned a lot about Australian wines.”

“Why shouldn't I call her?”

“Because she's a hell of a lot better off where she is than she was with you browbeating her into playing Helen.”

“Browbeating?
Who said I was—”

“She did. She said you reminded her of her mother. You and Helen both. She said the more you told her how good she was, the worse she thought she was and she couldn't stand the idea of letting you down. She couldn't face you, either, to tell you herself. She hopes someday you'll forgive her.”

“I can't believe— When did she tell you all this?”

“Jessie, sit down; we can't talk this way.”

“When did she tell you?”

Hermione sighed. “About five o'clock this afternoon when you finally quit for the day.”

“She went running to you because she was unhappy with me?”

“I went looking for her. A friend of mine has the perfect part for her in a new play in Melbourne, and I thought she ought to know about it.”

Jessica's eyes narrowed. “How did your friend happen to think of Lucy for that part?” Hermione did not answer.
“You
thought of it.
And you called him.
Why?
Why?
I know you've never been crazy about Lucy, but why would you do this? How could you do it?” Hermione still said nothing. “How could
she
do it? How could she just walk out like that, knowing she'd leave us with no one?”

“Well, she didn't know that. I told her we had someone else to play Helen. That made her feel—”

“You what? But it was a lie! Hermione, what's gotten into you? I could have gotten her ready, I know I could. She would have been ready by opening night.”

Hermione's tension exploded. “I don't give a damn whether she would or not! I didn't want her to play Helen.”

“You had no authority to make that decision.”

“Right. You're absolutely right. I'll never do it again.”

“This is not a joke!”

“I know it isn't. I'm sorry, Jessie.”
I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I shouldn't have done it, it was crazy, but I can't tell you that, because I have to convince you—

“Why did you do it? What in God's name were you thinking of?”

“You know damn well what I was thinking. Jessie, please sit here with me. We have a lot to talk about, and standing there glaring at me isn't going to get us anywhere.”

Jessica did not move. “You are mad. You think I'm going to play Helen. I won't do it. I can't.
You knew that.
You've destroyed our play because of a ridiculous idea that you can force me onto the stage, as if—”

“Cut it out, Jessie.” She took a long breath and plunged ahead. “It's not a whim and I'm not forcing you; I'm clearing the way. I was awake all last night thinking about this. You're so hungry to be up there you can taste it; it's eating you up inside. Well, now's your chance. You know every word of that play, you know
Helen
—everything about her, probably back to the time she was in kindergarten. You'll play her the way she ought to be played; you'll
be
her. Angela couldn't do that, and God knows neither could Lucy. You'll be the Helen the author, may he rest in peace, dreamed of.”

“In my imagination.
Not on stage.
Can't you understand that? I've told you over and over why I can't.”

“Well, I forgot. Tell me again. Come on, sit here, have some wine, and tell me your reasons.”

Jessica stood where she was, taut with anger and frustration and a growing panic. “What's wrong with you?” she cried. “You know my reasons; you can see them! Look at me!” She limped across the room, leaning on her cane. “How clever do you have to be to figure this out? How can I walk across a stage? This is what they'll look at”—she had reached the couch and she threw her cane onto the cushions—“they'll see this, and the way I walk,
and the way I look,
and then everything stops. Don't you see that? Every time I take a few steps everybody watches this cripple pretending to be like everyone else. We're trying to pull an audience into our story so they believe it. What do they believe when they see me?” There was a silence. She sat on the edge of the couch. “That was a question!”

Hermione was eating appetizers nonstop, trying to calm her churning stomach. “How about—” she began, but her voice came out in a croak.

Jessica looked at her closely. “You haven't got an answer. You're as worried as I am. My God, Hermione, what are we going to do?”

“No choice anymore.” Hermione cleared her throat. “I haven't given us much choice. Wait. Give me a minute.” She took a long drink of wine, then put her glass down and pushed it away. This was no time to feel mellow. “If your only problem is walking across the stage, you don't have to do it. Why can't we reblock the scenes so that Helen stays pretty much in one place? She can stand, sit, take a couple of steps to a desk or chair, whatever, but basically she stays in one place and lets others come to her. That shouldn't be too hard for a bunch of intelligent people to figure out in an hour or two.”

“No.”

“No, we're not intelligent? No, we couldn't figure it out? No, it couldn't be done in an hour or two? Try some of your wine; it's excellent.”

“Hermione, don't turn this into a farce. When I gave up the stage it was like dying, but I've come to terms with it, I'm content, and if you think—”

“You're as content as an eagle with its wings cut off, or a koala that can't climb trees. What are your other reasons?”

“You know them.”

“Tell me.”

“Helen is forty and beautiful; she has a powerful presence and great pride in herself. She's not ugly, she doesn't stoop,
and she's not lame.”

“Are you telling me why you can't be in this play, or in any play?”

“Right now we're talking about this one.”

“So if the play was about a gray-haired hag with a cane, you'd do it?”

Jessica broke into laughter.

“Oh, I'm so sorry.” Hermione turned down the corners of her mouth. “Have I made you seem foolish again?”

“Don't do that, Hermione. This isn't funny.”

“Well, God knows I'm aware of that. Okay, you win, Jessie; you've got all those reasons, so I won't fight with you. We'll cancel opening night. We'll find another Helen and open by April first. We'd lose March, but that's not as bad as losing everything. I'll call the management companies tomorrow so we can have readings by the end of the week.” She stood up. “How about some dinner? I did remember to turn on the oven, so for a change everything is ready.”

Cancel opening night.
To anyone in the theater, those words were like a bell tolling death. Jessica looked past Hermione, through the windows. The rain had diminished to a drizzle that misted the glass, making the view of the harbor and the opposite shore soft and dreamlike. Unconsciously, she put her hand on the cane lying on the cushion beside her, and ran her palm up and down its length. Hermione was right: they would find another Helen. A skilled actress could fit herself into the cast in two intense weeks of rehearsal and they would have a run of one month, enough to establish her name as a director. And then—

Then it would all begin again.

But that's my life now, she thought. One actress or another, what difference does it make?

Hermione leaned forward and refilled Jessica's glass, and picked up her own. She was beginning to feel better. “I always wondered why you never colored your hair,” she said casually. “Didn't we talk about this once before? I mean, I have mine done, and so does just about everybody else, so why didn't you? Not drastically; just enough to make you look blond, ash blond, something like that, instead of gray.”

Jessica turned to her, frowning, as if trying to make sense of what she was saying.

“Your hair,” Hermione said. “Blond instead of gray. You know, one of those sexy silvery-blonds, maybe even streaked a little as if you'd been out in the sun. How come you never did it?”