Premiere: A Love Story
Read Premiere: A Love Story Online
Authors: Tracy Ewens
Premiere: A Love Story
Copyright © 2014 by Tracy Ewens
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever including Internet usage, without written permission of the author.
This is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, or events used in this book are the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people, alive or deceased, events or locales is completely coincidental.
Ebook ISBN: 978-0-9908571-0-5
Print ISBN: 978-0-9908571-1-2
eBook formatting by Maureen Cutajar
For My Mom,
Who taught me books are
very precious things.
Table of Contents
Chapter One
S
amantha Cathner liked understated. She appreciated it. Certainly she believed it was better to be a quiet surprise than a loud letdown. For this reason, and many others, the Norton Simon Museum spoke to her. She arrived early to double-check everything for the fundraiser. The Norton Simon was a special venue, part of the neighborhood. The famous umber-tiled exterior walls and the beautiful grounds blended well with the rest of Pasadena. It was simple and yet able to hold its own among the most sophisticated houses of art, even stacking up to The Getty.
Streamlined but welcoming, that’s what she had pitched to the board, and as Sam approached the main exhibit hall, she was confident they had achieved just that. The charcoal table linens worked to bring weight and warmth to the room.
Deception
, a magnificent bronze statue of an actor holding a mask, sat center stage in the cocktail area. Servers were filling simple hand-blown champagne flutes and placing them on muted pewter serving trays.
The museum did not normally host private functions, but they tried to accommodate at least one fundraiser a year for the Pasadena Playhouse. Pasadena had a very tight-knit arts community. Everyone worked to hold each other up during lean years. It was almost seven o’clock. A large crowd was expected.
Sam spotted her parents near the bar as the guests arrived and began mingling. Jack Cathner cut a large, engaging figure with his salt-and-pepper hair, a nose that sort of bulbed up more on one side than the other, and booming voice. He had recently put on some weight. Sam thought it looked good on him—and so did her mother—but his incessant tugging at the front of his jacket was obviously driving Susan Cathner crazy because she swatted at him again.
“Stop pulling at it.”
“I feel like I’m going to bust out of this damn thing. Maybe if I unbutton the top one.” His wife’s look was enough to stop Jack. Her kiss on his cheek brought a smile to his face.
“You look wonderful. Stop and enjoy the evening.”
“What do you make of that statue we passed on the way in? Male? Female? Unless I’m slipping, those are breasts, right?”
“It’s bronze, I think it’s the material that makes the chest look larger. That’s a male,” Susan said, looking again at the sculpture.
Sam stood quietly next to her father, enjoying their conversation.
“Sam, do I look like I’m busting out of this tux?”
“No, you look great, and the statue is neither male nor female. It’s abstract, asexual. It represents humans, male and female.”
Her parents looked at her and then back at the statue. Jack rolled his eyes. He understood creativity, but he would never understand eccentricity.
“Beautiful dress, honey. This whole event is stunning. Margaret and the rest of the bridge club are setting up the silent auction. Do you need help explaining the auction as people arrive?”
Sam looked toward the front of the museum. “No, the volunteers are here, and they’ll cover that. Mom, you’re here to enjoy.”
“So what does that make the statue, I mean if someone asks, what do I say?” her father asked.
“I doubt anyone’s going to ask you, Dad, but stick with abstract, okay?” Sam patted her father on the shoulder and turned to order a drink.
Her skin knew he was there before her mind had a chance to catch up. Even after all this time, all these years, he could still change the air she lived in.
“Well, look who’s here. Peter, my boy, how are you?” her father boomed, extending his hand.
“I’m good, Mr. C. It’s good to see you both.” Peter shook hands and kissed Susan Cathner on the cheek. “Mrs. C, you look fantastic.”
“Thank you, Peter. Are they taking care of you in the big city? We can’t thank you enough for bringing your new play here. Your mother is so proud.” Peter’s mind tripped for a moment at the thought of his mother and her pride, but he moved on.
“Oh, no thanks are needed. It’s the perfect venue for this particular play. New York is great, but it’s nice to be home, at least for a little while.”
“Well, we hear you’re quite the success,” Jack said, patting him on the back.
“I’m making my way, thank you, sir.”
Sam’s back was still to all of them while she pretended to be incredibly interested in the bartender revealing what made his Manhattan so special. She tried to steady her breath, but it was really no use. She likened the moment to that time in Phys Ed when she saw the softball coming toward her but froze and was unable to stop the impact. Sam took another large sip of wine, and a shallow breath, before turning slowly with her father’s drink in hand. Her hair tousled over one bare shoulder, Sam looked right at her father’s face.
“Dad, your drink.” She smiled, hoping she appeared casual. She was grasping for casual.
“Thank you, Button. Look who . . .”
Their eyes met, and Sam’s knees softened. She gently took her father’s arm for balance and willed herself to stop being obvious.
They stared at each other for seconds that seemed longer. Neither of them heard Jack and Susan discussing the last time Peter was in town.
Sam let out a slow breath and allowed herself to look at him. His hair had grown out; it curled slightly around his ears. And facial hair, more than a shadow, but not quite a full beard. Eyes that were still that indescribable green hooded by dark lashes. She remembered them, those eyes. One minute bright and sparkling; the next, a dark forest of hidden secrets. Sam had never met another pair of eyes like Peter’s. After he left, she spent a good year looking for eyes to replace his, before she learned to settle for men with different eyes.
Sam was taken aback, she would admit it: looking at him was much more than she imagined it would be. She tried to see Peter as her friend, tried to conjure it up. The little girl buried inside her desperately wanted go back to being best friends. Her pulse was pounding now with the realization that nothing could be done; with one look she knew Peter would never be
only
her best friend again. She had to get out of the room.
“Peter, welcome home. Good of you to, well, it’s great. Thank you so much for what you’re doing to help the theater. Speaking of which, I really should check on the auction.” Peter’s mouth opened as Sam nodded to her mother, turned with her very best professional purpose, and walked away. The casual observer would see it as an employee diligently attending to an important event detail.
Peter smiled at Mr. and Mrs. Cathner, took a sip of his drink, and saw it for what it was. While he hadn’t expected her to turn and bolt, he had known for months this wasn’t going to be easy. Her rejection tonight felt like a punch. He was sorry their first new meeting made her uncomfortable, but after what he’d done to her, Peter was relieved to see a reaction at all.
She was more beautiful than he remembered—and his memory was perfect when it came to Samantha Cathner. She was older now, more fluid and polished. Sam had always had that scrubbed, girl-next-door look, but she had never been ordinary. Her lips had a perfect bow, like in a painting, and her eyes were so open and vulnerable. She had always hated that Peter could tell what she was really thinking. It was the eyes. They often betrayed her, even when her tongue was wicked.
Her hair was shorter, but still that ink-dark brown. He wondered if summer still kissed her hair with gold and brought freckles to her nose and shoulders. Back in New York, when he allowed himself to remember Sam, he had always pictured her in jeans. This Sam was in all that black silk. He let out a deep breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. She was different.
She had never been more grateful for something to do in her entire life. The caterers were two people short; six invited guests had shown up with an extra person, throwing off the food count; and they were dangerously low on champagne. Candice, the creative director of the Playhouse and Sam’s boss, had arrived thirty minutes ago and asked for help. Sam was secretly thrilled. Details, she loved the details, the problems to solve. Right now, calling the local liquor stores to see how many bottles of Krug Clos d’Ambonnay she could scrounge up was a welcome distraction. There were answers to these problems, solutions. By the time Sam sent someone to pick up two more cases of champagne she was halfway to normal. Walking out of the kitchen, she told herself she was Samantha Cathner, assistant creative director for the Pasadena Playhouse. She did not cower or hide, and apart from her quick exit from Peter, she never ran. That was Peter’s game, but Sam was a sticker. Was one, always had been, always would be a sticker. This was her home.