Premiere: A Love Story (2 page)

She was no longer the overly confident woman whose first step into the “real world”—as her brother put it—had been full of bluster. Sam knew it. She had recognized long ago that she had moved on from the disappointment and become a new, more humble person. It had taken her a while, but she had discovered what she was good at and what mattered. She could not let anyone, especially not Peter Everoad, drag her into a past she had worked so hard to forget.

Sam went to let the bartender know he would not have to explain any champagne shortage. He was grateful and offered her another glass of wine. She turned to rest her elbows on the rich, polished wood bar. Grady’s father, Senator Malendar, had made his entrance and was working the room. Grady, her other best friend growing up, was now officially late. Sam watched as the senator glad-handed through the crowd. He exuded confidence. She wondered if he’d felt that self-assured all his life or if a solid sense of self was something to look forward to with age. The jazz band glided in to play behind a soulful singer Candice had chosen for the evening, and with that, the mood was complete.

“Would you like to dance, gorgeous?” Her heart skipped a beat. But it was only her older brother, Henry.

“Where did you come from?” Sam attempted a smile.

“Were you expecting someone else?” Henry asked, brushing his naturally curly hair off his face. He was dashing in his tux.

“No, you’ll do just fine.” She kissed him and smoothed the shoulders of his jacket. “Very nice tux, black on black, I approve. I’d love to dance.”

Henry put his hand out as Sam joined him on the dance floor. He stood a full head above her, even when she was in heels. Sam could feel the other women in the room looking at him as she rested her head on his shoulder. She was used to the looks, her brother was a handsome man. Henry had recently broken up with his long-term girlfriend. Sam could only assume there were women at the fundraiser hoping to take her place.

As his sister, Sam didn’t care what Henry looked like, all she knew was that he was her rock. He protected her, always had. No strings attached. He had been her fortress when she was younger and life was not so kind. Sam had slept on Henry’s couch in Los Angeles when she couldn’t yet bear to return home a failure, and he met her in Paris for a week when she went off to “find herself.” She was her own woman now, but spinning in Henry’s arms was a nice break. She felt safe.

Across the room, with his hands in his pockets, Peter had just finished listening to Mr. Callaway, his former high school principal, talk about “the fly fishing trip of a lifetime.” Mr. Callaway swiped another canapé off a passing tray and asked Peter what he thought about the future of Broadway.

“I mean with the commercialism and the melding of theater and movies, especially Disney. What do you think the future holds?” Mr. Callaway inquired.

Peter found it strange that people he had known all his life now regarded him as an adult with knowledge and valuable insight.
The power of a little recognition,
he thought to himself as he answered in the most authoritative tone he could muster. They had no idea he was still the same messed-up kid they’d watched leave for New York, all of them secretly anticipating his failure. Now older and more removed from all he had grown up with in Pasadena, Peter wondered if these people had actually expected his failure or if he had imagined it all because distain was easier to deal with than pity. Above all, he hated pity and the holier-than-thou bullshit that came with it.

Peter pulled at his collar, amazed at how quickly the past could seep into his consciousness. Clamping down on his thoughts, he tried to—as his father used say—”Remember who you are, son.” Right as he was preparing to suck up to another set of deep pockets in the hopes they would help the Playhouse, he turned and his eyes fell onto swirling melting movements of his past.
Christ, she still undoes me every time
, Peter admitted to himself, watching Sam dance with her brother. The moneymen would have to wait. Peter took a deep breath and made his way to the dance floor. It was time to talk. If that meant getting past Henry, then so be it.

“Hey, may I?” Peter asked, tapping Henry on the shoulder.

“Well, Mr. Big Shot. Long time no see.” Henry pulled Sam around to get a better look at Peter.

“Hair’s longer,” he observed.

Peter ran his fingers through his hair and looked away. Henry was confident, always had been. He was older than Peter by two years and enjoyed giving him a protective brother’s once-over.

“You want to dance with my baby sister? I don’t know. She was pretty messed up when . . .”

“Henry!” Sam interrupted. “I’ll be fine. Go find your rebound girlfriend.”

“All right, but you keep your hands where I can see them.” Henry passed Sam’s hand to Peter while she rolled her eyes.

Chapter Two

H
er stomach twisted at Peter’s touch. When he pulled her close, her heart remembered. He was bigger, more solid. He smelled like something so familiar yet oddly mysterious at the same time. Sam looked over Peter’s shoulder, then closed her eyes, followed his lead, and said nothing. She knew that, dancing this close, he could probably feel her heart pounding, and she wondered if his heart was mixed somewhere in that thunder. If he felt anything as they began to sway, he wasn’t giving it up, which was fine with her, easier actually. She simply wanted to get this over with. Move on.

Peter’s body responded immediately. It was as if he’d never left. He had danced with her dozens of times, but it had been years ago. His body should have forgotten how she felt in his arms, but it remembered instantly. The feel of her hair, a hint of Coco Chanel, the long sweep of her neck: it was all right there. While his mind was racing for the right words, his heart ached and begged to stay right where it was.

“Sam, it’s good . . .” Peter said quietly at her ear.

“This is a great event, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, it’s nice, but I . . .”

“It’s great that you’ve agreed to come home and save the theater.” She was trying to keep things professional while willing herself to release her death grip on his dinner jacket.

“Sam.”

“What?”

“Now that you’ve established that everything is ‘great,’ will you look at me?”

“Peter, we’re dancing. It’s not exactly conducive to looking.” She blew the bangs out of her face. Why had she let her stylist talk her into bangs?
Had something happened to the air conditioning? Or was she the only one starting to sweat?

“Sure it is.”

Peter eased her back slightly and Sam was once again lost in that face. Creases between the eyebrows, maybe a little deeper now. Peter, grown-up Peter, was really lovely. She knew it sounded absurd, but gorgeous wasn’t enough for the Peter dancing with her. It was too shallow. He was like a tailored suit paired with comfortable running shoes. His hair was deep brown, almost black now. Dressed up, it was off his face, as it was now, but Sam preferred Peter a bit mussed. He was warm, lived in. Cultured with a trace of a dirty joke.

Despite her best efforts, Peter continued to steal her breath. She reasoned that it might be the confidence, his new sense of self, that caught her off guard. Whatever it was, she willed herself to stop. Peter was going to be in town for the next few months, and she needed to put this away. They could no longer be friends, but she could work with him. She was a professional. One dance would not undo her. Besides, Sam was no longer about living in the past—at least that’s what she told herself. She looked right back at him and tried to relax. Peter held her firmly and without hesitation. Sam was more comfortable with the shy, uncertain Peter who had left her years ago. This version made her unsteady.

“There, happy? I’m looking at you. Now what did you need to say?”
Good girl, Sam,
she thought.
Oh, for Christ
’
s sake I
’
m praising myself like a dog now.

“I didn’t
need
to say anything, I
wanted
to say that it’s good to see you.” Peter’s hand moved along her back. It was a small movement, only an adjustment, but his fingertips brushed her skin, and she forgot where she was. She was drowning in his eyes and unable to call anyone for help. There were so many questions, but the most urgent, the one aching to get out, was . . . why? She would never give him the satisfaction of asking and she was positive his answer would never be enough.

“Good to see you too, Peter.”

“Really? Because it seems like you’re dancing with your old uncle Joe. You know the creepy one that always used to kiss you on the lips?” He smirked.

The announcement that the auctions would be closing in fifteen minutes brought Sam back to reality, and she glanced over toward the tables. Her mother was watching them. She smiled. Her mother gestured that everything was under control. Sam didn’t have time for dancing, but she couldn’t let go, not yet.

“Uncle Joe died last year,” she deadpanned. Peter’s face fell.

“Oh, Sam. I’m so sorry.”

His cool playwright exterior was gone, and he looked like fourteen-year-old Peter standing against the wall at his first etiquette class. Sam buried her face in his shoulder and laughed. It felt good to laugh. Peter spun her around and she felt his breath on her neck.
Some kind of wood? Cedar, maybe? Is that his new smell? God, whatever it is, I
’
ve missed him so much.

“I can’t believe you. Did he really die?” Peter whispered. They were now dancing chest to chest, his arms around her waist, hers intertwined over his shoulders.

“No, he’s living in Florida. He still kisses all of us on the lips.” They both pulsed with laughter, and the tension spilled onto the dance floor. That was all it took, one laugh, one gesture, always. During the most intense times in their lives Sam and Peter could still manage to make each other laugh. In that moment it felt so natural, as if Peter had never left.

Sam was certain those biceps were new as she allowed herself to be held just a little longer. Then the song changed, and it all became too much.

Peter’s smiling gaze shot through her chest, and she knew with all her being that she could not do this again. She would not survive it. Things had changed. Peter had changed them when he chose to ignore what happened between them. He left, and as much as she wanted to, she couldn’t forgive him for making her feel so, so lost. The music continued, but they were no longer dancing. Sam unwrapped herself from his arms and smiled politely.

Peter knew the instant she was gone. He could feel it. She came back to him for a flash, and as his heart warmed, he felt the cruel pain of someone being torn away. He deserved it, all of it, but his mind scrambled for something to hang on to. Maybe she wouldn’t forgive him, but he had to try.

“Peter, it was nice to see you. Please excuse me.”

“Sam,” he followed her off the dance floor and grabbed her arm, stopping her. Sam glanced around to assess how much of a scene they were making. No one seemed to care.

“Peter, please let me go. I have a million things to do.”

“We need to talk.”

Sam turned quickly.

“We do?” Sam released a pained laugh. “What exactly do we need to talk about, Peter?”

“About the . . . play, we need to talk about that, yeah.” He settled for a bit of distance, because the look on her face was killing him. “Candice tells me you’re handling my production. We should meet. There are a few things that need ironing out.”

“I’ll be there tomorrow, the first day of rehearsals. We can get everything taken care of then. Peter, I need to go.”

Sam turned to leave without giving him a chance to respond. He gave up and realized he could still smell her on his jacket. She had worn Coco Chanel since her father had first given it to her on her sixteenth birthday. Peter loved it. Was he actually sniffing his jacket?
Get a grip, man.

Walking among the patrons and swirling waiters, Sam stopped to clap for Mr. Weaver who had won the trip to Vail in the silent auction. She chatted her way through the crowd and noticed the petits fours and coffee service. Sam accepted gracious praise from Candice who was wearing a tight red dress and long gold earrings. She looked more like a statuesque model than the creative director for The Pasadena Playhouse. Candice was thrilled with the turn out and in a great mood. Grateful that things were going well, Sam turned to make her exit, and ran straight into Grady.
Fantastic! The third musketeer has arrived, late as usual.
Growing up in Pasadena, it had always been the three of them. Peter, Sam, and Grady had been best friends until
that day.
Peter had moved on and while Sam knew that he and Grady had kept in touch, she hadn’t heard one word from Peter Everoad in four years. Not until today.

“Whoa, where’s the fire? Wow, is this silk? You know how I love silk, Sam. Did you wear this for me?”

Sam swatted at Grady’s hands, and right as she wanted to swat his face, he leaned in and kissed her cheek.

“You’re late and not even fashionably.”