CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
WINNIE
The wine-red curtain falls over the stage. Rahim, Sloan, Renee, and I clutch each other’s sweaty hands in death grips. We’re all shaking. I can hear my own heartbeat through the sound of cheers and claps.
You survived a human experience. Congratulations.
“Hey, Nina.” Rahim bends down, whispering in my ear. “You killed it out there. Proud of you.”
Letting out a nervous laugh, I rise on my toes to hug him, then the others. We just delivered the first, full-audience show of The Seagull.
Not only did everything go smoothly—the acting, the lighting, the design, the music—but there were actually four important critics in the audience.
“Who did you spot out there?” Sloan elbows Renee as we rush backstage, cheeks flushed and exhilarated.
“The New York Times, The New Yorker, Vulture.” Renee rips the wig off her head, wiping the sweat from her brow. “The big dogs, Sloan. I can’t remember the last time there was a full house in Calypso Hall, let alone one where critics attended!”
“And did you see the Times Square billboard?” Sloan slaps his own cheeks, squealing. “My boyfriend sent me a picture between acts. I almost died on impact. I can’t believe Corbin shelled out the dough for marketing. He doesn’t give a rat’s ass about this place.”
“Times Square billboard?” I whip my head in his direction. “He did that?”
“Yes, girl.” Sloan gathers me into a hug, spinning me in place. “And it’s big and glorious. It’s only got your face on it, but all of our names. You should take a picture of it on your way to the bar.”
Arsène humored my one, sole selfish desire. Allowed me the indulgence of a billboard with my face on it. Even though we left off at the New Amsterdam without finishing our game. But why?
Because he wants you to give him all the information that you have about Paul and Grace. He doesn’t care one iota about you.
But there was something else too. I have an inkling Arsène really wants to bring out the self-interested side of me. To show me that I, like him, care about myself. It makes me feel uneasy. Mostly because I think he’s right. I think deep down, there is a part of me that’s selfish. I’ve just never let it loose.
Was he here tonight? Will he attend the after-party down the street? There’s no telling with this man. He comes and goes as he pleases. A renegade in a suit.
I can’t stop thinking about our kiss. I’m not sure if it made me exhilarated, offended, delighted, or all three. It was so urgent, so dark, so desperate that it felt like sipping a magic potion. I haven’t heard from him since the night at the gala, which, I remind myself, is a good thing. We’ll have enough time to find out what happened between our loved ones. There’s no need to form a relationship with the awful man.
The cast changes into their party clothes. I slip into a pair of jeans and a strapless black top and put on some lip gloss. The entire time, I remind myself that I hate Arsène Corbin. And even if I want to see him tonight, it is only because he is the main source of entertainment in my life these days. Nothing more.
Renee and Sloan cab it together to the venue. Rahim and I do the same, making a stop in front of the neon Times Square sign so I can pose in front of the billboard.
We arrive at the Brewtherhood to find it brimming with the entire cast and crew, their friends and family, and some industry people. We advance toward the bar. Rahim spots his girlfriend ordering a drink. He gives my arm a squeeze. “I’ll go get Bree and get you a drink. What’s your poison?”
My Tennessee heart wants whiskey, but after the New Amsterdam incident, I suspect spirits may not be my friends. “White wine. Make sure it’s not too tasty. I really can’t afford to get drunk.”
“One gross-ass chardonnay coming right up.”
I scan the room, knowing exactly who I’m looking for. I give myself a mental slap on the wrist.
What’s wrong with you? You’re exactly like Nina. Drawn to an impossibly tragic hero. A Trigorin. A misunderstood rebel with a cause. A fallen foe.
A magnetic force pushes me to look to my right. There, I find him. Leaning against the wall, a beer bottle in his hand, an unfathomable expression on his face. He wears elegance so well. He wears everything well. Even . . . depression? I cannot help but wonder whether he intended to fall that night at the Pierre, or if it was just a drunken, foolish mistake as he said.
Maybe he is regretting the kiss that came after it too.
Maybe he doesn’t even remember kissing me. Why do I care? I’m a widow still very much in pain from losing her husband. I shouldn’t give a darn what he is thinking.
That’s when I notice he isn’t alone.
He brought a date?
Yes, he brought a date. So what? Again, you don’t care, remember?
She is standing right next to him, and they share a pleasant conversation. She is beautiful. Tall, razor thin, with long black hair and midnight eyes. Unlike me, she is dressed to impress, in a white gown, with fitted bodice and exposed back.
My stomach rolls. It can’t be jealousy. Me? Jealous? Ha. I wasn’t even jealous when Paul invited all my good friends to slow dance at our wedding, including Georgie, my sister. Twice. Even when it stopped being appropriate and started looking a little weird (Big city people! Ma laughed it off).
But this girl . . . she is so lovely, and so much to Arsène’s taste. Dark haired and mysterious, like Grace.
“Surprise!” A pair of hands grabs me by the shoulders from behind. I gasp, swiveling around. Ma—yes, Ma!—is standing in front of me, arms stretched wide.
My momma, in the flesh! With her big grin and wide eyes and short, no-nonsense hairstyle and gemstone-beaded necklace that makes her fancy herself a real first lady.
“Sugar plum! You bright shining star of mine!”
I fling myself into her arms, clinging to her for dear life. “Ma! What’re you doing here?”
She wraps herself around me. “What do you mean? I wouldn’t have missed your premiere for the world. Oh, Winnie, look at you. You’re all skin and bones! Your daddy was right. I needed to buy a ticket six months ago and drag you back home with me.”
I unglue myself from her, peering into her face. She looks the same as always. Same clothes, same hair, same smile. It brings me a lot of comfort knowing my parents are exactly the way I left them.
“You’re staying?” I ask, realizing she is going to get into my apartment and see Paul’s shoes and yogurt and newspapers are still very much there, eagerly awaiting his return.
“Oh, sugar plum, I wish I could. But Kenny has a recital tomorrow, and Lizzy’s going to kill me if I miss it. Not to mention Georgie is down with her allergies again, and Daddy . . . oh, you know Daddy! He can’t do anything without me. I just wanted to be here for you today.”
“When did you land?” I hold her hands as if she is a hallucination, about to disappear from my view any minute now.
“This morning,” Chrissy answers, inserting herself between us, a ceramic travel mug with her fat-burning tea in hand. “I spent the day showing her around. We didn’t want you to know before the show. Figured you were already a nervous wreck.”
I don’t need to ask Chrissy to know she bought Ma the tickets. My parents aren’t poor, but they’d never splurge on a few-hours trip. I’m so grateful I could cry.
“Oh, Chrissy.” I make a face, hugging her. “Thank you,” I whisper in her ear. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”
“I’m heading back to the airport in a couple hours,” Ma announces, taking the scene in with haunted eyes. She’s never been a fan of the Manhattan scene. “All I really wanted was to make sure you’re okay.”
“I’m okay. Better than okay!” I smile brightly, hoping she buys it. If I can convince her of that, I am ready for my Oscar performance.
Ma’s eyes are misty and skeptical as her gaze swipes over me. Her hand is still on my arm, like she, too, cannot bear the idea of my evaporating into thin air.
“I don’t think New York’s good for you,” she says, finally, through pursed lips. “It’s cruel and hectic. It doesn’t understand your soul, sugar plum.”
“I couldn’t agree more, Mrs. Towles.” Chrissy jumps into the conversation artfully. “In fact, I was going to broach this subject with your daughter tonight.”
“You were?” I frown. This is news to me. Chrissy always tells me I have nothing to look for in Mulberry Creek. That my future awaits somewhere big and polluted and full of opportunities.
“Yes.” Chrissy takes a sip of her tea. “You should be heading to Hollywood as soon as The Seagull ends. If you make it there by June next year, we can book you a ton of auditions for pilot season.”
“Hollywood?” Ma rears her head back like Chrissy slapped her with the word. “Why, that’s even worse than New York!”
“How come?” Chrissy asks, blinking innocently. “It’s nice out there. Sunny. Open spaced. Everyone’s a health fanatic. And I’ll tag along for a few months, Mrs. Towles. Make sure our girl is all settled.”
“Sounds like you got it all figured out.” I eye my superagent. I wish I had made a pit stop at the bar. I could have used a glass of something strong and preferably poisonous for this conversation. “But I’m not sure about it at all. What about the apartment—”
“You can lease it,” Chrissy butts into my words, and by the glimmer in her eyes, I gather pulling me out of the space I shared with Paul is a part of her elaborate master plan. She wants me to get rid of his things. To move on.
To make it on my own and stop apologizing for who I am.
“I’ll think about it,” I lie.
“Think about what?” Lucas strides to our corner of the room and hands me a glass of wine. “A knight in shining armor thought you needed one and sent me over to save the day.”
“A knight, you say?” My heart leaps in my chest, and I feel my neck flush. “Who would that be?”
“Rahim, of course. Who else?” Lucas laughs, giving me an are-you-okay? look. “He didn’t want to interrupt this little reunion. Isn’t he darling?”
Disappointment slams into me. I’m so stupid. Did I actually expect Arsène to notice? To send me wine? The man brought a date here after kissing me silly, minutes after I saved him from death. He is a train wreck and the last person I should be warming up to.
“Rahim’s great,” I mutter, taking a generous sip. Gosh, it is a bad wine.
“Mrs. Towles, your daughter is an absolute gem!” Lucas explodes. “The best Nina I’ve seen with my own eyes, and that includes Saoirse Ronan and—God help me—the love of my life excluding my dear husband, Carey Mulligan. I cannot wait for the reviews to pour in. She was stunning, stunning. Even if she didn’t cry.”
Because she can’t,I want to scream. Tears are beyond me.
“She was always like this,” Ma boasts. “Did I ever tell you how she cried her eyes out the first time she listened to ‘Space Oddity’?”
A happy, loud conversation ensues among Lucas, Chrissy, and Ma. At some point, Rahim, Renee, and Sloan join us, along with their partners. The jolly, victorious mood is addictive, and I forget myself for the next hour, until everyone fades to their own corner in the bar, and Ma and I are alone again. She tilts her head, the dreamy smile wiped clean from her face.
“Now that everyone’s gone, tell me—how’ve you really been?”
“Honest to God, Ma, better than you think. Working hard on the play, of course, but it’s been a welcome distraction. And the paycheck!” I rave. “I might be able to keep the apartment now. Things are looking up, Ma. I swear.”
“What about going to the doctor?” she persists, her eyebrows puckered. “Please tell me you have an appointment. You’ve been neglecting it for months.”
The words hit me like a bucket of ice-cold water. I’ve done my best to ignore this subject—this problem—since Paul passed away. Everything took a back seat after the funeral, my health included.
“I haven’t forgotten,” I mutter.
“What’re you waiting for?” She tries to catch my gaze, to no avail. My eyes are firmly stuck on an invisible spot behind her.
“I’ll do it next week.”
“No, you won’t. You haven’t done it so far!”
“It doesn’t even matter right now.” I roll my eyes, feeling like a teenager again. “I feel fine. Healthy. Good.”
“Says who?” The plea in her voice undoes me. “My lord, sugar plum—”
“Ma, not here.” I stomp, desperate. “Please let it go!”
My last words come out more harshly and loudly than intended, drawing a few curious looks from people around us. Ma looks around helplessly, like she is waiting for someone to step in, to talk some sense into me. Usually, that person would be Georgie. She always likes to club me with the truth stick. But Georgie is not here to tag team me.
“This conversation ain’t over.” She wiggles her finger in my face. “Not if I have to drag you to the doctor myself. Now, let’s talk about something else before you tell your momma goodbye. Something pleasant. Oh, did you know Jackie O’Neill had a baby? A good-lookin’ one too. I have a picture on my phone somewhere . . .”
We talk about other things, but the damage is done.
I can’t unthink about what she said. Because she is right.
I’m not well.
I do need to go to the doctor.
Sooner rather than later.
Ma leaves in a flurry of kisses, tears, and hugs. We stand on the curb outside the pub. I insist on coming with her to the airport, but she refuses. This goes on and on until the cab driver interferes and says, “Ladies! Please just say your goodbyes so I can carry on with my shift!”
“You can’t come, sugar plum. It’s your big night. Stay with your friends. I’ll call you tomorrow. Love you.”
With that, she kisses my cheek, enters the taxi, and drives off. I’m left on the curb, watching as the taillights of the cab disappear. The thought that something could happen to her on the plane occurs to me, but I squash it as soon as it floats into my head. Nope. Not going there. I have more issues than Harper’s, and there is absolutely no reason to develop a crippling fear of flying on top of everything else.
I don’t want to go back to the party. Now that the adrenaline of the show has worn off, I’m not in the mood to pretend to be jolly. Usually, Paul was the one to pull me through moments like this. He was my crutch.
But bailing without saying goodbye is rude. Reluctantly, I drag myself back inside. I see Lucas’s trilby hat in the distance. He’s bobbing his head, talking animatedly to a few Broadway-type people. Moving toward him, I feel fingers wrap around my wrist. I stop, looking up to find Arsène’s dark, hooded eyes on mine. His lips are drawn in a shrewd smile.
“Bumpkin. Was that your mother?”
Remembering he brought a date, I shake out of his touch with a scowl. “What’s it to you?”
“She’s an impressive woman.” He ignores my attitude, his charm jacked up to the max. “Which is very good news to future sixtysomething you.”
“Why, twentysomething me wants you to take a hike. How about you try being a gentleman and cater to me once?”
The cad kissed me and didn’t even address the subject.
“Now, Winnifred, don’t be a sourpuss. It’s your big night.”
“It’s diminishing, now that we’re talking,” I murmur.
He tips his head back and laughs.
“Here. Have you met Gwendolyn?” He motions to his date with his beer bottle. She steps forward and smiles at me, offering her hand for a shake. “Gwen, this is Winnifred. She plays Nina, as you’ve gathered from the play.”
So he did come to see it.
With a date, Winnie.
I shake Gwen’s hand. “Nice to meet you. I hope you enjoyed the show?”
“It was fantastic. You and Trigorin knocked it out of the park.” Gwen looks delighted and genuinely impressed. “And I’ve seen a lot of versions of The Seagull, if I may add.”
She is striking, intelligent, and eloquent. There is nothing I can dislike about her, other than her existence. For some reason, it suited me better to think Arsène would never move on from Grace, just like I’m stuck on Paul.
“That’s kind of you.” I dip my head down, blushing. “Well, I don’t want to keep you two. I should go and say my goodbyes—”
“Leaving so soon?” Arsène gives me a faux-wounded look. “The evening’s just begun.”
“For you, maybe. I’m calling it a night.”
“Before the cake’s been cut and speeches are made. My, my, you’re not even trying, are you?” Arsène steps between me and the door’s direction, an easy, albeit intentional, buffer. “Especially when the future of Calypso Hall is hanging by a thread. You do know, Winnifred, I’m not a big fan of theaters, and even less of slacker employees.”
“Yes, I’m aware.” I cross my arms over my chest. Gwen grins privately, amused by our exchange. “I’ll take my chances. Any parting words?”
“You seem preoccupied. What’s on that simple mind of yours?” He tilts his head sideways, entertained more than worried.
“None of your business.” I bypass him and head straight to the door, goodbyes be damned. I can barely handle him on a good day, much less on one when I’m reminded of my health issues.
I’m almost at the wooden door when something occurs to me. I stop, softly curse myself, then turn around sharply and head straight back to where he’s standing. Which is exactly where I left him. There’s a cocky smirk on his face. He leans against the wooden bar nonchalantly. The jerk knew I’d make a U-turn. It’s written all over his face.
“One more thing.” I raise a finger between us.
“Hit me with it.”
“The billboard.”
His eyes turn from mocking to alert, but he says nothing.
“Why did you do it?” I ask. “You didn’t have to. We never finished that billiard game.”
“Chivalry, of course.” He opens up his hands theatrically. “You told me to start somewhere, didn’t you?”
Yeah, but that was a second ago.
“I doubt you can spell the word, let alone practice it.”
He laughs, pleased. “You’re right. I did it for purely selfish reasons. I wanted to ensure a good return on my investment, and The Seagull looked like it might actually make a few bucks.”
“That can’t be it either.” My fists ball beside my body. I’m losing my patience. I’m tired of being mocked by him. Of being pushed out of my comfort zone. “There are many ways to advertise a play that don’t include stroking my ego.”
“Ah, so you admit that you have an ego.”
“A small one.” I pinch two fingers together.
“Yes, yes, I know. I’m trying to change that. No one likes altruism, Winnifred. It’s such a boring trait.”
“Is that why you gave me a billboard? To prove to me that I’m vain?” I press.
He steps forward, his mouth a breath away from my ear. The back of my neck blossoms in goose bumps, and my breathing becomes labored.
“Maybe I simply needed a bait to lure you into the conversation you walked away from that night at the Pierre. Have I succeeded?”
Of course he has. I am here, after all. Drawn to him like a moth to a flame. Praying like a desperate schoolgirl for his lips to graze the shell of my ear.
I jerk back from him, realizing that he has me exactly where he wanted me. “What do you wanna talk about?”
“We only have one mutual interest, and it keeps both of us awake at night.”
Grace and Paul.
“Actually, judging by tonight, what keeps you awake at night has nothing to do with your late fiancée.” I glance coolly behind him, looking for Gwen.
“Jealous?” He lifts an inquisitive eyebrow.
“Don’t flatter yourself,” I splutter.
“I should be so lucky. A young, beautiful admirer. Fresh out of the Bible Belt too.”
I laugh incredulously, pushing him away. “I’m not the dumb farm girl you think I am.”
“Oh, yes. You’re very observant. I’m in awe of your watchful skills.” He casually glances around him, which makes me do the same. And that’s when I realize . . .
“Wait, where’s Gwen?”
His white teeth gleam. He is enjoying this exchange too much. “Who, now?”
“Your date!” I’m about to kill him. I’m sure of it.
He looks around, as if just realizing she is gone. “She must’ve left. Beats me as to why.”
“You gave me more attention than you did her,” I say hotly, knowing I’m falling right into his trap. “Which is incredibly rude.”
“Rude?” He looks genuinely surprised. “Grace used to love it when I brought dates over and neglected them in favor of her halfway through the night. Dare I say, it was her favorite pastime.”
Grace sounds like a real piece of work. “I take it this was a reoccurrence?”
He shrugs, tucking his hands into his front pockets. “She liked to be reminded of her loveliness often, and preferably by disparaging others.”
“Well, some girls are confident enough in their skin not to bring down others. Your relationship was seriously messed up.”
“While I second your statement, I think we can both agree Paul wasn’t the stuff dreamboats are made of either.”
I open my mouth to argue with him, to defend Paul, but the right words escape me. He is right. Paul cheated on me with Grace. He has the receipts to prove it. It is foolish to pretend our relationship was bulletproof.
To the expression on my face, he grins. “What, no comeback? Very good, Winnifred. I’m seeing progress, and I like it.”
“So?” I ask dispassionately. “Where are you going with this conversation?”
“Since you’re obviously as uninterested in this place as I am, I thought we could head over to Grace’s apartment and go through her things. See if you recognize anything of Paul’s.”
A smart woman would say no to this offer. We’ve already established Paul and Grace bumped uglies behind our backs, and often. What’s the point in poking this open, raw wound?
My suspicion is that Arsène and I keep doing it because it makes us feel something; otherwise we’re completely numb. Pain is a great substitute for pleasure. Both are radical feelings, even if one is positive and the other negative. And maybe, just maybe, Arsène is as lonely as I am, and this project reminds him that once upon a time, he belonged to someone.
Isn’t that what we crave, at the end of the day? To belong. To a family, to parents, to partners, to communities?
“Well?” he asks. “What do you say?”
No.
I have an early morning tomorrow.
All we’re doing is hurting ourselves.
This is going to bite us in the ass.
In the end, though, I’m just like Arsène. Addicted to the feeling that comes with the pain.
“Call a taxi.”