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Chapter One
July 25 It was not Danni in the third row of the theatre that opening night. I’d seen Danni laid to rest in the Sevenoaks graveyard in Kent. I didn’t believe in ghosts, yet her face seemed to emerge from a sea of faces in the audience, yank me out of the tomb I shared with her memory, and thrust me back into life. The years dropped away, and I was eighteen and in love. I could swear her vanilla scent wafted through the theatre, making me more and more lightheaded with every breath. I was delirious with long-buried memories of love and nothing else mattered. The actress playing Cleopatra’s handmaiden cried out, “O, break! O, break!” Her cue brought me back to the action onstage in the theatre. Years of discipline came to my aid, and as Cleopatra I responded with my lines. The counterfeit asp struck its fatal blow on my breast, and I slid to my knees in the throes of apparent agony, poisoned. I collapsed to the floor and lay motionless on the stage. Cleopatra was dead. The gold lamé of my costume was clammy with sweat against my skin, the weight of its jewel-encrusted glitter akin to wearing a gown made |
of chain mail. The headpiece had stayed in place and didn’t block my vision as it had done in the last preview. It allowed me to glimpse the auditorium, though I was careful not to move and destroy the illusion of my death. I scanned the rows of patrons from beneath my lowered eyelids. It couldn’t be Danni, yet I couldn’t restrain the wild hope that it might be.
The actor playing Caesar proclaimed, “She shall be buried by her Antony.” The words reverberated through me, echoes of an old grief.
Caesar’s speech ended and the lights faded to black. There was silence, then an explosion of applause.
Under cover of the thunderous roar a voice called out. “Pen?” A familiar hand reached down to help me in the dark where, thanks to the weight of my costume, I was grateful for the assistance. By the time the lights came up for the curtain call, the entire audience was on its feet, cheering. Even the critics, who should have been scribbling in their notebooks, rose and joined the frenzy.
I stood hand-in-hand with Terry, my rescuer, my Antony, and the only person who had ever loved his half-sister Danni as much as I had. We’d loved her in different ways and mourned her death together.
Terry had always been my rock, but I ran my own life, onstage and off. He could attest to that. I also ran my loves, and yes, they were plural. I brought my stagecraft to my love life and played the part I wanted my lovers to see. I was in control, and the truth was, they loved it. I still felt a sense of loss when I remembered the gentle enchantment that was Danni. I would have given it all up, every triumph on the stage, every lover, everything except Terry, if I could have had another five minutes with her. Terry and I lost her together, mourned her together, and he never knew it was my fault that she died.
He bowed to the audience, pulling me with him and I curtsied deeply. My legs felt as weak as if I’d run a marathon. There was no sign of the young woman I’d seen earlier. Terry led me forward then stepped back, so I could take a bow alone.
Once again, I curtsied almost to the floor, careful to sweep the costume out of my way as I went down. The tumultuous applause of the crowd continued. Hundreds of upturned faces appeared in the glare, each of them full of awe and admiration. As far as I could see, none of them was my ghost.
I forced myself to make eye contact with Board members, major donors, and critics. A nod to each of them delivered the piece of Penelope Parrish they expected, the only piece I was willing to give. It was part of the job; the weight of their expectation made me as weary as the weight of my costume.
I searched the audience as we bowed. A head tilted in an unusual way caught my attention, and I scrutinized the face of the young woman who stared at the stage from the third row.
It was her. Her expression almost made me cry out; I’d know that look anywhere. The intense gaze that made me feel not simply seen, but also like I was one of the seven wonders of the world; it was the way Danni had looked at me. I examined every feature, hoping in vain for a miracle but it wasn’t Danni. Desolation sapped my strength and threatened to force me to my knees, but rigorous training kept me upright and smiling.
How could I have imagined it was Danni? In the reflection of the stage lights, I’d seen only her face and expression; the resemblance had shocked me into believing I’d seen a ghost. In the brighter light of the curtain call, her short, dark hair couldn’t have been more of a contrast to Danni’s golden curls. This woman was in her mid-twenties. Danni would have been in her mid-thirties if she were still alive. The ghost who was not a ghost noticed my continued appraisal and lifted her chin.
Our eyes locked and the uproar of the crowd faded and disappeared. I felt my weariness dissolve as I surrendered to the lure of our shared fascination. No, it wasn’t Danni. If Danni was the moon, this woman was the sun and I longed to bask in her glow. For the first time in many years my heart filled with ineffable yearning; astonishment and delight welled up in me and threatened to spill out into an unsuspecting audience. Under my rapt gaze, a flush crept up her cheeks. Was there a chance I wouldn’t walk away from her as I had all the others since Danni?
I’d have gone to her then, but Terry’s firm grasp of my hand tightened when I moved. I tore my gaze from her to look at him; he nodded toward the approaching Board President. With a thud, I returned to earth and to opening night ceremonies. I accepted the bouquet of red roses offered, as well as the requisite congratulatory kiss, with seeming pleasure. I’d played the role, received the kiss and the roses; all I wanted to do was go talk to her. It took all my resolve to keep my attention on the activities onstage.
If she was seated in the third row on an opening night, she was there as someone’s guest. She’d almost certainly be at the party after. Though she wasn’t Danni, it felt as if some kind of gravitational pull drew me to her. I had to meet her.
At last, it ended. Offstage Terry swept me into a bear hug.
“Nice job, brat.”
“Thanks Terry, you were wonderful, too.” He opened his mouth to speak again, and I cut him off. “We can talk later. See you at the party.”
Before he could say another word, I hastened down the hall to my dressing room as quickly as my costume would allow. The garments I wore onstage were more than an expression of the character. They were the armor that protected me from the audience, who saw Cleopatra or Juliet, not me. They were both refuge and inspiration, and most of the time I loved wearing them.
Once inside the dressing room, I removed my headpiece immediately and placed it on the dressing table. For once, I was eager to remove my costume and find the woman who was no ghost. But I was no longer eighteen. I had a life I’d fashioned with care, a life that revolved around my work, not my lovers.
Shakespeare’s Cleopatra was the role of a lifetime. The costume showed every curve of my yoga-disciplined body in a way that could easily have come across as obscene if I hadn’t brought enough gravitas to the part. The curtain call had assured me I’d succeeded beyond my own high expectations, yet all I could think of was finding a stranger who reminded me of someone I once loved, and that was unlike me.
On my way past the dressing table, I peeled off the top half of the costume and let it fall. With a practiced twist, the gown-like bottom half of the costume dropped to the floor. Taking off a costume was like a snake shedding its skin. With the removal of the costume, I removed any lingering emotional resonance from the character.
I strode past the mirror without a glance and into the tiny bathroom. One flick, and the shower gushed. I raced through the shower, toweled myself dry, and hastened out of the bathroom. The costume was gone, thanks to my efficient dresser. In its place hung a startling jumpsuit.
The opening night outfit I’d chosen had been designed to reinforce the impact of Cleopatra. With a grin, I poured myself into its sleek, black lines. The original intention had been to wow Sam. He’d lasted a long time in our open relationship. Men seemed to handle it better than women, at least at first. I enjoyed both men and women and my lifestyle kept me free of emotional entanglements. After Danni, I didn’t expect or want anything lasting.
Sam’s note of apology for not coming to the opening performance, which had irritated me at the time, sat on the makeup table with his usual roses. His non-appearance was no longer a problem, rather a gift, as it left me unencumbered and free to pursue meeting the woman in the audience. I tugged the invisible zipper up toward my neck in a fever of impatience to get out to the party.
A hard rap on the door startled me as I struggled to slip into my shoes. Before I could respond it crashed open. Sam’s towering frame filled the doorway.
“Surprise!” he said. “The bad penny shows up to see the good Penny.”
I pasted on a smile at the oft-repeated joke and wondered what rotten luck had brought Sam here just in time to thwart my plans.
Sam Bennett dwarfed most people. He slammed the door shut behind him and strode into the room; his ebullient energy filled the space. He spoke to everyone, even me, as if he were at a board meeting, his voice robust and persuasive, his manner full of confidence and certainty. The first time we met I took one look at the curly black hair clinging tight to a head and body that looked like an Italian Renaissance sculpture, and I set out to charm him into my bed. I had not been disappointed.
He’d been my lover for almost two years. He was a ruthless venture capitalist to the rest of the world, and it surprised and amused me to discover how easily he could be controlled in the private arena. He took pleasure in spoiling me, and his generosity coupled with his physical magnetism and frequent absences made him the perfect lover.
All he knew of me was my body and my performance, onstage and off. That had been my choice, my rules. I kept the most important parts of myself from him, parts that Danni, and to some extent Terry and my late father, knew well. Sam and I were intimate strangers, nothing more, and for the first time, I wondered why I felt that was enough.
Before I could say a word, he lifted me from my feet and into a hearty kiss. I returned the kiss along with the fond embrace he expected. He was as predictable as the red roses on my makeup table which he sent like clockwork on opening nights, oblivious to the fact that they clashed with the pale peach décor of my dressing room.
“I’m sending some of my racehorses out to the farm after the Breeder’s Cup this fall,” he said. “Shouldn’t be in your way. Molly will take care of them.”
“It’s your farm, Sam.”
The words were rushed, like a fast-running river, and I only hoped the torrent would carry him out of my dressing room so I could find my mystery woman. “Is that why you’re here? You said you couldn’t make the opening.”
“I, uh, didn’t see the show. I got in just a few minutes ago.” His words were uncharacteristically hesitant and almost inaudible. I stepped out of his arms to look up at him.
“What’s going on?”
“Nothing, really. I wanted to see you in person instead of telling you on the phone.”
“Try again.” He reached for me. I slipped out of his grasp. “Oh no you don’t. You’ll tell me what’s going on before there will be any more of that.” A flicker of anger darkened his face. I went back to him and laid one hand on his chest. “Sam, I can see something’s wrong. Please tell me.”
The anger dissolved, and the hangdog expression returned. He was easy to manage once I had learned his cues. “It’s my wife - she’s heard about you.” My eyes narrowed. “Not you specifically,” he said. “At least, I don’t think so. Just that there’s someone else.”
“I thought you told me she knew about your outside relationships.”
“Yeah, well,” he didn’t meet my eyes, and I wondered what was going on. “For some reason, this time she’s asking questions. I may not be able to come around for a while. If her family’s lawyer gets wind of trouble and pulls any of her money out of the mix, my finances could get very messy.”
I smiled and patted his arm. “You do whatever you need to do. I’ll be fine.”
“I wish I weren’t so sure of that.”
“You wouldn’t want me hanging around your neck, would you?”
A broad smile lightened his scowl. “Much as I might enjoy it, I can’t say it would be very convenient.”
An alarm bell went off. After all this time, possessiveness from Sam was the last thing I wanted. “Why don’t you go out and get a drink with Terry?” I drew him toward the door. He resisted, and I kept my voice pleasant with an effort. “Better yet,” I said, “Why don’t you go straight home to Chicago and take care of your family business. No sense getting your wife upset when you can avoid it.”
His body relaxed. He nodded decisively, and after a swift, hard kiss he strode out of the dressing room.
A twinge of unease about his wife nagged at me. I dismissed it. Ours was an open relationship and Sam had assured me from the start that his wife was totally onboard. His comings and goings had suited me for the past few years. He’d been away a lot in the last couple of months, and in recent weeks I’d noticed Peter Turcotte, one of our best character actors, showing signs of interest in a quick fling. Perhaps it was time Sam had an understudy. When Sam sent his apologies about the opening, I thought I might let Peter know I was available.
I pushed aside any further thoughts of Peter, Sam, and Sam’s wife. All of that could be sorted out later; it was long past time to get to the party and meet that woman. I headed toward the door, and the instant I touched the handle there was another knock. I flung it wide, prepared to dispose of any visitors in short order, but it wasn’t a visitor. It was Sebastian, the artistic director of the theatre and the director of Antony and Cleopatra. I couldn’t brush him off, much as I wanted to do just that.
Sebastian St. James had the inside track when it came to Shakespeare. He had an incredible mind housed in a lean, compact frame that made him look like a Formula One driver ready to leap into his race car and roar through a few laps at Le Mans. His meticulous appearance, from his blend of Native American and Vietnamese features to his ever-present immaculate white shirts and pressed khakis, masked a ferocious intelligence that frightened me at times, and I didn’t scare easily.
“Good evening, Penelope.” He was the one person who called me by my full name. He preferred that with everyone and refused to use nicknames.
“Sebastian.”
I stifled my impatience and gestured to the chair. A sidelong glance at him was uninformative. While I was eager to be on my way, this was an occasion; I couldn’t recall another time he’d come to my dressing room on an opening night.
He sat on the gilt chair across from me as I perched on the edge of my chaise lounge. It would be nice to think he was there to tell me how wonderful I’d been as Cleopatra, but that would be unlike Sebastian. He studied me for a few seconds, then nodded, as if something had been decided. “It is essential that you play Viola next season, Penelope.”
If he thought he could catch me when I was exhausted and elated from opening night, and win our current battle over my next role, he was dead wrong. “You’re mad. I told you last week, I’ve never been able to make heads or tails of her.”
“Then this is your opportunity. That’s why you came over from London to the States, isn’t it? To play all the great parts?”
It was true. Terry and I were thrilled to follow Sebastian, first to New York and then to this repertory theatre on a lake in Wisconsin. I was not going to be distracted, I didn’t move to Wisconsin to do Twelfth Night.
“Yes, but Viola isn’t a great part,” I argued. “She makes no sense at all as a character. Why couldn’t I play Rosalind in As You Like It if you want a Shakespeare comedy? I understand Rosalind, what makes her tick.”
“Actors and actresses have been playing Viola since the first Elizabeth was on the throne. I’m putting together an entire season, not simply one play. Twelfth Night works, As You Like It doesn’t. Players Repertory Theatre is meant to challenge you, not coddle you.”
I glared at him. “Viola is a total prat. A wimp. How can I go from Cleopatra to that?”
“If you see her as a prat, it’s because you haven’t looked beneath the surface.”
“Nonsense. She moons around after Orsino, moans about her brother, and doesn’t have the mettle to stand up for what she wants.”
“Unlike you.”
“Yes. Unlike me.”
Sebastian met my defiance with a raised eyebrow. I refused to look away. I had to win this battle. I couldn’t spend an entire season playing Viola in Twelfth Night.
“It won’t be the box-office draw you need,” I said.
“Are you saying you can’t do it well enough to bring in the crowds?”
I straightened on the chaise lounge. “No, I’m not.”
“Then what?”
“It isn’t a good play.”
“I beg to differ. However, if you don’t feel able to play it–”
“I didn’t say that. I can play anything – you’ve asked me to play Shakespeare’s comedies, tragedies, and histories. You’ve asked me to play Shakespeare’s and Shaw’s Cleopatra on successive nights - what more do you want?”
Sebastian leaned forward, his gray eyes boring through me. “Is Cleopatra a difficult part for you in either play? Did the part make you stretch, Penelope?”
My face grew warm. I couldn’t deny I felt right at home with Cleopatra. I understood her manipulation of others to protect herself. How else was a woman to move through a man’s world and survive? She loved two men of power – Caesar impressed her, challenged her, and ultimately was not enough for her. Then Mark Antony walked into her life, and into her heart.
It was the reflection of her own soul that she saw in Antony’s eyes, and he in hers. From the moment they met, they lived for one another, and when they knew they were lost, they each died rather than live without the other. Drastic, brutal even, and honest. I loved her, even if I couldn’t live up to her. I could do the manipulation, but my own life had not included love for many years, except for Terry. I thought again of the woman I had yet to meet. “Must we have this conversation tonight?”
“Deflecting, Penelope? Are you demanding a comfortable little theatre where you can play the same limited repertoire of familiar roles for the next twenty or thirty years?”
“Of course not.”
“That’s what it sounds as if you want. To recycle parts you’ve already played and avoid testing yourself with what is difficult.” He studied me for a moment. “You did sign a contract which runs for several years yet.”
“A contract which allows me to refuse a role I don’t want to play.”
“Yes. And should you exercise that option, it also allows me to reduce your salary at my discretion.”
I stared at him. What game was he playing? “I don’t care about the money.”
“No, I don’t suppose you do.” He leaned back in his chair. “Very well, then. I can always ask Cassandra to play Viola.”
My eyes flew up to meet his. “Sandy?”
“Cassandra has never turned down a part she’s been offered. Perhaps you’re not up to the demands of acting in a repertory theatre.”
His face was calm, implacable. Agree to play a part I hated or see another actress replace me. An impossible dilemma. My face burned, and so did I. For a second, I saw my dad looking down on my five-year old self, shaking his head at me.
Little Penny, perhaps you’re just not up to acting.
I glared at Sebastian. “Get the bloody hell out of here.” My fists clenched. I didn’t remember getting to my feet but found myself looming over him. “How dare you come here and question my commitment after the performance I gave tonight?”
“Your performance tonight was magnificent. You don’t need me to tell you that.”
I stalked to the door and threw it open. “Get out, you son of a bitch. I don’t care who you ask to play what. Just get out.”
He stood and crossed to the door. His eyes were inscrutable as he looked at me. “You haven’t asked what else you’d be playing in the season.”
“Don’t tell me – Medea?”
“No, though it’s an intriguing possibility. I wanted you and Terence to do a new production of Private Lives.”
“You’re joking.”
“Amanda and Viola have a lot in common.” His lips twitched. “It would have been fascinating to see what you made of that. Too bad.”
He slipped out the door and pulled it behind him before I could slap him. I dropped onto the gilt chair he’d abandoned, trembling from head to foot with rage. I tore off one of my shoes and whipped it at the door.
As if the shoe were a summons, there was yet another knock. Was I in a French farce?
“Damn!” I got up, hobbled over on one shoe to pick up the other, and wrenched the door open with a snarl. “What do you –”
The words died on my lips. It wasn’t Terry. It was the young woman who was not a ghost. Up close her eyes were hazel, with flecks of blue, green, and a touch of gold. She didn’t flinch at my harsh tone, though her smile held a hint of apprehension, as if she wasn’t sure of her welcome. What was she doing at my dressing room door?
The blood pounded in my ears, drowning out everything. I breathed in a hint of – was it citrus or mint? – and felt light-headed. The shoe dropped and, suddenly free, my hand sought hers. She didn’t pull away. On the contrary, when I backed into the room, she followed without protest. I knew I should speak, but no words came; no words felt necessary.
Her hand generated heat that pulsed through me like a gentle, relentless tide. An open, ingenuous countenance, with an ardent spark that glimmered in her eyes made an intoxicating combination.
The creamy velvet of her skin seemed to beg for my touch, and with the contrasting pink of her cheeks, gave her face the delicate, tender aspect of a tea rose. The fingertips of my free hand stretched up to her face to trace the beckoning curve of a cheek; her skin was silken, and I found it hard to breathe. She was unaware of her own allure, which made her even more captivating.
I searched her face for any sign of Danni. It was too late. Whatever glimmering of Danni that had drawn me to her in the theatre had faded in her presence. All I could see, smell, touch, all I could think of was her.
Her eyes were clear and candid as they met mine, without the flirtation or mockery so often employed by the people I met backstage whether co-workers or audience. Yes, there was attraction, and it was mutual, and there was something else. The kindness in her gaze felt like a genuine expression of her nature, a tender warmth I didn’t know I craved until it enveloped me.
When I looked closer, I could see a trace of awkwardness in the tilt of her head, the uncertainty that just missed being gauche. There was also a hint of steel in her straight back, a suggestion of inner strength combined with a gravity in her expression that indicated a story worth hearing.
All of that I saw in those breathless seconds. The frozen shell in which my heart had been encased since Danni’s death had been melted in her presence and I wanted to sing with triumph even as I wanted to flee in panic. The best in me returned to life in that moment, even as the coward in me tried to repress and hide my response to her. The coward failed.
My thumb brushed against the softness of her lips. I swallowed, drew her closer, and her eyes widened.
“Pen?” Terry’s voice rang out in the hallway and jolted us both out of our trance...
The actor playing Caesar proclaimed, “She shall be buried by her Antony.” The words reverberated through me, echoes of an old grief.
Caesar’s speech ended and the lights faded to black. There was silence, then an explosion of applause.
Under cover of the thunderous roar a voice called out. “Pen?” A familiar hand reached down to help me in the dark where, thanks to the weight of my costume, I was grateful for the assistance. By the time the lights came up for the curtain call, the entire audience was on its feet, cheering. Even the critics, who should have been scribbling in their notebooks, rose and joined the frenzy.
I stood hand-in-hand with Terry, my rescuer, my Antony, and the only person who had ever loved his half-sister Danni as much as I had. We’d loved her in different ways and mourned her death together.
Terry had always been my rock, but I ran my own life, onstage and off. He could attest to that. I also ran my loves, and yes, they were plural. I brought my stagecraft to my love life and played the part I wanted my lovers to see. I was in control, and the truth was, they loved it. I still felt a sense of loss when I remembered the gentle enchantment that was Danni. I would have given it all up, every triumph on the stage, every lover, everything except Terry, if I could have had another five minutes with her. Terry and I lost her together, mourned her together, and he never knew it was my fault that she died.
He bowed to the audience, pulling me with him and I curtsied deeply. My legs felt as weak as if I’d run a marathon. There was no sign of the young woman I’d seen earlier. Terry led me forward then stepped back, so I could take a bow alone.
Once again, I curtsied almost to the floor, careful to sweep the costume out of my way as I went down. The tumultuous applause of the crowd continued. Hundreds of upturned faces appeared in the glare, each of them full of awe and admiration. As far as I could see, none of them was my ghost.
I forced myself to make eye contact with Board members, major donors, and critics. A nod to each of them delivered the piece of Penelope Parrish they expected, the only piece I was willing to give. It was part of the job; the weight of their expectation made me as weary as the weight of my costume.
I searched the audience as we bowed. A head tilted in an unusual way caught my attention, and I scrutinized the face of the young woman who stared at the stage from the third row.
It was her. Her expression almost made me cry out; I’d know that look anywhere. The intense gaze that made me feel not simply seen, but also like I was one of the seven wonders of the world; it was the way Danni had looked at me. I examined every feature, hoping in vain for a miracle but it wasn’t Danni. Desolation sapped my strength and threatened to force me to my knees, but rigorous training kept me upright and smiling.
How could I have imagined it was Danni? In the reflection of the stage lights, I’d seen only her face and expression; the resemblance had shocked me into believing I’d seen a ghost. In the brighter light of the curtain call, her short, dark hair couldn’t have been more of a contrast to Danni’s golden curls. This woman was in her mid-twenties. Danni would have been in her mid-thirties if she were still alive. The ghost who was not a ghost noticed my continued appraisal and lifted her chin.
Our eyes locked and the uproar of the crowd faded and disappeared. I felt my weariness dissolve as I surrendered to the lure of our shared fascination. No, it wasn’t Danni. If Danni was the moon, this woman was the sun and I longed to bask in her glow. For the first time in many years my heart filled with ineffable yearning; astonishment and delight welled up in me and threatened to spill out into an unsuspecting audience. Under my rapt gaze, a flush crept up her cheeks. Was there a chance I wouldn’t walk away from her as I had all the others since Danni?
I’d have gone to her then, but Terry’s firm grasp of my hand tightened when I moved. I tore my gaze from her to look at him; he nodded toward the approaching Board President. With a thud, I returned to earth and to opening night ceremonies. I accepted the bouquet of red roses offered, as well as the requisite congratulatory kiss, with seeming pleasure. I’d played the role, received the kiss and the roses; all I wanted to do was go talk to her. It took all my resolve to keep my attention on the activities onstage.
If she was seated in the third row on an opening night, she was there as someone’s guest. She’d almost certainly be at the party after. Though she wasn’t Danni, it felt as if some kind of gravitational pull drew me to her. I had to meet her.
At last, it ended. Offstage Terry swept me into a bear hug.
“Nice job, brat.”
“Thanks Terry, you were wonderful, too.” He opened his mouth to speak again, and I cut him off. “We can talk later. See you at the party.”
Before he could say another word, I hastened down the hall to my dressing room as quickly as my costume would allow. The garments I wore onstage were more than an expression of the character. They were the armor that protected me from the audience, who saw Cleopatra or Juliet, not me. They were both refuge and inspiration, and most of the time I loved wearing them.
Once inside the dressing room, I removed my headpiece immediately and placed it on the dressing table. For once, I was eager to remove my costume and find the woman who was no ghost. But I was no longer eighteen. I had a life I’d fashioned with care, a life that revolved around my work, not my lovers.
Shakespeare’s Cleopatra was the role of a lifetime. The costume showed every curve of my yoga-disciplined body in a way that could easily have come across as obscene if I hadn’t brought enough gravitas to the part. The curtain call had assured me I’d succeeded beyond my own high expectations, yet all I could think of was finding a stranger who reminded me of someone I once loved, and that was unlike me.
On my way past the dressing table, I peeled off the top half of the costume and let it fall. With a practiced twist, the gown-like bottom half of the costume dropped to the floor. Taking off a costume was like a snake shedding its skin. With the removal of the costume, I removed any lingering emotional resonance from the character.
I strode past the mirror without a glance and into the tiny bathroom. One flick, and the shower gushed. I raced through the shower, toweled myself dry, and hastened out of the bathroom. The costume was gone, thanks to my efficient dresser. In its place hung a startling jumpsuit.
The opening night outfit I’d chosen had been designed to reinforce the impact of Cleopatra. With a grin, I poured myself into its sleek, black lines. The original intention had been to wow Sam. He’d lasted a long time in our open relationship. Men seemed to handle it better than women, at least at first. I enjoyed both men and women and my lifestyle kept me free of emotional entanglements. After Danni, I didn’t expect or want anything lasting.
Sam’s note of apology for not coming to the opening performance, which had irritated me at the time, sat on the makeup table with his usual roses. His non-appearance was no longer a problem, rather a gift, as it left me unencumbered and free to pursue meeting the woman in the audience. I tugged the invisible zipper up toward my neck in a fever of impatience to get out to the party.
A hard rap on the door startled me as I struggled to slip into my shoes. Before I could respond it crashed open. Sam’s towering frame filled the doorway.
“Surprise!” he said. “The bad penny shows up to see the good Penny.”
I pasted on a smile at the oft-repeated joke and wondered what rotten luck had brought Sam here just in time to thwart my plans.
Sam Bennett dwarfed most people. He slammed the door shut behind him and strode into the room; his ebullient energy filled the space. He spoke to everyone, even me, as if he were at a board meeting, his voice robust and persuasive, his manner full of confidence and certainty. The first time we met I took one look at the curly black hair clinging tight to a head and body that looked like an Italian Renaissance sculpture, and I set out to charm him into my bed. I had not been disappointed.
He’d been my lover for almost two years. He was a ruthless venture capitalist to the rest of the world, and it surprised and amused me to discover how easily he could be controlled in the private arena. He took pleasure in spoiling me, and his generosity coupled with his physical magnetism and frequent absences made him the perfect lover.
All he knew of me was my body and my performance, onstage and off. That had been my choice, my rules. I kept the most important parts of myself from him, parts that Danni, and to some extent Terry and my late father, knew well. Sam and I were intimate strangers, nothing more, and for the first time, I wondered why I felt that was enough.
Before I could say a word, he lifted me from my feet and into a hearty kiss. I returned the kiss along with the fond embrace he expected. He was as predictable as the red roses on my makeup table which he sent like clockwork on opening nights, oblivious to the fact that they clashed with the pale peach décor of my dressing room.
“I’m sending some of my racehorses out to the farm after the Breeder’s Cup this fall,” he said. “Shouldn’t be in your way. Molly will take care of them.”
“It’s your farm, Sam.”
The words were rushed, like a fast-running river, and I only hoped the torrent would carry him out of my dressing room so I could find my mystery woman. “Is that why you’re here? You said you couldn’t make the opening.”
“I, uh, didn’t see the show. I got in just a few minutes ago.” His words were uncharacteristically hesitant and almost inaudible. I stepped out of his arms to look up at him.
“What’s going on?”
“Nothing, really. I wanted to see you in person instead of telling you on the phone.”
“Try again.” He reached for me. I slipped out of his grasp. “Oh no you don’t. You’ll tell me what’s going on before there will be any more of that.” A flicker of anger darkened his face. I went back to him and laid one hand on his chest. “Sam, I can see something’s wrong. Please tell me.”
The anger dissolved, and the hangdog expression returned. He was easy to manage once I had learned his cues. “It’s my wife - she’s heard about you.” My eyes narrowed. “Not you specifically,” he said. “At least, I don’t think so. Just that there’s someone else.”
“I thought you told me she knew about your outside relationships.”
“Yeah, well,” he didn’t meet my eyes, and I wondered what was going on. “For some reason, this time she’s asking questions. I may not be able to come around for a while. If her family’s lawyer gets wind of trouble and pulls any of her money out of the mix, my finances could get very messy.”
I smiled and patted his arm. “You do whatever you need to do. I’ll be fine.”
“I wish I weren’t so sure of that.”
“You wouldn’t want me hanging around your neck, would you?”
A broad smile lightened his scowl. “Much as I might enjoy it, I can’t say it would be very convenient.”
An alarm bell went off. After all this time, possessiveness from Sam was the last thing I wanted. “Why don’t you go out and get a drink with Terry?” I drew him toward the door. He resisted, and I kept my voice pleasant with an effort. “Better yet,” I said, “Why don’t you go straight home to Chicago and take care of your family business. No sense getting your wife upset when you can avoid it.”
His body relaxed. He nodded decisively, and after a swift, hard kiss he strode out of the dressing room.
A twinge of unease about his wife nagged at me. I dismissed it. Ours was an open relationship and Sam had assured me from the start that his wife was totally onboard. His comings and goings had suited me for the past few years. He’d been away a lot in the last couple of months, and in recent weeks I’d noticed Peter Turcotte, one of our best character actors, showing signs of interest in a quick fling. Perhaps it was time Sam had an understudy. When Sam sent his apologies about the opening, I thought I might let Peter know I was available.
I pushed aside any further thoughts of Peter, Sam, and Sam’s wife. All of that could be sorted out later; it was long past time to get to the party and meet that woman. I headed toward the door, and the instant I touched the handle there was another knock. I flung it wide, prepared to dispose of any visitors in short order, but it wasn’t a visitor. It was Sebastian, the artistic director of the theatre and the director of Antony and Cleopatra. I couldn’t brush him off, much as I wanted to do just that.
Sebastian St. James had the inside track when it came to Shakespeare. He had an incredible mind housed in a lean, compact frame that made him look like a Formula One driver ready to leap into his race car and roar through a few laps at Le Mans. His meticulous appearance, from his blend of Native American and Vietnamese features to his ever-present immaculate white shirts and pressed khakis, masked a ferocious intelligence that frightened me at times, and I didn’t scare easily.
“Good evening, Penelope.” He was the one person who called me by my full name. He preferred that with everyone and refused to use nicknames.
“Sebastian.”
I stifled my impatience and gestured to the chair. A sidelong glance at him was uninformative. While I was eager to be on my way, this was an occasion; I couldn’t recall another time he’d come to my dressing room on an opening night.
He sat on the gilt chair across from me as I perched on the edge of my chaise lounge. It would be nice to think he was there to tell me how wonderful I’d been as Cleopatra, but that would be unlike Sebastian. He studied me for a few seconds, then nodded, as if something had been decided. “It is essential that you play Viola next season, Penelope.”
If he thought he could catch me when I was exhausted and elated from opening night, and win our current battle over my next role, he was dead wrong. “You’re mad. I told you last week, I’ve never been able to make heads or tails of her.”
“Then this is your opportunity. That’s why you came over from London to the States, isn’t it? To play all the great parts?”
It was true. Terry and I were thrilled to follow Sebastian, first to New York and then to this repertory theatre on a lake in Wisconsin. I was not going to be distracted, I didn’t move to Wisconsin to do Twelfth Night.
“Yes, but Viola isn’t a great part,” I argued. “She makes no sense at all as a character. Why couldn’t I play Rosalind in As You Like It if you want a Shakespeare comedy? I understand Rosalind, what makes her tick.”
“Actors and actresses have been playing Viola since the first Elizabeth was on the throne. I’m putting together an entire season, not simply one play. Twelfth Night works, As You Like It doesn’t. Players Repertory Theatre is meant to challenge you, not coddle you.”
I glared at him. “Viola is a total prat. A wimp. How can I go from Cleopatra to that?”
“If you see her as a prat, it’s because you haven’t looked beneath the surface.”
“Nonsense. She moons around after Orsino, moans about her brother, and doesn’t have the mettle to stand up for what she wants.”
“Unlike you.”
“Yes. Unlike me.”
Sebastian met my defiance with a raised eyebrow. I refused to look away. I had to win this battle. I couldn’t spend an entire season playing Viola in Twelfth Night.
“It won’t be the box-office draw you need,” I said.
“Are you saying you can’t do it well enough to bring in the crowds?”
I straightened on the chaise lounge. “No, I’m not.”
“Then what?”
“It isn’t a good play.”
“I beg to differ. However, if you don’t feel able to play it–”
“I didn’t say that. I can play anything – you’ve asked me to play Shakespeare’s comedies, tragedies, and histories. You’ve asked me to play Shakespeare’s and Shaw’s Cleopatra on successive nights - what more do you want?”
Sebastian leaned forward, his gray eyes boring through me. “Is Cleopatra a difficult part for you in either play? Did the part make you stretch, Penelope?”
My face grew warm. I couldn’t deny I felt right at home with Cleopatra. I understood her manipulation of others to protect herself. How else was a woman to move through a man’s world and survive? She loved two men of power – Caesar impressed her, challenged her, and ultimately was not enough for her. Then Mark Antony walked into her life, and into her heart.
It was the reflection of her own soul that she saw in Antony’s eyes, and he in hers. From the moment they met, they lived for one another, and when they knew they were lost, they each died rather than live without the other. Drastic, brutal even, and honest. I loved her, even if I couldn’t live up to her. I could do the manipulation, but my own life had not included love for many years, except for Terry. I thought again of the woman I had yet to meet. “Must we have this conversation tonight?”
“Deflecting, Penelope? Are you demanding a comfortable little theatre where you can play the same limited repertoire of familiar roles for the next twenty or thirty years?”
“Of course not.”
“That’s what it sounds as if you want. To recycle parts you’ve already played and avoid testing yourself with what is difficult.” He studied me for a moment. “You did sign a contract which runs for several years yet.”
“A contract which allows me to refuse a role I don’t want to play.”
“Yes. And should you exercise that option, it also allows me to reduce your salary at my discretion.”
I stared at him. What game was he playing? “I don’t care about the money.”
“No, I don’t suppose you do.” He leaned back in his chair. “Very well, then. I can always ask Cassandra to play Viola.”
My eyes flew up to meet his. “Sandy?”
“Cassandra has never turned down a part she’s been offered. Perhaps you’re not up to the demands of acting in a repertory theatre.”
His face was calm, implacable. Agree to play a part I hated or see another actress replace me. An impossible dilemma. My face burned, and so did I. For a second, I saw my dad looking down on my five-year old self, shaking his head at me.
Little Penny, perhaps you’re just not up to acting.
I glared at Sebastian. “Get the bloody hell out of here.” My fists clenched. I didn’t remember getting to my feet but found myself looming over him. “How dare you come here and question my commitment after the performance I gave tonight?”
“Your performance tonight was magnificent. You don’t need me to tell you that.”
I stalked to the door and threw it open. “Get out, you son of a bitch. I don’t care who you ask to play what. Just get out.”
He stood and crossed to the door. His eyes were inscrutable as he looked at me. “You haven’t asked what else you’d be playing in the season.”
“Don’t tell me – Medea?”
“No, though it’s an intriguing possibility. I wanted you and Terence to do a new production of Private Lives.”
“You’re joking.”
“Amanda and Viola have a lot in common.” His lips twitched. “It would have been fascinating to see what you made of that. Too bad.”
He slipped out the door and pulled it behind him before I could slap him. I dropped onto the gilt chair he’d abandoned, trembling from head to foot with rage. I tore off one of my shoes and whipped it at the door.
As if the shoe were a summons, there was yet another knock. Was I in a French farce?
“Damn!” I got up, hobbled over on one shoe to pick up the other, and wrenched the door open with a snarl. “What do you –”
The words died on my lips. It wasn’t Terry. It was the young woman who was not a ghost. Up close her eyes were hazel, with flecks of blue, green, and a touch of gold. She didn’t flinch at my harsh tone, though her smile held a hint of apprehension, as if she wasn’t sure of her welcome. What was she doing at my dressing room door?
The blood pounded in my ears, drowning out everything. I breathed in a hint of – was it citrus or mint? – and felt light-headed. The shoe dropped and, suddenly free, my hand sought hers. She didn’t pull away. On the contrary, when I backed into the room, she followed without protest. I knew I should speak, but no words came; no words felt necessary.
Her hand generated heat that pulsed through me like a gentle, relentless tide. An open, ingenuous countenance, with an ardent spark that glimmered in her eyes made an intoxicating combination.
The creamy velvet of her skin seemed to beg for my touch, and with the contrasting pink of her cheeks, gave her face the delicate, tender aspect of a tea rose. The fingertips of my free hand stretched up to her face to trace the beckoning curve of a cheek; her skin was silken, and I found it hard to breathe. She was unaware of her own allure, which made her even more captivating.
I searched her face for any sign of Danni. It was too late. Whatever glimmering of Danni that had drawn me to her in the theatre had faded in her presence. All I could see, smell, touch, all I could think of was her.
Her eyes were clear and candid as they met mine, without the flirtation or mockery so often employed by the people I met backstage whether co-workers or audience. Yes, there was attraction, and it was mutual, and there was something else. The kindness in her gaze felt like a genuine expression of her nature, a tender warmth I didn’t know I craved until it enveloped me.
When I looked closer, I could see a trace of awkwardness in the tilt of her head, the uncertainty that just missed being gauche. There was also a hint of steel in her straight back, a suggestion of inner strength combined with a gravity in her expression that indicated a story worth hearing.
All of that I saw in those breathless seconds. The frozen shell in which my heart had been encased since Danni’s death had been melted in her presence and I wanted to sing with triumph even as I wanted to flee in panic. The best in me returned to life in that moment, even as the coward in me tried to repress and hide my response to her. The coward failed.
My thumb brushed against the softness of her lips. I swallowed, drew her closer, and her eyes widened.
“Pen?” Terry’s voice rang out in the hallway and jolted us both out of our trance...