Premiere: A Love Story (17 page)

“I didn’t say that,” he tried to laugh.

“Well, how could it possibly have a happy ending if he doesn’t fight for her? He’s madly and passionately . . .”

“Yeah, well, you’ll have to wait and see. Any other questions?”

Peter was flushed and starting to fidget with his papers. A gentleman in the front row rescued him with a question about the set, which was followed by a couple of questions about his experience producing his first play in New York. Peter answered all of the questions and again shook hands. Sam collected herself in the darkness and walked toward the stage to lead the group back to the lobby.

“Well, that was a lively discussion. Thank you, Peter,” Sam said as she ushered the group toward the back of the theater.

“You’re very welcome. It was my pleasure. See all of you opening night.”

The group walked into the darkness, and as Sam turned to follow, Peter gently touched her arm. Her heart jumped and one more time she hoped he couldn’t feel it. She told herself he was playing with her and she should be upset, yet when she turned to face him, she knew she would be lucky if indifference showed on her face.

“Was that all right? I didn’t seem too . . .”

Damn him. Right when I was working my way up to miffed, he goes all human on me.

“Amazing.”

“What?”

“Mr. Famous Playwright nervous about a small group of theatergoers?”

“Yeah, well I was never good at talking in front of groups. I always get so . . .”

Sam could feel herself soften. Seeing underneath the facade to his nervousness, she recognized
her
Peter. For the first time since he’d been home, she reached for him. Her hand touched his face. Peter’s breath caught, and this time she was certain his heart was beating as wildly as hers.

“You were great, Peter. You should have more faith in yourself. It’s exactly what that woman said: a brilliant play. And people are going to . . . they are going to love you. I did notice a few changes to Sally. She’s no longer so queen-like. Well done. The ending is a real cliffhanger.”

“Thanks,” he was having trouble breathing.

Peter always liked himself through Sam’s eyes. She had a way of clearing away all the doubt and useless business in his mind. She looked at him, and he felt the most ridiculous things were possible.

“Well, things can change once rehearsals start, once actual people are up there,” he smiled.

“I suppose they can.”

“The ending, yeah, that is going to be. . . . Yeah, we’ll see.”

Sam turned to leave and halfway up the isle he said it: “Thanks for all your help, Sally.”

The group, who’d already been intrigued by their conversation, erupted in discussion. Sam whipped around, surprised he’d said it in front of other people. Peter’s mouth quirked, he put his head down, and walked backstage. It was the same look he used to give her at college socials or during late nights when he would drop her off at the dorm. He’d make a comment or say something flip that had a kernel of truth to it, and then in fear, or whatever it was, he would bow his head and retreat.

She was Sally. She had known it, everyone had known it after her outburst during rehearsal, but for him to say it out loud was . . . it was a gesture. An apology maybe, definitely a gesture. Extended, yet shrouded in a tossed away remark. Every hour Sam spent with Peter made it more and more difficult to push him back into the past. They now had moments in the present, time spent together in the current day today. The pain of the past was diluted every time she added a new memory with who he was now.

After dismissing the comments and cooing from the group, Sam ushered them out of the theater and decided to walk home. Peter was right, the majority of the play was filled with wonderful memories—and Phillip’s thoughts that she certainly wasn’t privy to growing up. The words Phillip says to Sally, or thinks about her in the play, those beautiful, heartfelt words. Peter wrote those, felt those about her.
But words are only words,
Sam thought. As lovely as they were and as much as hearing them helped her heal the past, she couldn’t build a life on sentiments. Actions build a life, and so far Peter’s only action had been leaving. Sam was learning to like him again, she knew she would always love him, but she couldn’t afford to trust him.

Chapter Seventeen

I
t was late. Everyone had left after the day’s rehearsal. Carmen was on her way out. Sam helped her put away the last things on the props table and finished her Coke. Carmen kissed Sam on both cheeks, thanked her for the help, and left through the green room. She locked the door, grabbed her bag, and was on her way through the house to lock up. The quiet hit her as she walked onto the stage. The house lights were down and the stage was empty except for the swing from Act II still in place.

She loved the theater when everyone was gone and the magic dimmed. Sam put her bag down and sat on the swing. The Playhouse was so beautiful and rich with history. Mocked-up pieces of her childhood sat in the wings of the stage. Sam recognized a bank of high school lockers and furniture from the Everoad house. Peter’s play was very specific. Trapped in the past again, Sam tried to imagine the girl she was back then. Pretending to take the hand of a young man, she stood and danced with her imaginary friend, lover. When did everything get so . . .

“Peter,” she whispered.

A light clicked on in the back of the house. A single beam illuminated a silhouette she knew all too well.

“Yes, Sam?”

She put her arms down and felt absurd.

“How long have you been . . .”

“Long enough to see you dancing around my backyard.”

“Oh, well, you could have told me you were there. I thought I was alone.”

“Now, that wouldn’t be any fun. You’d never have danced if you knew I was here.”

He hopped up on the stage, stepped stage left, and turned on a dim light overhead. It cast a warm glow as Sam sat back on the swing. Peter walked over, hands shoved firmly in his pockets, and sat next to her. The heat radiating off his body and the energy between them was again palpable. They had sat together a million times, but now it was almost painful.

Trying to ignore it, Peter looked down at his swinging feet. Breathing in the same space, he desperately needed to understand, figure things out without screwing up again. There was that need again, he needed to find a way back to her.

“Did you hear the Worthingtons are remodeling their kitchen?”

“Again? Didn’t they recently,” Sam caught herself, “wait a minute, are you partaking in neighborhood gossip?”

“Gotcha.”

Peter bumped her with his shoulder.

“Seriously, though they are . . . remodeling. Third time in two years.”

Shaking his head.

“Have these people ever heard of the term waste? How do I know this, you ask?”

“Okay, I’ll play. Yes, how do you know this tidbit of information?”

“My mother. Yeah, she told me last night while I carried her up to her room. She passed out, not that that’s anything new, but last night she was covered in magazines and rambling that her kitchen needed to be redone and that witch Elena Worthington, her words not mine, was trying to drive her crazy. After all these years, after everything she’s been through, she still clings to kitchens and keeping up with her friends. At her age, I thought she would have figured some things out. Jesus, she’s like the kid in the emergency room whose mother beats her, but she still cries for her mommy. Why does she give a crap anymore? Seriously.”

“I’m sorry, Peter.”

“No, don’t be sorry.”

He turned to face her.

“Answer the question. What is it? Why is it so damn important to have the new Viking stove or the Gucci purse? Her whole life has crumbled around her, and she still can’t see it. Why, Sam?”

“Why is it important to your mother? Only she knows that, but it’s how she was raised, Peter. She’s the epitome of the Pasadena debutante. It’s all she knows. Her parents took care of her, and then your father took care of her. It’s who she is. You can’t blame her for that. It’s sad, yeah, but don’t, I’m not telling you anything you don’t already know.”

“It’s hard to find value in anything, in our neighborhood, when I’m around her. The way she handled my father’s death . . . she closes everything off and any feelings that may creep up are drowned in a bottle. I don’t want to be around it. There are better ways to live your life.”

“True, but Peter, not everyone in our circle is going through what your mother has gone through. It’s like what you said about your play, most of it is good. There are rough patches, and I’ll give you that your mother is not easy to deal with, but that doesn’t eclipse everything else.”

“I know, but it’s different away from here. I’m different.”

Sam turned to look at him and the realization hit her.

“Peter, I don’t think you are. I think you’ve simply pulled together the easy pieces in New York. Sort of like how your mom is with the photo albums. You don’t want the ugly, the complicated, so you moved away from it, from me.”

Peter stood up, appalled at the comparison.

“That’s not true. I write about the ugly, I’ve faced my issues, Sam.”

“Right, in plays, in your writing. But what about in your real life? This is my home. I, we, grew up here. The good and the bad, we have to take it all. You can’t pick and choose. It’s not a book or a play. This is our past, warts and all, but at least we have each other. Well, at least we had each other growing up.”

Sam tried to lighten the mood, but she could hear Peter thinking.

“You honestly think I can’t handle reality, that I’m hiding in my plays? I’m the only person that recognized the crap I was living in. I recognized it and thank God, I got . . .”

Peter closed his eyes.
Brilliant way to woo her back!

“Got out? Thank God, you got out?”

“Sam, that’s not what I meant. I mean, for me there was no way I was going to be able to stay here. You have to see that.”

“Do I? You sure took what you wanted before you left, didn’t you?”

“That’s not fair.”

Sam narrowed her eyes in warning.
Did he really want to discuss fair?

“We were both there, Sam. It’s not like I threw myself at you, you were there, too.”

“I was, but I didn’t run from everything. You never gave me, us, a chance.”

“Us? Sam, there was never going to be an
us
back then. You are, you’re you, Samantha Cathner, drama sweetheart, gorgeous in everything. My date, out of the pure kindness of your heart, to several stupid social functions I crawled through. You shine here, and I . . .”

“Ran? You ran. We spent our whole lives together. You were not some charity case, so maybe that’s something you tell yourself to justify bolting. Look at me, Peter. I’m not the success story. High school and college are over. Here I am running myself ragged and living in my parents’ guesthouse. I haven’t seen a lot of shining lately.”

“You’ve pulled through fine. So you’re not acting, who cares? What you have is better. Only you could take something artistic and break it down into details and figures. You are so smart and different. Back then I wasn’t, what is it that my shrink says? ‘I wasn’t equipped to handle my emotions.’ If I’d stayed, I would have eventually managed to ruin that night. Once you woke up, you would have . . .”

“That’s such bull, Peter. That’s you running away instead of dealing with the mess of feelings you had. And that’s fine, if I wasn’t . . .”

“Don’t! You were, you were everything. Please stop making it sound like I left because I didn’t want you. Sam, that night, the night we . . .”

“Made love? In the rain? Yeah, I remember it. Seems a bit late to discuss it, but I remember every single detail. Clearly you do too, because you put it in your play. Can you say it, Peter, ‘the night we made love’?”

“I’m not a child, Sam. Of course I can say it. Right, the night we made love.”

He winced a little. The phrase “make love” always sounded awkward to him. The only man who ever pulled if off was Barry White, and Peter was definitely not Barry White.

“That night was, I haven’t found the words, that’s why you’re simply a light in the play. I don’t think words have been created that will do it justice. It was, it was everything I’d ever wanted to say to you.”

“You didn’t need words, Peter. It was passionate and tender. You were so,” Sam closed her eyes.

“And then you weren’t. It was like showing me everything we could be, asking me to give all of myself, and then taking it away.”

“I didn’t mean to hurt you. I didn’t expect it to be so much. I didn’t know what to do. I’d kept my feelings to myself for so long, and then we were together, and I . . . hell, I don’t know. Believe me, I was not what you needed.”

“Maybe you’re right.”

He lifted his brow at her candor.

“Maybe that night is all we were meant to be. For the longest time I tried to regret it, but it wouldn’t let me go. I couldn’t stop feeling, so I accepted the hurt, and moved on. And now you’re back. I mean what the hell am I supposed to do with that? Why are you here?”

“I came back because. I don’t know why I came back. I’m a glutton for punishment, is that the right answer?”

“I’m not looking for the right answer. I want the truth, too. Why?”

She was looking right at him and she wanted an answer. He found the simplest words, images, came to his mind.

“Because I, because I can breathe when I’m with you, Sam.”

She tried not to react. She held on tightly to the swing like a child. Peter stood up and kneeled in front of her.

“There, is that a good answer? Let’s see, what did my shrink say? Oh yeah, I blame this place for everything that happened to my father, and it suffocates me. You’re right, I can go to New York, recreate myself, but you’re here. You’re mixed in with all these other parts of my life. I don’t know how to make this work, but I need you, Sam, that’s why I came back. I want you in my life.”

She didn’t know what to say, a rush of heat filled her body and she didn’t like the feeling.
He needs me? Well, wasn
’
t that just too bad.
Only a fool entertains words like that, and she was no longer a fool. She had needed him for years, and there was no way she would survive another trip around the mixed-up mind of Peter Everoad. Sam took a deep breath to quiet her heart.