A Different Kind Of Forever (24 page)

“We’re just friends. But he is a kind and gentle soul, isn’t he?”

“Yes. And that’s rare in this business. He actually believes in encouraging his actors instead of beating them into submission. Last year I did Ibsen with Gordon Prescott, and I was suicidal. Truly. Without the support of a lovely little bike messenger named Geoffrey, I would have succumbed.”

“A friend of mine is working with Prescott now.” Diane said. “He says Prescott is a madman.”

Derek looked interested. “Gordon’s finishing his film right now. They say there’s smoke rolling out of the studio windows. Who do you know? I can tell you all the gossip.”

“Michael Carlucci. He’s doing the score.” Derek looked blank. “Mickey Flynn?” Diane prompted.

“Oh?” Derek put his arm around her shoulder again. “Yes, I know all about him. A ‘friend’ did you say? He’s quite scrumptious. The other one, Joe somebody, is getting most of the attention, especially since his wife has left our rainy isle for sunnier climes. But I know all about your little genius. He’s created quite a stir. Of course our tabloids are such a load of crap.” Derek leaned down, speaking into her ear. “If he’s fucked half the people they claimed, he wouldn’t have time to take a decent shit, let alone work for Prescott. Gordon is such a beast, really. But you, my dear,” he stepped back and looked her up and down again, eyebrows arched, “you and Mickey Flynn? Well. I can see why Quinn hasn’t got a chance. American rock stars are so exciting. Our British boys are mostly old, married and boring, or complete junkies. I saw him in the luscious flesh, you know, at some publicity thing, just last week He was being stalked by some bulimic blonde who couldn’t keep her tongue out of his ear. Of course, I prefer my boy toys a bit taller. Pure logistics, you know. You two must be a good match, though. He wouldn’t have to stoop. Ah, Harris.” Quinn had come up, placing his empty glass on the bar. “I was just telling the delightful Diane here about her boyfriends’ exploits in Londontown.”

“And if she has a lick of sense, which I know she does, she won’t believe a word.” Quinn took Diane’s hand and patted it. “He’s a terrible liar and an incorrigible trouble-maker. Please ignore everything he said. They’re serving. Shall we go in?”

The rest of the evening was a pleasant blur. Diane put Derek’s words out of her head. The food turned out to be delicious, and after the dinner was finished, and the official part of the evening was over, Diane followed Quinn into a small, dark lounge, where she sat and listened to Quinn, Derek, and a few others talk about the theater. It was her favorite kind of conversation, the insiders dish. It was almost two in the morning before she even realized it.

“Quinn, what about the car?” She asked, shamefaced. “I’ve been sitting in here making that poor man wait.”

“It’s his job to wait,” Quinn said mildly. “He’ll take you home now. Unless you’d rather stay? We could get you a room, I’m sure.” His hand had been resting lightly on her upper arm. Now, he touched her cheek. “Or we could just take a cab to my place.”

Diane shook her head slowly. “No, Quinn.”

He took her chin in his hand and kissed her lips. “You’re beautiful tonight, Diane. It would be such a lovely end of a lovely evening.”

Her lips were tingling, and she felt a slow rise of heat in the pit of her stomach. Her body was remembering another touch, Michaels’ soft mouth. She could feel herself starting to blush.

Quinn kissed her again, longer this time, but she stepped back, away from him. “No, Quinn. Please.”

Quinn pursed his lips, and put his hands in his pants pockets. He jingled the coins in his pockets nervously. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to presume.”

“I think I should go home now.” Diane said quietly, and Quinn walked her through the hotel doors, and waited silently with her until the car came up to take her home.

Derek Shore came down the steps and stood beside Quinn, lighting a cigarette. “Is she the reason?” he asked casually.

Quinn glanced at him briefly. “What do you mean?”

“Oh, come now. I know we’re not close friends, but we’re in the same brotherhood. Surely I’m entitled to a few confidences.”

Quinn raised his eyebrows. “Brotherhood?”

“Yes.” Derek took a long drag. “We’re one of the select few in theater who have worked with your ex-wife in the past five years without actually fucking her.”

Quinn let out a short laugh. “Yes.” He glanced at Derek again. “I met her two years ago. We fell in love. I thought it would be easy, getting the divorce. Who knew there’d be such a fight? And now it appears I’ve returned too late.”

“Ah, yes. She and I were talking about him. I’ve met him, you see.”

“He’s younger, apparently.”

“Much. And quite charming. Rather attractive too, if you like the Drop-Dead-Gorgeous-Blue-Eyes type.” He stubbed out his cigarette. “Is she in love with him?”

Quinn thought. “She never said. He’s in love with her, apparently.”

“Well, that’s not the same thing at all, is it? You’ve got the upper hand here, my friend.”

“Really? And what’s that?”

“Well, you’re here and he’s not, and you know what they say about love. Location, location, location.”

Quinn chuckled. “I thought that was real estate.”

“It’s all the same, isn’t it? Every time you take the plunge, you hope it will be a perfect fit and you’ll stay forever. With real estate you pay up front, of course. With love, you pay for the rest of your life.”

“Ah, there’s that old cynicism. I thought for a moment you were getting romantic on me.”

“If you want her, make her remember. Don’t be such a bloody gentleman.”

Derek walked back into the hotel. Quinn stood outside for a long time, looking into the darkness.

Angela stopped her in the hallway on Monday. Diane was hurrying to Sam’s office, her mind racing, and she went right past Angela, only stopping at the sound of her name being called. She turned, saw who it was, and broke into a tired smile.

“Angela. I’m so sorry. I’m in another world.” She kissed Angela’s cheek. “How are you?”

“I’m great, but you look so tired. Is everything okay?”

Diane shrugged. “The play. It’s taking up a lot of time.”

“Yes, I’m sure it is. I hear that Quinn Harris has taken an interest.”

Diane raised her eyebrows and looked at Angela in surprise. “What?”

“In the play.” Angela said quickly. Then she tightened her lips. “But of course, there are all sorts of other things flying around.” Angela shrugged. “You know Merriweather. It’s like a small town. Rumors, you know?”

Diane looked at her closely. “What kind of rumors, Angela?”

“About you and Quinn. About why he’s spending so much time here.” Angela was looking at Diane steadily. Diane swallowed a rising anger.

“Don’t believe everything you hear, Angela. Quinn and I have had dinner a couple of times. That’s all.”

Angela threw up her hands. “Okay. I believe you. But you should know what’s going around.”

“Well, it’s not true.”

“Fine. I didn’t mean to upset you, Diane.”

Diane sighed. “I’m sorry. I hadn’t heard, but then, I wouldn’t, right? Thanks for telling me.” Diane squeezed Angela’s arm. “I’ve got to go. Tell everyone I said hello.”

“Okay. I will. I’ll see you later.”

Angela went back down the hall, and Diane stood, staring after her. Rumors about her and Quinn? Sam would know.

But Sam claimed ignorance. He hadn’t heard a thing, and he was in the thick of it all. Besides, why pay attention to all that anyway? He patted Diane’s shoulder and urged her to sit. There was going to be a champagne reception after the first performance. He had just found out. Since most tickets for the first performance were usually given away to faculty, important alumni, press and guests of the cast and crew, he was able to talk the hospitality committee into springing for a rather lavish spread.

Diane tried to get excited, but she was feeling uneasy about what Angela had said. She left his office determined not to see Quinn again.

Rachel called her a few days later. “Mom,” she said cautiously, “did you ever tell Emily or Meg that you and Michael were, well, together?”

Diane was startled. “No. He left for England before they came back up from the shore. Why?”

Rachel sighed. “There was a thing - on the Internet.”

“What kind of thing?” Diane asked, concerned.

“On one of the sites. Do you know who Moira MacCauley is?”

“No. Should I?”

“I guess not. She’s a singer,” Rachel explained, “kind of New Age-y. Anyway, there was a thing, and this Moira had an interview. She said that all the English women were shit out of luck when it came to Mickey Flynn, because he was madly in love with some older woman back in the States. She knew you lived in his hometown. And that you taught at a local college.”

Diane was stunned. “How did she know any of that?”

“I don’t know, Mom. Maybe somebody else from the band. Who knows? You two didn’t exactly keep things a secret, you know?”

“Oh, God.” Diane felt sick. “Do you think Emily or Meg have seen it?”

“I don’t know. Remember Chloe? From the group? She read it, I don’t know where, and asked if it was about you. You and Michael came to see us a couple of times, remember? She was just curious, since you had just been there with Quinn.”

Diane ran her fingers through her hair. “Can you talk to Emily, please?” she asked. “Just to try to find out if she knows. If she does, I’ve got to explain.”

“Sure. You were going to tell them anyway, right, when he came back?”

“Of course. I just didn’t think anyone would - shit, I’ve been so stupid. Of course, something was bound to come out. I just figured if he was over there, I wouldn’t have to worry just yet.”

“So, is he really madly in love with you?”

Diane took a breath. “Yes, actually.”

“Oh, Mom. That’s amazing. So then, what’s with Quinn?”

“Nothing, Rachel. I told you, we’re friends. It’s possible, you know, for men and women to be just friends.”

Rachel was quiet on the phone, and then sighed. “I bet this whole thing really sucks, him being away so long. It’s been over a month. Do you ever, like, talk to each other on the phone? Like normal people?”

“No,” Diane said softly. “It would be very hard for me, hearing his voice. It’s easier when he’s just a few words on a computer screen. Then missing him is not, I don’t know, as real.”

“I’m sorry, Mom,” Rachel said. “Look, I’ll try to see if I can get anything out of Em. I don’t think Megan would really care that much, but with Emily, well, you know.”

“Yes. I know.” Diane hung up, suddenly worried.

That Saturday, Diane answered the door, and Ed, looking large and embarrassed, stood at her door with a stocky, disapproving-looking woman.
 

“Remember, me?” Ed asked. “Mike sent me out here back in May?”

“Yes, Ed. How are you?”

He grinned. “Good. So. Mike called, from England I guess. This is Mrs. Whitmire. She’s from the New Jersey Rose Society.”

Diane looked at the woman with interest. “I didn’t know there was a Rose Society in New Jersey.” Diane said.

Mrs. Whitmire puckered her lips. ‘Yes. Apparently you need a lesson in pruning your roses and preparing them for the winter?” Her voice was shrill and condescending.

Diane looked at Ed, who was trying to keep a straight face. “Well, of course I’d be grateful for any advice. Come in.”

She led them through the house and into her back yard. Leaves had begun to fall, and things were looking shabby and tired. Mrs. Whitmire walked through Diane’s small rose garden, turning over leaves and clucking to herself. Diane looked sideways at Ed.

“What did Michael tell you to do, find a Rose Nazi?”

Ed cleared his throat. “He said to find an expert. If I’d known she’d be the one, I’d have grabbed the little guy from the garden department at Walmart.”

Mrs. Whitmire came up to them, shaking her head disapprovingly. “Black spot, of course. Didn’t you spray? No Japanese beetle, thank heaven, and your Louise Odier is suffering from iron deficiency. But, on the whole, they should survive. You have an interesting assortment.” Mrs. Whitmire looked vaguely displeased. “Most people try to select roses that have some common trait.”

“Well, I picked ones that smelled good,” Diane said apologetically. “I didn’t realize there was some kind of Rose Protocol.”

Mrs. Whitmire sighed, and led Diane back to her roses, and for the next hour gave Diane a fascinating and helpful lesson in how to prune, and when, how to wrap the roses against wind, and what to do the following spring. Diane thanked her, thanked Ed, and spent the rest of the day outside, starting to clear dying plants, raking, waiting until it was late enough in the day to call Michael in England. He had been staying at Seth’s, and he had given her the number there. She tried to calculate the time difference, knowing he stayed late at the studio.

He answered on the second ring, angry, tense. “Now what?” There was noise in the background, voices raised.
 

“Michael. Hello.”

A pause, then - “Wait a minute.” He yelled something, then she heard a scuffling, and the sound of a door closing. “Diane? Please tell me it’s really you.” He sounded hoarse. She felt a lump in her throat.

“Yes, it’s really me. The rose expert from Hell was here this morning. She made me feel two feet tall, but she was very helpful. Thank you for thinking of me.”
 

“I’m always thinking of you.” He stopped. She could feel him, over the miles, reaching for words. “It’s terrible here. Prescott is a madman. He found another producer for the soundtrack. Seth and Joey are furious. Prescott still doesn’t have a final cut. This movie is supposed to be done, opening in December, and he’s still changing things. David Go quit twice already.”

“Oh, Michael,” she said softly.

“How is your play?”

“Opening in four weeks. It’s going to be good, I think. It’s hard for me to tell, but Sam is happy.”

“How are the girls? Is Megan still in love?”

Diane bit her lip. “Yes. They’re fine.” She was sitting on the floor of her den, knees drawn up to her chest, clenching the phone so tightly her knuckles were white. “I miss you.”