Adulation (48 page)

He practically had it memorized word for word.

He would then do about ten minutes of Q&A and finally sign books and pose for pictures.

He gripped the sides of the podium as if to keep from falling over, scanned the panorama of the crowd, and swallowed hard. He suddenly felt like an actor with stage fright.

“What happened to your face?” someone in the front row asked.

Thank God for his fucked-up nose.
 
“Oh, that. Funny little story.” He went on to explain what happened the night before, and the crowd laughed not in solidarity but with skepticism, as if he were making it up. “No, really,” he coaxed, but that only made them laugh harder. Jackson was right—a bar fight or Charlene decking him would’ve been much more plausible. He decided to play up to the crowd as if he knew that they knew that he was pulling one over on them, and at least it was enough to get him back on track. Georgie had returned and handed him a Hershey bar as inconspicuously as possible.

“Anyway, it’s great to be here,” he started, and then went into his speech.

More applause.

Georgie dispensed a wireless microphone to the patrons for questions that ranged from why did his new show get rejected to would he work with Shane Sands again.

After a couple of questions, Danny noticed that a look of utter delight came across Georgie’s face as he practically  ran to hand the mic to someone in the back. But Danny couldn’t see the recipient. Lots of people were standing behind the full rows of chairs, and the sunglasses he wore to cover up his black

eyes restricted his long-range vision.

“Mr. Masters, I’ve been a writer for a really long time. Your words have inspired me to be an even better writer. More than that, they’ve brought joy to my life, as have you. And so I just wanted to say thank you.”

It was the way she said “Mr. Masters” that registered first. He took off his sunglasses and squinted to get a better look at her, trying to match the face before him to the seven-month-old memory he’d been trying so desperately to retain. And yet, he
 
knew
.

And there, as if manifesting on the spot, she stood before him. She looked different from that day outside the theater. Longer hair. Less makeup. Jeans and sneakers and a sweatshirt with the sleeves scrunched up. But he knew who she was. He’d known all along.

And for a split second, the dull throbbing of his nose and the pounding in his head and the nausea and hunger all disappeared.

“Thank you, Sunny,” he said.

At that moment, he had a realization that was equal parts epiphany and matter-of-fact. And he finally knew what that amused look of Raj’s was all about.

PART THREE

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

Sunny Smith

W
E FACED EACH
 
other, the rest of the store silent. He looked so different from the frazzled yet handsomeguy he’d been outside the theater that day, and not just because he was wearing Bono-like sunglasses tocover up the bruises that peeked out from under the bandage covering his swollen nose. His hair was evenlonger than it had been at the Oscars, more gray showing through, and he looked pale. He didn’t look likean Oscar-winning screenwriter. More to the point, he didn’t look like Danny Masters. He didn’t lookcharismatic or charming or like someone Charlene Dumont would be seen with.

Ohmigod: He called me
 
Sunny
—he knew who I was!

“Holy shit,” I blurted. The audience laughed, and suddenly I could feel all eyes on me as I stoodthere, once again right in the spotlight I hadn’t sought.

I turned on my heel and practically ran back to the stockroom.

“Wait!” Danny called out. He followed me and caught the door just before it could close and lockhim out.

I stopped at the workstation and turned to him, and he looked at me for a second, catching hisbreath. It was  just the two of us now. No Manhattan traffic, no fans, no press or lurkers waiting to steal themoment on their smartphones.

Just Danny and me.

“Sunrise,” he said and smiled, as if he were trying on my name like a shirt, liking the way it fit. “You work here?”

I nodded.

“In here?” he clarified, looking around the stockroom.

I nodded again, at a loss for words. They were so much easier to come by on paper or a laptop. He then zoomed in on my workstation, took in its knickknacks and my
 
Winters in Hyannis
 
poster. “Ithought you were some guy named Kenny,” he said.

I looked at him with utter confusion, desperate to find my voice. How often did a person get thiskind of second chance? How often did lightning strike twice? And what were the odds of my blowing ityet again?

No. I wasn’t going to let that happen.

“I’m sorry I called you a failure,” I said softly. “You are so not a failure.”

It felt so good to release those words, and the emotion that came with them followed as tears cameto my eyes.

“But I was a jackass,” said Danny.

I shook my head and was about to refute it when he put his fingers to my lips and then wiped astray tear from my cheek with a single, feather-soft caress.

“I’m sorry too,” he said just as softly.

And then, before I even knew what was happening, he cupped my face in his hands and kissed me.

His mouth lingered over mine for a moment, and then he let go as abruptly as he took hold.

I opened my eyes and reconnected to his.

That kiss—oh, that
 
kiss
 
! The way my face seemed to fit so comfortably in his warm hands, like achalice; the feel of his lips, both firm and smooth, his breath smelling of chocolate. The
 
electricity
 
I felt;actual current zapped through my body, charging my fingers and toes to the point that I thought they’dglow. Joshua Hamilton was a fantastic kisser. I’d felt sparks with Josh, perhaps even with Teddy at onetime. But
 
this
. This was better than sparks. This was enough to start a car and keep it running.

I wanted it again. Slower this time.

So I took hold and pulled him into another firm, urgent kiss, this time running my fingers throughhis hair—his thick, silky hair—and he moved into me, pinning me to my workstation as his arms wrappedaround me, his hands stopping at the small of my back, resting comfortably there, as if they found a placeto live.

Our second kiss ended, reluctantly, and I opened my eyes slowly, feeling the cement floorunderneath my feet, as if I’d just come back down to earth.

I caught my breath. “Wow,” I said on the exhale.

“I’ve been wanting to do that ever since I saw you outside the theater,” he practically whispered.

We were about to move in for a third when—

“Um, excuse me, but...”

Danny and I both jerked our heads to find Angela standing in front of us, goggle-eyed. How long had she been there?

“I’m very sorry...” Danny trailed off.

“Angela,” I whispered to him.

“Angela. I apologize for leaving everyone out there. Please tell them I’ll be back in ten minutes.”

“OK,” she said, trying to retain a voice of authority, although I could tell she was freaking the fuck out. “Ten minutes.”

Danny returned his attention to me. “I’ve gotta go back out there and sign books before they start throwing chairs through the windows and looting the joint,” he said, pointing with his thumb behind him.

I broke out of my trance and into a laugh.

“But here’s the thing,” he said. “As soon as this book tour is over, I’m moving to New York. I’m getting a place in the city as well as here on the Island. Sag Harbor, to be exact—it’s a bit more low-key than the Hamptons, don’t you think?” He didn’t wait for me to respond, which was probably wise because I was caught in a whirlpool of emotions. “Anyway, I know this might sound crazy, but I read your books, Sunrise, and—”

My mind raced:
 
He read my books?

I was about to interject, but he put two fingers to my lips again (and how I didn’t melt on the spot both times, I don’t know) and continued, trying to squeeze everything in under his allotted ten minutes.

“—and I think
 
Long Island Ducks
 
would make a terrific movie. I want to buy the film rights for an adaptation, and I want you to co-write the screenplay with me.”

My brain could somehow only process strings of nouns and verbs without any conjunctions or adjectives to support them: Screenplay. Co-write. City. Live.

I attempted a coherent question. “You want to move to New York to write with me?”

“I want to move to New York
 
and
 
write with you,” he clarified. He looked as if he were delighted by my bemusement. “In the past I’ve been too much of a control freak to work with anyone else, but I have a feeling that won’t be the case this time. And right now I want to do something a little different from the kinds of things I’ve written before. I might even be able to persuade Mike Nichols to direct it.”

More words: Freak. Mike Nichols. Direct.

“And...” He hesitated. “I thought we could give
 
us
 
a try as well.”

This was fast. Like jumping off a cliff, frightening, not unlike when Josh had painted a future of me

with him. But with Josh, I’d felt more like I was being pulled. This was different. There was something comforting about knowing that I wasn’t jumping alone. Danny was jumping too. And he was inviting me to share his parachute.

“What about your daughter?” I asked.

His grin intensified. “I love that you just asked me that. She’ll be enrolling at the School of the Arts and living with me.”

I felt as if I were caught in a tailspin. Yet the assurance in his tone steadied me.

“I don’t know what to say.”

“Look, I know it must sound and feel really crazy to you, and I
 
have
 
to get back out there. But I want you to meet me in the city tomorrow. Please?”

“Tomorrow’s Friday. I have to work,” I said.

“Take the day off,” he coaxed.

“I can’t. Tomorrow’s my last day, and—”

Shut up, shut up, shut up, Sunny! What is wrong with you?

“After work? I have an apartment at the Plaza. Look, I understand if this is all too abrupt for you or if you’ve already got someone else in your life or something. But can you at least think about it? Sleep on it tonight, and then come see me tomorrow.”

He grabbed a Post-it pad from the workstation and wrote down the Plaza Hotel address and his cell phone number.
 
His personal cell phone number.
 
“You don’t have to check in or anything like that. But just in case, I’ll give them your name and let them know I’m expecting you. Tell them you want to see Daniel Gold. Or hell, even if you just want to call me, you can.”

He handed me the Post-it and I studied the numbers, repeating the name in my mind like a mantra:
 
Daniel Gold.
 
I had known that was his real name, but never thought of him as such. Daniel Gold was someone I could go out with. And it occurred to me that maybe Daniel Gold was the one I’d been in love with all along. And maybe that was the feeling. Just plain ol’ vanilla in love.

He kissed me one last time, slowly, gingerly, on my lips. We opened our eyes and locked our gaze yet again, and he finally let go of me.

He grinned. Not the charismatic Danny Masters grin, but one that was so much more intimate. “See you later, Sunrise.” And with that he took a few steps back, as if to take a snapshot of my face, before finally turning and heading back out to the floor.

I leaned against my workstation to steady myself and took a deep breath, exhaling forcefully. He kissed me. Holy shit,
 
Danny Masters kissed me in my stockroom!
 
I wanted  to shout it out from the roof of Whitford’s, put it in skywriting, post it on Facebook and YouTube and let
 
that
 
go viral instead.

No—not Danny Masters.
 
Daniel Gold
 
kissed me.