Reign (13 page)

Too, Ann was interested in theatre from backstage. She had worked with her local little theatre group as assistant stage manager, props person, and costume assistant over the years, and had even directed a production of
The Importance of Being Earnest
in 1982, which was well reviewed in the local paper. The experience, however, had left her shaken, and she had never wanted to direct again. The clash of personalities, as well as the backbiting and pettiness that seemed to be part and parcel of even an amateur group, strengthened her resolve to remain backstage rather than onstage, as far away from the actors as possible.

So, she felt, with her own interest and involvement in theatre and the worthiness of Dennis Hamilton's project, it made sense for her to pursue this new possibility. After all, Kirkland was only forty miles away — an hour's drive at most.

Ann looked at the building again, at the classical fa
ç
ade of light gray limestone. Higher, beneath the roof lines, were ornate moldings of grapevines from which peered faces of mythological deities, and above, the red Roman tiles of the multi-leveled roof on whose corners perched occasional gargoyles, carved in unexpectedly benign and reflective poses.
There was money
, she thought,
and there was
money. She had the former, while Dennis Hamilton had the latter. Not for a minute did she begrudge it of him. He had worked hard — that much she had known years before when they had first met — and over those years he had entertained millions, brought a story of love and fidelity and honor into lives that often knew those things in no other way.

No
, she thought,
Dennis Hamilton deserved his money, his theatre, deserved everything he had
. And Ann Deems would have felt that way even if she had not still loved him.

She had taken a deep breath then and started across the parking lot, and now here she was, sitting in the office of John Steinberg, the same man she had seen on
Entertainment Tonight
only a few weeks before. Donna Franklin had excused herself and left. Steinberg had been, for the last five minutes, looking over her file of papers. At last he glanced up, and Ann was relieved to see that he was smiling.

"This looks very good," he told her, aligning the papers in the same way that Donna Franklin had done before. "Your secretarial skills are certainly up to what we'd need — at least for this job. And you do have some experience in theatre."

"
Little
theatre," Ann reminded him.

Steinberg waved a hand airily. "The only difference is that the egos are larger here."

Heaven help you
, Ann thought.

"Why do you want a job like this, though? You certainly don't need it, do you? I don't mean to pry, but I consider myself an excellent judge of wardrobe and jewelry, as well as character, and you don't appear to me to be a woman used to working for five dollars an hour."

"As I told Miss Franklin, the money's of little consequence. I'm recently widowed, and I'd simply like a full time job to help fill the days."

"Why not do what other bored, wealthy women, widowed or not, do? Open a shop and sell something that interests you."

"Selling things doesn't interest me at all."

"But filling out pension and welfare forms does?"

"I believe it might. I won't know unless I try."

"And if it doesn't, then you leave us in the lurch."

"No, Mr. Steinberg. I finish what I start. This job is scheduled to last through next summer. If you hire me, I promise you I'll be here until the end.”

“Barring acts of God and, the same gentleman forbid, death."

Ann smiled. "Of course."

Steinberg leaned back and crossed his arms. He sat that way for a moment, and then, in a movement whose quickness startled Ann, he leaned forward across his desk, his arm out, hand extended toward her. "We'll take a chance on you," he said.

She nodded, took the offered hand, and shook it. "Thank you."

"And now," said Steinberg, standing up, "let's go meet Dennis."

"Meet . . . Dennis Hamilton?" The muscles in Ann's legs tingled, but she made herself stand on them nonetheless.

"Yes. He's been damned gloomy lately, and I think meeting an attractive new production assistant would do him a world of good. Besides, far better this way than to have him stumble over you in the balcony, yes?" Steinberg opened the door to the outer office. "Donna," he said, "tell Dennis I'm bringing someone up to meet him." He turned back to Ann. "Have you seen the theatre?"

"Just the lobby on my way in. I came to a lot of movies here when I was in school, though. It was quite beautiful."

"It still is. Donna can give you the grand tour later. Now, onward and upward." They walked down the hall side by side. Halfway up the staircase to the third floor, Ann cleared her throat. "I've, uh, met Mr. Hamilton before."

There was, she was afraid, something in her voice that implied secrets, and Steinberg slowed, then stopped and leaned against the railing. "Really. And where was this?"

"Oh, it was a long time ago. Back when his first show played here. I was working in the hotel that housed the cast. In the restaurant."

"I see. Well, in that case, you've known Dennis longer than I have. What am I introducing you for?"

Ann paused before she answered. "I doubt that he'll remember. That was almost twenty-five years ago."

"You'll discover," Steinberg said, smiling gently, "if you don't know it already, that Dennis never forgets a face. And certainly not such a pretty one." He began to walk up the stairs again, and Ann followed. "I'd also introduce you to Robin, Dennis's wife, but she's in New York this week, meeting the playwrights and composers who've written the shows we're considering for production. But you can meet her later. A charming woman, very young, but very . . . perceptive."

There were dimensions of meaning in the word, and Ann could not help but wonder if Steinberg suspected the nature of her previous relationship with Dennis Hamilton. Well, if he did he did. All that was in the past.

Still, as they reached the top of the stairway and began to walk down the long
hall
, she could feel her heart pounding, and she began to wonder if she had been lying to herself, if her desire for this job was born of nothing but the desire to see Dennis again. Why else did she feel relieved that his wife was away?

Finally they stopped at a pair of carved double doors. "The sanctum sanctorum," Steinberg said, pushing a button. In a moment the doors were opened by a short, stocky man in a pale blue jogging suit, who Steinberg introduced as Sid Harper. He shook Ann's hand, looking at her with what might have been a trace of recollection.

"It's pretty warm today," he said, leading the way across a living room right out of
Architectural Digest
. "Dennis is on the terrace." Ann followed through the French doors and saw him.

He was sitting with his back to them at a glass-topped table on which lay a morning newspaper, folded and unread. Next to it was a Limoges cup filled with coffee. Although all she could see of Dennis was the back of his head above the collar of the soft brown leather jacket, she would have recognized him anywhere. The sandy red hair, now touched with highlights of gray, was still swept backward in a leonine manner. It glimmered in the morning sun just the way it had when they had said goodbye to each other so many years before. Although she had seen his face since, it had always been in films or on television, and she could barely keep herself from going up to him, touching his shoulder, seeing him turn and look at her once again.

"Dennis," Steinberg said softly but firmly, "I'd like you to . . . reacquaint yourself with Ann Deems."

It seemed to Ann that he turned in slow motion, so that the jutting chin, the straight and narrow nose, the blue eyes, once piercing but now soft, came into her view over a period of what seemed like minutes, and after that eternity he was finally looking at her face, and the eyes became sharp and clear again, and she knew that he not only recognized her, but that he had not forgotten her. It was the look of lovers meeting after many years of separation, and the knowledge that he had never stopped loving her nearly drowned her, and she became aware of the most wonderful and terrible knowledge of all, that she had never stopped loving him either.

"Ann . . .” His lips formed the word, but she did not hear it.

"Hello, Dennis," she said, her throat thick, her hands tingling with the longing to touch him. "It was Ann Warren then."

"Yes . . ." It was as though he suddenly realized that he was being rude, and he got awkwardly to his feet. "What a surprise," he said, and a smile that held more things than she could imagine formed on his face. He made a delicate motion toward her, then stopped, as though he had intended to give her a kiss of greeting, then changed his mind. "It's been . . . quite a long time. You're looking very well."

"Thank you. You too. The beard still looks wonderful."

He chuckled. "My chin hasn't seen daylight for ten years now."

"He could grow mushrooms in it," Sid said, then crossed his arms. He looked uncomfortable, Ann thought.

"Well, since you two seem to know each other," Steinberg said, "Sid and I will get back to work. Oh, by the way, Dennis, Mrs. Deems will be our new production assistant, with your approval, of course."

"Oh.
Oh
. Of course. I'm sure she'll be . . . wonderful. Ann, would you . . . like some coffee? Tea?"

"No thank you, Dennis. I'm fine."

"Later," Sid said, following Steinberg through the French doors and out of sight.

"Um . . . please, sit down." He held out a chair for her and she sat, finally looking at the view. A large courtyard with a fountain was below. Across it and to the right were the vast walls of the building itself, while to the left was the street, an oak-lined boulevard that undoubtedly had looked the same for decades.

"It's a beautiful town," she said, and Dennis, sitting across from her, nodded.

"It always was," he said. "One of the few places that never changed. You could almost imagine that it's the same as it was when we . . . when I first came here."

"Except for the fact," said Ann, "that they don't show dirty movies here anymore."

Dennis laughed, and Ann was glad to hear the sound come bubbling out of him. Her silly remark had broken whatever romantic nostalgia had bound them, and she felt easier now, less apt to cry or shout or embrace him or any of the other childish, foolish things she had thought she might do. "God, you look good," Dennis said. "So tell me everything. How you became Ann Deems, whatever became of your parents, if you have children, the works. I mean, we do have a quarter century catching up to do."

"That dates us, doesn't it?" Ann said dryly.

"Me perhaps. Not you. You've hardly changed a bit."

She smiled. "Actors are always such skillful liars."

"Lying is our profession. But in this case I'm as honest as I know how to be. But now tell me — you're married."

"I was. I'm . . . a widow now. God, that word sounds so quaint, doesn't it?”

“Did it happen recently?"

So prompted, Ann told Dennis what had happened since they had last seen each other. He hung on every word, expressing a child-like delight at her triumphs, dismay at her losses. Never before had anyone listened so intently to her, or responded so sympathetically. She finally told him of Eddie's death, though she did not mention the circumstances, and merely hinted at the gap it had left in her life.

"Well," he said when she had finished, "it sounds as though you'll do a terrific job working with us. But you know, I'm interested in what you said about Terri. She's a good costumer?"

"I think so, but I'm her mother. Why? Do you need someone here?"

"Yes we do. Or we will very shortly. There are tons of costumes that need to be cleaned, repaired, you name it. We're trying to build our own wardrobe here so that we'll have most of what we need for shows, rather than having to rent everything from New York houses. There's no rush for
Marvella
right now, but once we select a show, which might be very soon, she's going to need help."

"
Marvella
Johnson?" Dennis nodded. "She's Terri's idol. She did a research paper on her designs."

"You think she'd be interested in working for her?"

"You're joking. She'd be delirious. You mean there's actually a chance?"

"I don't know why not. A degree in costuming from Yale Drama School is nothing to sneeze at, even for
Marvella
." Dennis laughed. "Of course I think tenth grade was as far as
Marvella
ever got. Someone with her natural gifts comes along about every fifty years. She calls herself the idiot savant of costume design, but believe me, she's no idiot, she's a damned genius."

"It was
Ilona
Herrick who discovered her, wasn't it?"

"Yes. Sort of like Lana Turner in the soda shop. Herrick hired her as a seamstress — out of desperation to meet a deadline — and accidentally knocked over a folder full of
Marvella's
sketches. The rest is history."

Ann nodded. "A happy set of circumstances."