Reign (15 page)

Dennis shook his head, remembering how
Caton
Tully, the director, expected Ralph Pritchard to get coffee from the machine in the lobby for him and several of the more highly paid actors at every break. Dennis had not been among the select few. The morning of the day after he and Ann had their first dinner together, Dennis had made his move.

~ * ~

When Pritchard started back to the lobby to get Tully's coffee, Dennis called after him, "I'll have some too, Ralph. Black," and turned away before Pritchard could respond. When Pritchard returned, he handed the cardboard cups around, then finally gave the last one to Dennis. Dennis opened it and saw the light brown of a double cream. Although he didn't taste it, he felt certain that Pritchard had dumped a double sugar into it as well.

"Ralph," he said in a flat, cold tone. "I asked for black."

"Oh yeah?" Ralph shrugged. "You want something done right, do it yourself."

"You
scheiskopf
!
" And suddenly Dennis Hamilton was gone, and the Emperor
stood there in his place, an Emperor who had been pushed past all endurance and
would brook no more. "It was
your
mistake." Dennis thrust the cup into the man's
chest, so that the light, sticky brew splashed Pritchard's shirt, and husked out one
word — "Black." The theatre grew deadly quiet, and no one moved for a long time.

~ * ~

"I never," Dennis said to Ann, "never would have done that if you hadn't suggested it. And even then it was hard. I mean, Jesus, what a smartass punk, they must have thought."

"But he brought you a black coffee, didn't he?"

"Yes he did. I guess it helped that he was such a
screwup
to begin with. I don't know, maybe he thought I could actually get him replaced or something. After all, I was the star, whether I realized it or not."

"And you finally began to act like it."

"That's right. And I've been acting that way ever since. So following your advice not only made my reputation," said Dennis with a wry smile, "it ruined it as well. From
enfant terrible
to aging tyrant."

"Oh, the gratitude you must feel toward me. But you're not aging, you're forty-three, the same as . . .” She hesitated.

"The same as you. I know. No secrets here. But the years have been far kinder to you, Ann, than to me."

"How can you say that? You look wonderful."

"There are silver threads among the red, and, though you can't see it, I'm beginning to cultivate a paunch. The weight's remained the same, it's just been . . . redistributed." They laughed together, stopping only when the waiter refilled their wine glasses.

"So," Dennis said, "did you ask your daughter whether she'd be interested in working for us too?"

"No," Ann replied, and Dennis thought he saw a cloud pass over her face. "She wasn't home when I got there. Probably out with friends. I'll talk with her . . .” She paused, as if contemplating what the evening would hold. “. . . tonight, when I get home."

Dennis nodded. The mention of Ann's daughter had unexpectedly introduced the
spectre
of all the years that had passed since the nights they had last sat here, at first holding hands, later kissing with light, gentle kisses when the waiters' and other diners' attentions were elsewhere.

They did not hold hands now, though Dennis wanted to. From the moment he had seen Aim that day, he knew that his feelings for her had never left, that although at times he had denied her existence, he knew now that he had done so to spare himself the pain of life without her. For only by not thinking about her, by banishing her from his mind, could he live with the knowledge that he loved her, and always would.

He looked at her now, and her gaze came up and met his, their eyes held, and they both knew the secret the other was trying to hide. He saw tears in her eyes and felt them form in his own, tears of self-pity for all the years spent apart, for the life they might have had together.

Her hand touched his, her cool fingers intertwined with his own. There were no words. They only sat and watched one another, as if trying to drink in the sight, quench the thirst of a quarter century, attempt to fill that emotional reservoir they both knew was bottomless, infinite, in preparation for an uncertain future.

"Oh, Ann," he whispered, his throat thick with grief and joy. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." Sorry for what had been, he wondered, or sorry for what was yet to come?

"No," she said, looking away at last, brushing away the tears with the hand that was not holding his. "I'm the one who's sorry. Sorry for what happened, sorry I came back to see you . . .”

"No. Don't be sorry for that, don't ever be. I'm glad you came."

"I shouldn't have. I shouldn't take the job, I should just go home and forget all about this, about you . . .”

"
No
." His hand tightened on hers. "I don't want you to do that. Please stay." She shook her head as though it weighed a ton. "You're married. I don't want to . . . to be the cause of anything."

"You won't," he said, thinking that it was a lie, saying it nonetheless, thinking that he would have said anything to be with her longer. And then he thought that maybe what he said was true, but that he didn't want it to be.

At last she took her hand away, and his own hand had never felt so empty. "I don't know why," she said with a crooked smile, "why you have stayed in my mind all these years."

Dennis felt her smile mirrored on his own face. "Maybe it's because we loved each other, but we were never lovers. That's . . . a reflection, not a proposition."

"And taken as such." She sighed, sat back in her chair, and took a sip of wine. "You may be right, though. It was . . . relatively chaste. So all these years I suppose I've thought about what it would have been like." Now the smile held true humor. "And probably the fantasy is better than the reality."

"It generally is," Dennis said. "But there are exceptions to that rule." Ann's face became sad again. "We'll never know, will we?"

"No," Dennis said. "I guess we won't."

They sat there silently until Ann spoke again. "What if I asked you?" she said. "I'm not, but what if I did? What if I asked you to take me back with you tonight? What would you say?"

I've been an actor too long
, Dennis thought, and acted again. "I'd say no. For both of us."

"And for your wife."

"And for my wife, yes." Then he added, as though it needed to be said. "I love her, Ann."

He walked her to her car. They did not hold hands, nor did they embrace when she got in. "I start Thursday," she said.

"Good," he said. "Good. Have Terri come with you and meet
Marvella
, yes?"

"All right." He closed the door for her, but she opened the window and spoke to him through it. "Dennis, if this doesn't work, don't blame me if I quit. Right now I just want to see you, even if I can't . . . be with you. Maybe it'll pass. I hope it will."

"I know. I know how you feel. I feel the same way."

She smiled. "This has got doom written all over it, hasn't it?"

"Yes."

"Are we stupid?"

"Maybe. But we don't have to be." And he thought
yes, yes, we are stupid. And we are helpless as well
. But he only said, "Goodnight, Ann."

He turned then and walked down the street, not looking back, fearful that if he did he would go back to her, and though his heart wanted him to, his mind did not. He reminded himself that he loved his wife, he loved Robin, and he would not, could not be unfaithful to her. He had played that game too many times before with other women he had pretended to love. He would not do it to Robin, not to Robin. He owed her more than that.

When he returned to his suite, it seemed more empty than ever. He wished that Robin were there, and, out of loneliness and the desire to hear her voice, called her at the apartment they kept in New York. She sounded the same as ever, and told him that one show in particular stood out among the several finalists she had reviewed, and that she would be returning on Friday with the script and a tape of the music. He told her that he missed her and loved her, and she sounded, he thought, surprised to hear it.

She also sounded, he was dismayed to learn, ever so slightly like a stranger.

~ * ~

What if he had given a different answer
, Ann wondered as she drove home.
What if he had said yes, I'd take you back with me, and I'd make love to you for the first time, and it would be the first time for the both of us for the rest of our lives, and we would spend the rest of our lives together, no one else, the way it should have been so many years ago.

What would I have done? Would I have gone with him if he had asked me to? God, I don't know. I would have wanted to, but would I have gone?

And as she drove through the night, the headlights of cars cutting across her vision, she thought of what it would be like to go to bed with Dennis, and as the lights streaked by, she thought of the last time she had gone to bed with Eddie, and in her mind Dennis's face became her husband's, and the dead weight of her husband became Dennis, and by the time she turned into the long driveway that led back to her home, she wondered for the hundredth time if she could sleep with any man again, but thought that if one existed who could make her forget, it would be Dennis.
How sad
, she thought, when Dennis was what she needed most to forget.

~ * ~

Terri was sitting in the den watching a Tracy-Hepburn movie on the large screen television when Ann walked in. The girl glanced away from the screen just long enough for her to take in her mother's appearance, then looked back at the four foot tall Tracy giving a towel-clad Hepburn a rubdown. "Well," she said dryly, "and where have we been in our sexiest dress?"

"It's not sexy," Ann said.

"Look in the mirror and tell me that, O mother of mine. Your boobs are displayed to their best advantage."

"What there is of them." Ann walked to the sofa where Terri was reclining and sat on the arm. "How would you like to work for a living, daughter dear?”

“Doing what?" Terri asked disinterestedly.

"Being an assistant to
Marvella
Johnson."

For the first time since Eddie's death, Ann saw the girl's stoic sarcasm replaced by youthful excitement, and felt a thrill run through her that she was actually doing something that made her daughter happy. "
Marvella
Johnson
? Are you
kidding me
?"

"Dead serious. I followed your advice and went job hunting myself today. At the Venetian Theatre."

Terri's face grew solemn once more. "So that's it. The old boyfriend." She made a strange noise, half-snort, half-laugh. "I'm surprised you came home at all tonight. Or was
Mrs
. Hamilton there to put a damper on things?" Ann stood up, walked to the television, and turned off the power. "Hey, I was watching that," Terri said.

"Well, you're going to watch me now — or at least listen to me. Dennis Hamilton was a friend of mine, yes, a long time ago, but he's married now, and that's all we are — friends. I've never slept with the man and I don't intend to. Now that's none of your damned business, but you seem to think it is, so that's why I'm telling you, to set the record straight."

She came back, sat on the arm again, looked down at her daughter. "Dennis is a good man, and I'm going to be working at his theatre on his project. When I told him about you, he said that
Marvella
Johnson needs an assistant and told me to invite you to apply for the position. I've done that. I'm going in to work on Thursday, and if you want to come along, fine. If you don't, that's fine too. Frankly, I'm getting to the point where I don't give much of a damn
what
you do. Goodnight." And she left the den without another word.

~ * ~

Left alone, Terri looked at the doorway through which her mother had passed, then at the blank screen of the huge TV. In a way that she could barely admit to herself, she felt jealous of her mother, for both the things she had and the things she had not had.

Men were not part of the equation. Terri had had men, and in abundance. In college, sex had come easily and, for the most part, happily to her. It was also carefree, for she carried her own condoms, and would not consider sex without them. Her partners were willing to trade off increased sensitivity for ease of access, so Terri was seldom left wanting sexual companionship.

What she
was
left wanting, however, was romance, something with which she believed her mother had lived all her life. Ann had told her long before about having known and dated Dennis Hamilton, although she had never given her any details. Around this skeletal framework Terri had constructed a legend. She had seen the film version of
A Private Empire
, and had even seen Dennis in the New York revival back in 1982. She remembered her father telling her mother that they should go backstage, that Dennis would surely remember her, but Ann refused. At the time, Terri thought it was because Ann had made the whole story up, but later realized that seeing the two men she loved together would have been too difficult.