Suite Scarlett (20 page)

There was a sickly smell gassing up the lobby, where Scarlett was pacing between the desk and the door, occasionally pressing her face into the diamond-cut glass to get a wobbly view of what was going on outside. She got the sinking feeling that the odor was homemade pizza. That acrid smell was the crust burning—the tangy, bitter smell was cheese being turned to rubber.

Both Spencer and Mrs. Amberson had sent her messages saying that they were on their way back from the move-in to the parking garage, the play’s final home. Mrs. Amberson arrived first in her cab.

“The cab wouldn’t take your brother’s bike,” she explained, as she pulled out her cigarette case. “He’s coming on the subway. You look better than I expected. You have good, fighting stock in you, O’Hara. I was also thinking about getting you an appointment with this wonderful girl, Katiya…”

“Donna came over,” Scarlett said.

Those three words didn’t quite have the chilling effect that Scarlett had hoped. It took Mrs. Amberson two matches to get herself lit, but otherwise, she didn’t look disturbed.

“Came over where?”

“Here!”

“And how was her haircut?” she asked, a wry smile slipping on to her face. “Was it very, very fetching?”

“Did you just hear me? She was here.”

“You’re repeating yourself, O’Hara. How did she get here?”

“She figured it out. Not about you. She recognized Eric, then worked back to Spencer and me.”

“Well, well,” she said. “Donna is a little smarter than I remember. I hope you were nice to her. Did you rub her head for luck? Did it feel like a squirrel?”

“She
also
said that she could cause trouble for Spencer and Eric, and that she might say things about the hotel.”

Mrs. Amberson gazed at Scarlett for a moment.

“She doesn’t have the nerve,” she said dismissively. “Or the brains.”

“Are you sure? She found us.”

“A little luck, that’s all.”

“Don’t you think you should maybe talk to her?” Scarlett asked. “She left her number.”

Scarlett produced it, and Mrs. Amberson visibly bristled.

“Listen to me, Scarlett,” she said. “She angry, so she’s putting on a little show, pretending she has clout. Someone like Billy…now he can make or break a career. But not Donna Spendler. Ignore her.”

“But…”

“What could she possibly do to Spencer? What could she
possibly
do to this hotel? In two days, this show is going to be performed in front of over fifty influential people from the New York theater
community.
That’s
what we have to pay attention to. I’m going to go freshen up before dinner.”

Marlene came out of the elevator as Mrs. Amberson was going up. She hadn’t spoken to Scarlett since the fight the other night, but her stance was no longer combative. Or, it wasn’t as combative as normal.

There was a grudging respect behind it, like she now accepted Scarlett as a fellow warrior.

“We have to set the table,” she said. “Mom said.”

The burning smell was much worse in the dining room. Scarlett and Marlene exchanged a look of mutual disgust as they worked. They were almost getting along until a familiar black car pulled up in front of the building.

“He’s back!” Marlene yelled, rushing for the door.

“Oh, God,” Scarlett said.

Chip was getting out with a freakishly tall arrangement of white and pink orchids when Spencer came skidding along on his bike.

“Oh, God,” Scarlett said again, almost dropping the plates in her rush to get outside.

Chip and Spencer were staring at each other like two cats who haven’t quite worked out if they’re going to claw each other apart or groom each other to death. Spencer was almost twitching in his desire to say something. Marlene, meanwhile, was swarming around Chip in unfettered delight, openly flirting and batting her eyelashes.

The arrangement he was carrying, aside from being three feet tall, was delicate and vaguely Asian, in a square vase wrapped in strips of bamboo. It looked very, very expensive.

“Those are pretty,” Scarlett said, stepping between the steelygazed Spencer and Marlene and her dance of love.

“Oh.” He looked down at the flowers as if he had forgotten he was holding them. “Yeah. I tried. Lo likes white, and this pink color seemed good. I was just going to leave them. I should just leave them…”

There was a look on his face that she recognized—a hopeful, pained look.

“No,” she said. “You can come in.”

Spencer coughed. A tiny, polite cough.

“You should,” Marlene said, tugging on his sleeve.

It was clear that Chip had planned to leave his flowers at the desk unnoticed, and instead, three separate Martins had accosted him on the street.

“It’s okay,” he said, passing Scarlett the flowers. “And if she doesn’t want them, you can keep them.”

There was so much sadness in his voice. Stupid Chip, with his bottomless bank account and his Number Ninety-eight status and his repulsive friends.

“Hello, Chip,” Spencer finally said. His voice was completely normal, but the delay was oddly menacing.

Marlene continued to protest, asking him to come in, requesting a ride in his car, on his boat…

“Come on, Marlene,” Scarlett said, trying to pull her back while balancing the huge flowers. This did not improve Scarlett-Marlene relations, and when Chip eventually left, she stormed inside.

“It’s nice to see him,” Spencer said, watching the car disappear around the corner. “Really. I miss him.”

“I felt bad for him,” Scarlett said.

“He can go home and suck on a credit card.”

Scarlett looked at the flowers. Chip had chosen them with care—they really were perfect for Lola.

“Sorry,” Spencer said, putting his hand on her shoulder. “I forgot. I guess you would feel bad for him now. Special circumstances.”

He did a quick up-and-down check of her overall demeanor and expression and didn’t look completely satisfied with the result. Spencer must have assumed that her pale and stricken expression was still the aftereffects of the day before. It was—but it was also having Donna Spendler on their doorstep.

“You never punched Chip,” she said.

“Yeah,” he said. “I kind of wish I discovered my violent streak earlier.”

He locked up his bike, and they went inside. Scarlett set the flowers down on the desk. Lola came down the stairs a moment later and reeled at the sight. She kept a radius of several feet around them, like they might reach out for her.

“Chip brought them,” Scarlett explained.

“Why didn’t you get me?”

“He didn’t really want to stay.”

Lola looked to Spencer accusingly.

“I did nothing,” he said, holding up his hands. “Besides, why would you want to see him? You broke up with him. Don’t you
want
me to keep him away?”

“That’s not the point,” Lola said.

“It’s not?”

“Just…forget it.”

She stormed into the dining room, leaving Spencer to shake his head in bafflement.

“Someone’s in a bad mood,” he said. “Always at me.”

The elevator opened, and Mrs. Amberson joined them. She had changed into a rare pair of jeans and a formfitting tank top.

“These are lovely,” she said, flicking a petal as she walked by. Scarlett watched with revulsion as Spencer’s gaze followed her along.

There was a palpable tension around the dining room table, not entirely caused by the blackened pizza. Lola was still miffed over some imagined offense. Marlene was annoyed in general because of Chip. Scarlett was sick for several different reasons. Mrs. Amberson was fidgeting in her seat.

“You know,” she said, “I would just kill for a drink. I’m not sure if that’s possible, but…”

“We don’t have a bar license,” Scarlett’s dad said. “But you’re our family guest for dinner. I’ll just make you whatever you’d like.”

“A double whiskey would be lovely,” she said with her most toothpastey smile. “It’s a bit heavy for summer, but it’s made with whole grains, and that’s what counts. It’s a celebration today, after all. The show is about to open! Just two more days!”

“Is the show going well?” her mom asked, chopping ineffectually at the pizza with a butcher’s knife. “Can we expect some tickets?”

“Of course!” Mrs. Amberson said. “Of course! Best seats in the house for all of you! Spencer does a wonderful job. He’s absolutely a star.”

Scarlett’s father returned from the kitchen with a bottle of whiskey and a glass of ice. Mrs. Amberson dumped the ice into her water and poured herself what looked like a serious amount of straight alcohol, which she downed with alarming speed.

Spencer kicked Scarlett under the table, but she couldn’t watch. This didn’t bode well.

“You must have been thirsty,” her dad said, trying not to look at the empty glass.

“Oh, just one of those days!” she said. “But, yes. Spencer is quite a performer. How do
you
feel about it, Spencer?”

“Like I’m on top of the world,” he said, watching her closely. “Like that guy from
Titanic.
But less dead.”

She laughed a truly silverware-rumbling laugh that made all six Martins lean back in their chairs.

“Mind if I have another?” she asked, plucking the rejected ice cubes back out of the water. “Just a small one. Little chaser.”

Another whiskey slid to its death. Scarlett was officially terrified. The Donna news had evidently sunk in.

“I knew a wonderful young actor once,” Mrs. Amberson said, setting down the glass. “God, it was a while ago. He was a musical-theater performer. His family was Italian. They run a restaurant in Queens, as a matter of fact. That’s where I learned about good pizza.”

She smiled at the untouched slab of carbonized dairy and wheat product on her plate.

“He could dance,” she went on, “but he was really a singer. You could feel that when he was performing—he didn’t just want other people to see him and clap for him, he really wanted people to be entertained. And they were. That’s what the best actors are like. I think you’ve got that, Spencer. Cheers to good actors.”

She raised her half-empty glass.

“Does your friend still perform?” Scarlett’s mom asked.

“Oh, yes,” Mrs. Amberson said. “He’s quite successful. Haven’t seen him in years, though. He lives in Hollywood.”

“That sounds promising.”

Mrs. Amberson stood, slightly unsteadily.

“If you’ll excuse me,” she said. “Thank you for the lovely meal, but I have to be off. Spencer…no late night tonight! We head out at eight in the morning, on the dot!”

Mrs. Amberson’s behavior shortened the dinner a bit. As everyone scattered and Spencer and Scarlett gathered the dishes, she took his arm.

“I’m coming with you tomorrow,” she said.

“Scarlett,” he said. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

Whatever had happened with Eric, whatever she felt…something much bigger was going on now. Something he didn’t know about. Something he wouldn’t have even wanted to know about.

“I am coming with you,” she repeated.

The parking garage was a multistoried one, a winding concrete mess, overlooking an East Village street. The stage was being set up on the second level for the first part of the show, then the audience would be moved up to the open air on the third level for the big final act. Every part of the garage was being used, so there was commotion and equipment everywhere. The whole cast had been hard at work for hours.

Scarlett made it a point to stick close to Spencer, or it could have been Spencer making a point to stick by her. It was difficult to tell. There was a magnetic connection going on no matter what, probably in their mutual interest to avoid more heartbreak and scenes of violence. At the moment, all she could see of him were his feet. The rest of him was underneath the half-assembled stage with a drill, tightening a support. She sat next to him, supporting a light so he could see what he was doing. From here, she had a perfect view of Eric across the way. He was lifting lights out of the back of a van. He was wearing one of his tighter T-shirts.

She dug her fingers into her leg as hard as she could.

“Ow.”

That wasn’t her. That was Spencer. She had let the light droop, and now the drill had gone silent.

“You okay?” she said, peering fearfully into the void.

Before she found out what damage she had just caused to her brother, Mrs. Amberson swooped down on her with a handful of twenties.

“O’Hara,” she said. “Go downstairs to that pizza place on the corner and have some food and drinks sent up. There’s a health food store across the way, so you can pick me up a carrot juice. I’ll get this.”

She took the flashlight and assumed Scarlett’s place, bending low to peer at Spencer in the dark little space under the stage.

“Has anyone ever told you how well-articulated your knees are, Spencer?” she asked. “I know several dance teachers who would love to get their hands on them.”

Scarlett decided to avoid the stairs, as they had a pungent odor, so she wound her way down the two stories through the parking area. She didn’t notice that she was being followed until she was almost at the street.

“Hey,” Eric said, jogging up behind her. Even in the shadows of the parking garage, the greenish bruise that ran along his cheekbone was still perfectly clear.

Just standing across from him—it was different now. It was the most painful, messed up, exciting, and disturbing place in the entire world. It was an insult to some part of her, the part in the past that had been so happy.

“How’s the…?” She pointed to the mark.

“It’s fine,” he said, running his hand along the bruise. “Accidents, you know? Luckily, Spence and I wear white makeup. Can’t even see it.”

“Oh. Good.”

No. This wasn’t awkward
at all.

“I wanted to talk to you,” he said. “I thought we should. Sorry to chase you…I just wanted to do it in private.”

“Talk about what?” she asked, warily.

He took a long, deep breath.

“You saw Sarah come out of my apartment,” he said.

So Coco McBigGlasses had a name.

“Sarah was my girlfriend from home,” he said. “When you saw me, I had just broken up with her.”

“You had a
girlfriend
?” Scarlett managed to ask. “Even when we…”

She waved her hand to signify the kissing, all the moments spread out over the course of a week. That’s what happened when you had no definition. Your life was reduced to floppy hand gestures.

“This isn’t easy for me to admit,” he said. “I just want you to know the whole story. Do you want to hear it?”

It was a very good question. He sat down on the cement barrier, and invited her to do the same. She stood.

“In my town,” he said, “a lot of people settle down right out of high school. Something about that always scared me, that people got stuck doing that one thing for the rest of their lives, in that one town. I wanted to move to New York. I wanted to meet lots of people. Once I moved, I realized I couldn’t go back to that. Sarah’s great, but she was ready to…well, not get married right away, but stay together forever. That wasn’t what I wanted.”

“So why didn’t you break up with her before?” Scarlett asked. “Before me?”

“I knew I wanted to do it,” he said. “But we’ve…we
had
been dating for two years. I couldn’t break up with her over the phone, or in a note. I had to do it in person. I owed it to her. Believe it or not, I was trying to be decent.”

“Decent?” she repeated.

“It made sense to me at the time,” he said. “I was going to do it when I went home to visit, after the show closed. Which is a while from now. So I kissed you. I thought if I didn’t make a move, you’d meet someone else.”

Ordinarily, that would have had Scarlett in hysterics, but she wasn’t in a laughing mood. The familiar pang was kicking in. Eric wrapped his hands around the back of his head and gave a long, sad sigh.

“I thought I knew what I was doing until Sarah surprised me the other night. She drove all the way up from North Carolina. I had no idea she was coming. She just showed up at my door at one in the morning, exhausted. When you saw me the next day, we had just started the talk. It went kind of badly.”

It made Scarlett queasy to think that he had had a girlfriend all along—a tiny, tan, perky girlfriend—a girl who had been around for
two years.
But he had wanted to do the right thing. He had gone about it a little clumsily, but the effort was there. And he had broken up with her under emotional duress. The mouse of hope was chewing its way through the baseboard of “you don’t stand a chance.”

“Don’t think I don’t realize how this all makes me sound,” he said, his voice getting soft and drawly again. “And I don’t blame Spencer
for what he did. He’s your brother. I would have wanted to do the same thing. I swear I was trying to do right by everyone, but I hurt two people in the process. A punch in the face is understandable. And I like to think the bruise makes me look more rugged.”

He laughed a little and poked the bruise hard with his finger.

“So,” Scarlett said, “doesn’t that make things okay between us now? I mean, if you’re broken up?”

Eric got up and started to pace, digging his hands deep in his pockets.

“I don’t know what I’m doing, Scarlett,” he said. “I’ve been so overwhelmed since I moved here. I start NYU in a few weeks. When school starts, I’m going to be busy all the time, meeting lots of people. It might just be the same thing all over again. I hurt Sarah. What if I hurt you? I like you too much to get this wrong.”

“I don’t understand,” Scarlett said.

“Me, neither. That’s the problem.”

They were both so wrapped up in Eric’s confusion that neither of them noticed that someone had walked up behind them.

“Excuse me,” a voice said.

Scarlett knew she knew the voice, but the wires in her head didn’t send the information quickly enough, and she didn’t care enough to turn away from Eric and look.

“The garage is closed,” Eric said, not looking over either. “Sorry.”

“I really need to speak to whoever is in charge.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Scarlett caught the glint of very short, very silver hair.