The Suite Life (30 page)

There are only so many candles one can light and journal entries one can pen, only so many charity board functions to go to, so when Doris Bernstein, a Broadway producer so well-known that she actually had a theater named after her, called me out of the blue in late August I was not only surprised but also thrilled at the opportunity she presented.

“Samantha,” she said, without preamble, when I picked up the phone, “I got your number from the Stavros brothers. You come highly recommended, and they suggest that we get together, before the Labor Day weekend if possible, to discuss the possibility of you producing a play for me. It's not Broadway, but it's going to be in a well-established off-Broadway theater in the West Village, and I think you might find it interesting.”

Interesting? Was she kidding? This was the most exciting opportunity I'd been offered in my entire life! “Thank you so much, Doris,” I replied, trying to sound like a professional rather than a kid who'd just been offered an entire box of chocolates. I wanted to jump up and down and shout “Yes!”

“I'd love to meet with you. Just tell me when and where,” I said.

I sensed that if I could pull this off, it would be life-changing for me—a chance to give me a purpose and to be involved in something far more fulfilling than my increasingly lonely duties as Alec's stay-at-home wife.

We met a few days later in Doris's office, which was filled with a vast collection of trophies and plaques as well as some striking antiques. But Doris herself was even more impressive than her surroundings. In her late fifties but looking much younger, she was elegant, trim, and full of self-confidence. What impressed me most, however, was the genuine warmth she exuded from the moment she rose to greet me.

“As I told you on the phone, you come highly recommended,” Doris said as we sat down.

“I want to be honest, Mrs. Bernstein,” I said, looking her in the eye.

“Please call me Doris,” she interjected.

“And I'm Samantha.” I smiled. “I just want you to know I don't really have any experience as a producer.”

She laughed. “I didn't have any, either, until my husband dropped a show into my lap.”

“Well, I'm honored that you're considering me for the job.”

“It's yours if you want it, Samantha. The money is there and the Stavros brothers, who are putting it up, are behind you.”

I looked away for a moment. “I just don't want to screw anything up, Doris.”

She laughed again, louder this time. “
Everyone
screws up, darling. The trick is always to land on your feet.”

Getting by, as I say. Maybe I can do this.

“It isn't rocket science,” Doris continued. “The key to having a success, Samantha, is to know from the start that it's not about show business. It's about organization and discipline and details . . . and staying on schedule.”

“Well, that sounds like something I can do. I may not know a lot about producing plays but I do think I'm disciplined and organized, and I never miss a deadline.”

“That's exactly what I thought, and now that I've met you, I believe you'll do just fine.”

“Thank you.”

Doris laughed yet again, and I loved being around her. “You may not be thanking me after you've spent a few days and nights pulling out that lovely hair of yours,” she said.

“You're scaring me now,” I said.

“No guts, no glory.” She chuckled.
I'm familiar with that lesson.
“If you pull this off, there's no telling where it could lead.”

All roads lead to
The Blessed Bridge
getting published.
I smiled.

“Take it from me, Samantha: I meet people all day long. Over the years I've gotten pretty good at figuring out who can do what, and there's something about you that tells me you can pull this off. You aren't all bluster and show, you don't put on airs, and your whole demeanor tells me you're a quick study.”

“Thanks again, Doris. I look forward to learning a lot from you.”

“I've put together a marvelous group of people for you to work with,” she said, leaning back in her chair. “Mary Davies, my assistant, will be your go-to person and I'll introduce her to you on your way out. Everyone loves Mary and you will, too. She's the mother we all wish we had.”

Mother Mary.
I smiled inside at that as Doris paused for a moment.

“As for the rest, they're all talented people who are fun to be around. You'll meet them soon, starting with Marvin and Gregory, who wrote
A Gay Day
.”

“I can't wait to get started,” I said, and my mind went into overdrive, wondering about the first steps I would take.

“Read the play as soon as you can, Samantha. Make any notations you want and jot down any questions you have. Call me as soon as you're finished because we'd like to stage it this holiday season.”

“I'll do it over the weekend,” I promised. I was used to using the power of the written word to convey ideas and emotions, but staging a play meant getting that power from the page to the stage and the way the actors delivered their lines. This was different from anything I'd ever done before, and my mind was buzzing with new possibilities. It would be quite the challenge, but I was game; I had to be.

“Welcome to my world, Samantha,” she said.

On the Friday before Labor Day weekend, the whole family, with Hercules and his crate included, packed up and made the usual farm stand stops on the way to Alec's mother's house on Long Island, but the atmosphere when we arrived was nothing like it had been in the past. Filomena was zoned out in her chair, Franco was slumped into one corner of the long couch, and Gianna and Gary were in the other corner, blank stares on their faces. It felt as if Giovanni's wake still hadn't ended.

“Gotta kick Boston's ass this weekend, bro,” Alec said, trying to raise his brother's spirits.

“I'm down with that.” Franco smiled thinly.

“Where's Monica and the kids?” Alec asked.

“She decided at the last minute to visit her folks at the Jersey Shore and take the girls with her.”

No one raised an eyebrow, and I wondered if I was the only one who wanted to ask a question or two.

Or three.

After a moment of awkward silence, Alec continued as master of ceremonies. “Let me just get our luggage out of the Rover. Then I'll order some pizza and everyone can eat where they want.”

Sounds real homey.

“What—you didn't come in a helicopter?” Franco prodded his brother.

“Had to bring the mutt along,” Alec said complainingly. “The damn walker is away, and Sam didn't want to leave him in the kennel over a long weekend.”

Hercules could use a vacation like everyone else, out of his crate, and Isabella loves being around him.

Alec, Franco, and Gary camped out in the den well before game time, and the rest of us gathered at the kitchen table. Although Filomena remained largely silent, she did emerge from her solitude long enough to engage with Isabella for a few moments at a time.

The Yankees ended up beating Boston on the road, but even my husband's celebratory mood couldn't prompt him to touch me when we made our way to the bedroom that night.

The atmosphere at breakfast the next morning wasn't much improved, but at least everyone was gathered around the table together. Alec had planned a deep-sea fishing trip, and so he bolted for the marina, Franco in tow, right after a second helping of pancakes, eggs, bacon, and sausage. Soon after that, Gianna and Gary excused themselves to go for a bike ride. Filomena took Isabella's hand, and I followed them out onto the deck, where Hercules, anchored to a long rope, stood up on his hind legs to greet us.

The moderate breezes coming off the bay already held a hint of fall. Although it wasn't exactly tanning weather, it was still warm enough to enjoy the sun. Filomena sat on a chaise as I slid onto another, raised my knees, and pulled out the manuscript Doris had given me from my beach bag.

I read through the morning, and after lunch, Filomena got Isabella to take a nap in her room. That left the two of us alone, and, to my surprise, my mother-in-law began to open up a bit about what she was feeling. She reminisced a bit about the good times she'd had with Giovanni and confided that she was feeling lost without him. I simply listened and commiserated as best I could.

Just as she was slipping into a reflective silence, Alec and Franco came home with the catch of the day and news of another Yankee victory. That was enough to keep Alec in a magnanimous and entertaining mood throughout our grilled-fish dinner and dessert on the deck. By the time we retired to our room, he was exhausted from his Old-Man-and-the-Sea day and an evening of nonstop drinking, so any further entertaining was out of the question. I reached for the manuscript on my night table as he rolled over, and enjoyed the last few pages of a
simple but wonderful story about a day in the life of two people in love before drifting into a peaceful sleep.

Alec holed up in his father's office right after breakfast on Sunday, saying he'd be working until around 8 p.m. when he could once more be found in the den for the Yankee game, and I was grateful for the opportunity to join Filomena at Mass with Isabella in tow.

When we got back, we once more settled on the deck, and I had just about finished making my notes on the play when Alec emerged from the office.

“What's that?” he asked, pointing his chin at the manuscript in my lap.

“The play you and your friends are backing.”

“Oh, that,” Alec said. “How's it going?”

“Just getting my feet wet. It's hard to know yet.”

“You remember what I told you about how to get by in this deal?”

Do I ever—tits and ass. I don't think I'll be following that advice.
“Yes,” I said through thin lips. “I think it's going to work out just fine.”

“Great,” Alec said. “What's for dinner, Ma?”

“I thought we'd order Chinese,” Filomena said.

“Good by me,” Alec said agreeably, which might or might not have meant that he'd been having a good day so far. “Just send my Kung Pao chicken into the den with some chopsticks,” he added, before disappearing again.

Alec surprised me after breakfast on Labor Day when he suggested that he and I take a walk on the beach, and I was baffled when he added that I could bring Hercules along.

The stroll felt like old times, and I said a couple of silent prayers that the calmness we were experiencing would be the rule rather than the exception going forward. I also fretted a little about how to make that happen, and, lost as I was in my own thoughts, I didn't see the dog that Hercules spied on a far-off
bluff. I was stunned when Hercules ripped the leash from my hand and dashed off before I even knew what was happening. Alec's loud curse as he broke into a sprint after our family dog put an end to whatever calm there had been.

I jogged as best I could trying to catch up, and had to stifle a laugh or two at the sight of my massive husband zigzagging in pursuit of our spry and no doubt horny dog. I couldn't blame Hercules for exploiting his newfound freedom, and I couldn't really blame Alec for being a bit hot under the collar when I caught up to him, kneeling and gasping for air with the end of the leash in hand. I couldn't blame him, either, for the stream of curses that flowed from his lips as he reeled Hercules in.

What I
could
blame him for was the fist he delivered to the dog's jaw as soon as he got within striking distance. I was stunned. This was the first time Alec's mounting hostility and verbal abuse had actually exploded into physical violence, and although I was fighting back tears I said nothing as he dragged our still-whimpering pet back to the house and threw him into his crate. I was so appalled by my husband's behavior that I couldn't even bear the sight of him. A part of me feared that the next time Alec lost control like that, the object of his fury would be me. But even in my own mind that didn't excuse my silence.
Why didn't I do anything to defend poor Hercules?

We barely spoke for the rest of the day or on the ride back to the city, and I pretended to be sleeping when he got out of bed early Tuesday morning for a one-week business trip to Washington, D.C. Truth be told, I hadn't slept much sharing a bed with a man who'd acted like a beast, and I was in no mood to say an obligatory good-bye to someone who suddenly seemed like a stranger to me.

The only thing that really kept me sane was going full steam ahead with the off-Broadway production, so I called Doris to set up a meeting with Mary Davies and the rest of the staff.

“There's my girl,” Mary said brightly, rising and taking my hand in both of hers when I arrived at the West Village theater.

“Samantha, this is Marvin,” she said with a wave of her hand toward a clean-cut young man with short, wavy blond hair wearing preppie tan slacks and a crisp blue and white checked shirt. “And this is his partner, Gregory,” she continued, wrapping her arm around a dapper guy dressed in designer jeans and a tight-fitting black nylon T-shirt. His dark hair was parted in the middle and hung almost to his shoulders.