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."