"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."
"Mmm. Fate," Dennis said. "Kismet, I suppose, that brings two people together." He paused. "Accidents." Their eyes locked and they looked at each other for a long time. Ann tried to keep the tears from forming, but felt them begin to pool, and looked away, blinking savagely.
"Let's have dinner tonight," Dennis said. "The Kirkland Inn still gets fresh seafood every day." He smiled and touched her hand. "You always liked their seafood."
Ann looked at his hand on hers and thought how natural it seemed, how right, even though so many years had passed since she had last touched him. "I don't know," she said. "I don't know if that would be such a good idea."
"I don't know either," he replied. "All I know is that I'd like to have dinner with you, talk with you some more. Just talk, that's all. It's been so long."
"Maybe too long," she said, still watching their hands together.
"Maybe." He took his hand away. She almost grasped it, but restrained herself. "Let's consider it an employer-employee interview then. Professional down the line. No touching, except a warm and dry handshake. Is it a deal?"
Finally she looked up at him. He was smiling gently, and she realized she could not say no. "All right. It's a deal." Then she smiled. "Boss."
Dennis laughed. "I can pick you up at your home."
She began to agree, then remembered Terri. "No. Thank you, Dennis. I'd really rather drive myself."
"You're sure?"
"I'm sure. Shall I meet you here or at the inn?"
"Well, since we're being professional, how about the inn? Say seven-thirty?"
"That's fine." They did not kiss, did not touch when they parted. He called Sid, who took her back to Steinberg's office, where she received Donna Franklin's smiling congratulations, filled out the necessary employment forms, and was told to report for work at nine o'clock on Thursday morning.
As she sat behind the wheel of her car and pulled the door closed, she realized what a terrible mistake she had made, not only in accepting the job, but in coming to Kirkland in the first place. She should not have seen him, should never have seen him again, because, damn it all to hell, she still loved him, and could see in his face that he still loved her, and while one part of her brain reveled in that fact, another part agonized over it, because Dennis was married, wasn't he? He was a married man, with a wife who loved him and who he no doubt loved too. And now Ann had become part of the equation simply by reappearing, or at least she thought enough of herself to imagine she had.
But what if she was kidding herself? What if Dennis's reaction had been due merely to nostalgia for simpler and happier times?
Oh Jesus. Jesus, there was too much to think about, too many possibilities, too great an assortment of emotions on both their parts to come to any conclusion. She didn't know what he felt, what he thought. All she knew for sure was that she still loved him, and she knew that through her twenty-two years of marriage she always had. Through all the years she was loving Eddie – and she had loved Eddie – she was loving Dennis as well, and if that sounded impossible, it was nonetheless true. Who the hell knew what love was anyway?
Oh, goddammit, who the hell knew anything?
She gave into it then and cried. She cried for Eddie and for loving Dennis and for herself, and when she had finished she started the car and began to drive home, remembering the day she had first met Dennis Hamilton in the coffee shop of the Kirkland Holiday Inn. She had spilled a tuna salad sandwich on him.
~* ~
"Oh God… oh God, I am so sorry, there was butter there, and I stepped in it, and… oh God, all over your sweater…”
"It's okay…”
"No, wait, let me get that bread… oh yuck… Look, I'll just go back in the kitchen, get a towel, some cold water -"
"It's okay, really." The young man smiled at her. "There's just one problem," he said, and pointed to a large blob of tuna salad in the vicinity of his stomach. "Didn't I ask you to hold the mayo?"
She laughed, just a little, and as his smile grew broader and he began to laugh as well, she laughed harder, an embarrassed, half-crying laugh, shaking her head at her own clumsiness. "Watch," the young man said. "Magic." He tugged on the sweater at the neck, something her mother had always taught her not to do, pulled it up over his head, and removed it, turning it inside-out in the process. "Voila! All gone."
"I am sorry," she said again. "Please, let me have it cleaned."
"Well, all right," he said. "On one condition, and that's that you return it to me over dinner."
Yes was on her lips, but she bit it back, remembering who the boy was – an actor who was rehearsing for that new musical at the Venetian Theatre, one of those rare and frightening beasts her mother had warned her about, and even her father had viewed with minor alarm. But, on the other hand, he was so darn cute, and that smile was enough to light the main street of Kirkland. "I… I don't know…”
"We don't have to eat tuna salad, you know. And we don't have to eat here either."
"Well…”
"And I'll bring you home safe and sound, I promise. Untouched by human hands."
Once again she gave an embarrassed laugh.
"'You pause, madam,'" he said. "'Do you find me repulsive?'"
She gave him a quizzical look. "What?"
"It's from the show. Now you say, 'Not at all, sir. I shall be happy to accompany you.’”