“Oh, hello. So glad you could make it. I wanted to thank you for working with Sophie to prepare her for the musical.”
“Oh… well, I didn’t—”
“At first she was upset she didn’t get a lead. But Brad and I told her to take the part you gave her and make it her own. We told her to bring something fresh to it, something no other actress has ever brought.”
“I’m sure she will.”
Yeah, right. I’m sure she’ll play the role of Girl like no one has ever played it before.
“I need to talk to you about those voice lessons. I think Brad and I are going to go in a different direction after all. But thank you so much.”
“You’re, uh, welcome.” Meg blinks, wondering if she’s just been fired.
“Come on in,” Olympia says graciously nonetheless.
Meg fervently wishes she hadn’t come, and she suspects Olympia feels the same. But she can hardly turn around and walk away now.
The house looks elegant, with flickering candlelight, fresh flowers, and platters of sumptuous hors d’oeuvres everywhere.
But it’s not supposed to be this way. It’s supposed to be comfortable and cozy and my home, not theirs.
Her anxiety building, Meg drifts into the crowded living room, looking for a familiar face, and finds none. But there’s the corner where the Addams’s Christmas tree always stood, and there’s the nook where the flowering hibiscus plant she gave her mom one Mother’s Day eventually grew into a tree. The hibiscus is still alive in her parents’ new house down South.
But it belongs here.
Swallowing a lump in her throat, Meg moves on into the dining room, where she shared so many meals with her mother and father.
Tonight, a chattering female crowd of strangers is gathered around an elegant table, which seems to be covered in beauty products of some sort.
A uniformed caterer hands Meg a glass of wine, and she tries to find an unobtrusive place to stand and sip and reflect.
She spots Brooke nearby. Seeing her, Brooke gives a polite nod, but she doesn’t look particularly friendly.
If Austin were playing Joe Gillis, she’d probably be falling all over me, Meg thinks grimly.
But she strives for a casual tone when she greets Brooke.
“Hi, Meg.” Brooke doesn’t sound casual, or friendly. Nonetheless, she politely introduces her to Sidney and Allison, with whom she was deep in conversation. It ground to a self-conscious halt when Meg arrived.
The women aren’t unfriendly. They just aren’t… friendly.
Trying to think of something to say, Meg asks Brooke, “What is all that?”
“All what?”
“Why is all that lotion and makeup spread out on the table?”
“So that we can sample it. Did you pick up your order form when you got here?”
“Order form?”
Brooke just points at a stack of papers on a nearby table. Meg picks one up and glances over it.
Uh-oh.
Apparently, she’s stumbled unwittingly into a modern-day version of a Tupperware party. Only instead of plastic food storage containers—which she can actually use—Olympia is offering an exotic array of cosmetics and creams. The least expensive item—a tube of facial scrub—is fifty dollars.
And thanks to the pricey electrical work that will claim her voice lesson income—if there is one—for the next few weeks, Meg is pretty much broke. Calvin’s next check won’t arrive until the beginning of October—not that she would be inclined to spend a penny of that on face scrub that must be made of gold particles or something.
Okay, so now what?
Brooke, Sidney, and Allison have resumed their conversation. Meg looks around at the other women. They’re chatting, laughing, sampling, and filling out their forms without a financial care in the world.
One woman, standing slightly apart from the rest, meets her gaze. She has a friendly-looking, vaguely familiar face.
“What are you getting?” she asks Meg, stepping closer.
“Oh… I’m not sure yet. How about you?”
“Same here. I’m not usually big on this kind of stuff.” The woman’s pretty features are unenhanced by makeup. Meg also notices that she’s not exactly skeletal, unlike most of the women here, and that her jeans and sweater promote casual comfort more than a fashion statement.
Talk about a breath of fresh air.
“Have we met?” she asks.
“I don’t think so.”
“I don’t either, but you seem familiar for some reason. I’m Meg Addams.” She extends a hand.
“Jenny Keller. Nice to meet you.”
“Are you a friend of Olympia’s?” she asks, finding that hard to believe.
“I live next door.”
“Really? In the Dutch Colonial or the brick cape?”
“The cape.” Jenny looks pleased. “You know the house?”
She nods. “I grew up here.”
“In town?”
“Yes, but, actually… here. On North Street. In this house.”
“Oh, how funny! Does Olympia know?”
Meg nods. “That’s really how we met.”
“Wow. You’re the first person I’ve even met who’s from Glenhaven Park and still lives here.”
“Actually, I just moved back.”
“It must be strange for you to be here.”
“In town, or in the house?
“Both.”
“It is,” she admits. “Especially in the house.”
“The Flickingers are making a lot of changes,” Jenny tells her. “Right now, they’re redoing the kitchen. Olympia said the whole thing will be gutted later this week. She wanted to get the party out of the way before the dust starts flying.”
As if summoned by the mention of her name, Olympia appears. “Oh, good, you’ve met. I was planning to introduce you. You’ve both got something in common now that Meryl is the lead in Meg’s show.”
“It’s not my show,” Meg protests, wondering what Meryl has to do with this.
“I thought you were the casting director.”
“No…” Awkward pause. “I’m just helping Bill Dreyfus.”
So go ahead and blame him for not casting Sophie in the lead, Olympia.
Not that Meg would have done that, had she been given the option.
“Anyway,” Olympia goes on, “Jenny’s daughter is playing Norma Desmond, so you’ll be seeing a lot of each other.”
Somebody calls Olympia from across the room, and she swoops away as quickly as she showed up.
“So you and Meryl are related? Actually, I should have picked up on that,” Meg comments. “She looks a lot like you.”
“She’s my daughter. I kept my maiden name; that’s why you didn’t figure it out. Meryl’s is Goldman, like my husband’s. And I know you said you weren’t the one who cast her, but Gary and I are so grateful to whoever made that choice. She’s always been shy, and we’re hoping this will help bring her out of her shell.”
“I’m sure it will. And there’s a great bunch of kids in the show.”
“Oh, believe me, I’ve heard all about it. Meryl has had such a crush for the past few years on the boy playing Joe.”
“Ben Rooney?”
“Right. She’s always said he doesn’t know she’s alive, but I told her that he will now.” Jenny smiles.
Meg’s heart sinks. In part because she knows how Meryl feels, infatuated with someone oblivious to her existence. That was her, with Sam, back in high school.
Even more disturbing is the realization that Meryl is hoping to win the heart of Cosette’s boyfriend… and that Cosette is playing the “other woman” to Meryl’s Norma in the show.
Talk about a love triangle.
She has a feeling the onstage drama of Sunset Boulevard might just be rivaled by backstage drama.
Sam is still sitting on the front porch, alone in the dark, when he sees Meg’s car pull into her driveway long after his son—with Rover—and her d
aughter have retreated into their respective homes.
He hears her turn off the engine, open the car door, close it. Then he hears her footsteps crossing the gravel drive toward the door.
You can let her go inside, or you can talk to her.
And you’ve got two seconds to decide.
He stands abruptly and crosses the porch to lean over the railing. “Meg?”
Decision made.
It’s what a responsible parent would do. Set aside his own reservations to put his son’s well-being first.
The footsteps stop. He can see her standing there in the shadows beneath a tall maple, poised, her back to him.
Then she turns. “Hi, Sam.”
He wishes he could see her face.
You can… if you go closer.
He finds himself leaving his porch, crossing his yard, then hers.
Arriving a few feet in front of her, he can see her face—but he still can’t tell how she’s feeling. Her expression betrays no emotion… no apparent interest, whatsoever, in him.
“I wanted to talk to you for a second,” he says uncomfortably, wishing he hadn’t started this after all.
She nods. Waits.
“I just wondered what you thought about Ben and Cosette spending so much time together… whether she’s said anything to you about it.”
Meg shakes her head. “Just that they’re friends.”
“That’s what Ben says, too. But I think they’re more than that. Actually, I know they are.”
“How do you know?”
“I saw them earlier. Kissing.”
“Where?” she sounds concerned.
“Right out in the open, actually. Which is probably a good thing. Right?”
“I guess so. They’re just… young.”
“Not that young. They’re juniors in high school. Ben will be sixteen in a few weeks. At that age, I was… well, kissing girls. And more.”
She visibly stiffens, and he instantly regrets having said that. She doesn’t need to know the details of his teenaged love life. Especially since she wasn’t a part of it—and admitted that she wanted to be.
“It’s not the kissing I’m worried about,” she tells him. “It’s the ‘and more’ part.”
“Have you had a talk with Cosette?”
“You mean, ‘the’ talk? The general one about the birds and the bees? Of course, a long time ago.”
“Me, too, with Ben, but…” He takes a deep breath and a step closer. “Look, Meg, I’m sorry about getting upset with you about Katie that night. It was just hard for me to swallow that my kids might be willing to open up to someone other than me. But obviously, I haven’t nailed this single dad thing even after all these years. I know they keep things from me. So I shouldn’t be surprised that Ben isn’t telling me he has a girlfriend.”
“Cosette isn’t telling me she has a boyfriend, either. And I don’t think it’s necessarily because I haven’t nailed the single mom thing… which has been the way things are in our family since she was born. So you’d think I’d have it down by now.” She gives a rueful laugh. “Anyway, did you tell your parents everything when you were their age? Or much of anything, even?”
“No,” he admits, “not the important stuff.”
“Neither did I.”
“At this point, I wish you’d tell me that Ben had confided in you the way Katie did.”
“Sorry. He hasn’t. I don’t suppose Cosette…?”
“Nope. They’re in their own little world.”
“I just don’t want them in it over their heads. But every time I try to talk to Cosette about what’s going on with Ben, she shuts down. I suppose I could give her less freedom…”
“I could do the same with Ben, but he doesn’t have that much. Not compared to his friends.”
“She doesn’t, either. She’ll be the first to tell you that.”
There’s a pause.
Sam can hear crickets, and the distant sound of cars on the main road, and Meg’s quiet breathing, and his own.
Oh, Lord, I’m still crazy about her.
If she would just give me some sign that she’s open to me… anything at all… I’d cross that line again. I’d take a chance and to hell with worrying about the future fallout.
He studies her face. Her expression remains guarded.
“So what do you think we should do, Sam?”
About the kids.
That’s what she’s asking, he reminds himself.
“I guess we should just keep an eye on them and make sure they’re not alone together very much.”
“That’s a good idea,” she agrees. “I mean, if you’re never really alone together, you can’t get carried away and do something you might regret.”
“Right.”
That’s true for adults as well as teenagers.
As long as Sam continues to keep his distance from Meg, he won’t be tempted to cross that line.
“Well… I guess that’s it, then,” Meg says with a shrug. “Right?”
“Right,” Sam says again. “That’s all we can do.”
“Okay. Good night, then.”
“Good night.”
He forces himself to turn back toward his house, as she heads toward hers.
Don’t let her walk away.
Don’t let her go inside.
Don’t let this opportunity pass without at least trying to—
He turns back impulsively, not certain what he’s going to say or do, only knowing he doesn’t want to let go yet.
He’s just in time to see her porch lights go dark abruptly.
Too late.
She’s already inside.
Oh, well.
It was a bad idea anyway.
What the heck?
Unexpectedly plunged into blackness just as she was about to descend the porch steps again to go after Sam—without even knowing why, or what she would even say—Meg goes still, wondering what happened.
Silence.
Then, next door, she hears the distant sound of Sam’s front door opening and closing. He’s in for the night. Too late to stop him.
Meg frowns and looks up at the darkened fixtures.
The electrician assured her that there had never been a problem with shorts in the wiring.
“It must have been your lightbulbs,” he told her when she asked how the lights could always be going on and off.
She doubted it then…
And she doubts it now.
Because she knows what she saw the other night in her room.
There’s a ghost in the house, and she’s responsible for the strange things that have happened around here since Meg moved in. Including the lights going out just now, stopping her from calling out to Sam.
She looks around, half-expecting to see the figure of a woman, but she’s alone out here in the dark.
“Why did you do that?” she whispers, and waits for a disembodied voice to answer her question.
Because it isn’t time yet.
The answer drifts into her head as if of its own accord, propelled not by her own thought process, but by some other force.
What do you mean, it isn’t time yet? she asks silently in return. Time for what?
Time for you and Sam. When it’s time, you’ll know.
“Oh my God… what am I doing?” Suddenly coming to her senses, Meg fumbles in her bag for her keys, needing to get inside, away from…
Well, from the voice in her head.
This is what happens to crazy people. They hear voices. They talk to themselves.
“Great. So now I’m crazy,” she mutters, unlocking the front door.
Right. She must be anyway, if she’s thinking she and Sam have any kind of chance together, now, or ever.
When it’s time, you’ll know…
What kind of absurdity is that?
Wishful thinking. That’s what it is.
Who knows? Maybe the ghost’s existence is wishful thinking, too.
Maybe she real
ly didn’t see what she thought she saw that night in her room. She was tired, it was late…
Her mind was playing tricks on her.
It is now, too.
But you need to get a grip.
You almost did something you would have regretted.
So it doesn’t matter why the lights went out when they did.
What matters is that it happened… and that it stopped her from making a fool out of herself.
Just like years ago, when she wrote that heartfelt love letter to Sam on a whim. She’d have sent it if it hadn’t fallen down the crack between the kitchen cupboards.
Thank God she didn’t send it.
By now, it must be in the Dumpster she saw parked on the Flickingers’ driveway, part of the construction rubble.
Just as well.
The letter was a bad idea back then, and going after Sam was a bad idea now.
No, she isn’t over him yet.
Yes, she still has butterflies in her stomach whenever she locks eyes with him.
But maybe they aren’t butterflies after all.
Maybe they’re bumblebees buzzing around in there, waiting to pierce her heart with a thousand stingers.
All I have to do is remember that whenever I look at Sam, and I’ll be okay.
Chapter
18
With twenty-four hours until opening night and Bill Dreyfus hung up in a late staff meeting, Meg claps her hands loudly to get the attention of the cast. Clad in their Old-Hollywood-era costumes, they had predictably dissolved into chatter when she paused to resolve a lighting problem with the stage crew.
“All right, guys, we’ve got it under control now.” She strides across the auditorium. “So let’s take that last scene again from the top. Max, Norma, Joe. The rest of you, find seats and quiet down.”
Meryl Goodman, Ben Rooney, and Evan Stein, the senior playing Max, take their places onstage. This is an emotional scene, the one that leads up to Norma Desmond’s desperate New Year’s suicide attempt after Joe rejects her. There’s a romantic song and dance—expertly choreographed by Meg herself—before Norma reveals her feelings for Joe, then kisses him passionately.
The kiss has been a problem from the start. Meryl, who gives a stellar performance throughout the show, has a predictable lapse whenever it’s time for the romantic clinch boldly initiated by Norma.