Page 89 of Sexy

I slump down into the director’s chair set up offstage and watch eight months of work finally come together. They are as near perfect as we can get. They are all fit and handsome. All dancers. The music is original, and there is an artistic quality to the show that might set us apart from all the other male revue shows that have cropped up over the past few years.

It’s a long shot, I know that. The show Fletcher and Chandler put together before I took over the hotel was fun. It was very good too. And it did get a five-star review, although it was a moot point since Cole shut it down and ruined everything.

But that’s OK. It was a long process, regrouping and finding my stride. But I found it. And I’m proud of this show. I’m proud of the men who dance, the stagehands, the lighting guys. We even have a film crew to do promos for us along for the ride tonight.

It’s not the same show. It’s better. Because it’s mine.

Claudio appears again, making his way towards me. He sits down in his chair, next to Steve’s empty one, since he is dancing. The three of us are a team now, but even though I talk myself into feeling complete… I’m not.

The hole is still there.

I don’t bring up Fletcher, and Claudio is silent as we wait for the rehearsal to be over. Everyone gathers around for a few words of encouragement—the nerves are hard to keep at bay, and it’s my job to keep them all focused and positive. Until finally the rehearsal room goes quiet and it’s just Claudio and me left.

“He gave me this,” Claudio says, holding out a white plastic card. “Said you’d know what to do with it, and I quote, ‘if you were interested in talking.’”

I stare at the card and take it from Claudio’s outstretched hand. It says Windshore Estates on it, with a beautiful picture of the lake.

“Do you know what to do with it?” Claudio asks. “Because I sure don’t.”

I nod and turn the card over, studying it. “I think so.” I check my watch. It’s almost an hour up to the North Shore.

“Go,” Claudio says.

“What?” I look up, still thinking of Fletcher. He has been on my mind since the moment I laid eyes on him back at that first show last summer. Even though I knew him such a short time, he dominated my thoughts. The anger when he propositioned me. The rage after he turned my plot to fire him against me. I look back down at my shoes and smile just thinking about it. And then I remember the sex on the roof and feel flushed. I felt betrayed when he set Cole up with Katie, but then cared for when I found out who she was and what Fletcher was doing. Of course, I’ve found out a lot more about him since that last meeting with Katie.

It wasn’t hard. The fake Wikipedia entry is still there. But the name Rourke on those legal papers Katie sent started Claudio and I on a hunt to figure out who Fletcher Novak really is.

Claudio is waiting for me to work all this out and when I look back up one more time, he reaches for my hand and gives me a sad smile. “If you don’t try, you’ll never know. So just go, Tiffy. It might be your only chance.”

I give him a slight nod as I take in a deep breath. “He’s not going to care why, Claudio.” Claudio starts to protest, but I put a hand up to stop him. “I’m still gonna try,” I say. “And OK, he might still hate me afterward, but he might not. So I guess it’s better to know one way or the other than let it stay a mystery.”

Claudio leans in and hugs me. “Good luck, girlfriend. And don’t be late for your show. If he’s still a stubborn bastard, just keep your mind on the show. We’ve got opening night, babe. And those bitches in the new auditorium are going to scream so loud, Fletcher Novak will hear them from the other side of the lake.”

I chuckle into his shoulder, trying my best not to cry so he won’t complain about tears on his suit. “I promise to remember that.”

xoxoxoxoxoxoxo

The drive up the lake takes almost an hour. This time I know where I’m going and I’m not in a rage trying to follow his red car. So I enjoy it. That’s something I’ve been working on since my father died last summer. Live in the moment, Tiffy. Don’t waste any chances. Because you only get one life. One trip around the game board. One chance to win.

I pull up to the gatehouse where I lied to the guard all those months ago. It’s not the same guy, thank God. Mr. Silverman was very confused by my behavior that day, but he ended up blaming it on my father’s sickness and death.

The guard leans down, placing a hand on the top of my car hood, and says, “Good afternoon, ma’am. Can I help you?”

I grab the pass Fletcher gave Claudio to get me past the gate. “Fletcher Rourke invited me to the house and gave me this pass.”

The guard’s expression changes and a beaming smile comes forth. “Ah, I’m gonna miss him.” He backs away a few paces to push the button for the gate. “Go on in, ma’am,” he says, waving me through.

I drive slowly down the road running parallel to the lakeshore. Every now and then I get a peek at the brilliant blue water flanked on all sides by the majestic mountains. I see the driveway for Fletch’s house. There’s a sale sign attached to the gate with an Open House By Invitation Only banner running across it. When I pull up, the gate opens automatically and I drive forward until Fletcher’s red Camaro comes into view.

I park behind him and get out, dragging my fingertips along the white racing stripe on the hood as I walk up to the front steps. The door is not open, and it has one of those lock boxes on the handle so agents can show the place.

I ring the doorbell several times, but no one comes. I step back from the house and walk back to the driveway, trying to see the backyard. It tilts a little, goes uphill, so I walk a few steps along the stone pavers flanked on either side with brightly colored flower beds, and when I get to the top the view almost takes my breath away.

The thirteen-million-dollar house has an equally impressive backyard. The sand is clean and raked to perfection with the exception of one trail of footsteps and my eyes follow them to the apex of a short dune where I can barely make out a mess of blond hair flowing in the lake breeze peeking out over the top.

I slip my sneakers off and step into the warm sand, my toes digging in deep. It feels wonderful. I have not been on our beach this summer at all. Too busy getting the show in shape. Too busy trying to forget my mistakes last summer. The walk only takes half a minute, and then there I am. Staring down on his sitting frame, his knees tucked up to his chest, his forearms poking out of the rolled-up sleeves of a crisp white dress shirt. Untucked and open in the front so that the slight wind coming off the lake makes it flutter around his body like a sheet in the wind.

“It’s a tough sell,” he says, his back still to me. “Thirteen million dollars.” He turns his head slowly, giving me a sidelong glance over his shoulder. He eyes my tattered jeans first, then his gaze travels up to my white tank top. “Nice outfit.”