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Dinner that night wascarryout from the diner.
Tony had been stuck late on the set since Sasha had thrown a fit and delayed filming for several hours. He’d stopped on the way home with Gaston, who I had found among the many workers on the set just yesterday and questioned casually. Nothing severe, just some well-thought-out questions that put my mind at ease. Like what was his real name and did he have a girlfriend, you know, casual chit-chat. He was happy to reply to all my inquiries. So now that I knew that Gaston Lampley was, in fact, Mitch Dulong from Schenectady, who was incredibly straight, my worry over a major star under my protection was lessened.
Things were tight as we ate. Quiet for the most part. I’d exposed a part of myself earlier that I hadn’t wanted to, and that was a tender wound. As we polished off our Reubens and fries, Tony began edging into conversation as he flipped through the chunky script. Mostly about the set, his ex-wife, and how his PA Mignon was arriving tomorrow morning. Another person with a funny Hollywood name.
“...once he gets here because I usually read off of him and tomorrow’s shoot has to go off without a hitch or we’ll fall behind and the studio does not like it when we do that.” He dipped his last fry into a mound of ketchup with a sigh. When he glanced at me over the top of his reading glasses, I knew he was about to ask for a favor. It was in the way his lips twitched upward into a tiny smile and his gaze mellowed. “Would you be willing to read lines with me?”
My initial response was to say no and go hide in my bedroom. But then I recalled I was having trouble with my lines and, not wishing to be an ass in front of the whole crew and town, nodded quietly. His smile turned brilliant. It made all the sauerkraut in my belly turn gassy. I burped softly into my hand. We cleaned up quickly and went into the living room. The fire was roaring, the temps falling rapidly outside as they tend to do in November. Ellery was snoozing on the back of the sofa, his eyes opening just briefly when we entered.
“Okay, so we’re going to be shooting the big dance scene tomorrow, where my character asks Hildegard the Bog Witch, aka Sasha, for a dance. It’s a big moment for their relationship, so I have to nail the feels which, given my past with Sasha, is proving tough.”
I bobbed my head as I paged through my copy of the script. Seemed they could have saved a tree and simply jotted my lines down on a napkin, but what did I know about movie stuff?
“Okay, so I’m Sasha, right?” I scanned the page that he had marked. When he didn’t reply, I glanced up to discover him admiring me with a slight little tilt of his head. “What?”
He smiled. “I’m trying to picture you in her slinky satin robe.” I rolled my eyes. What a silly man. As if they made slinky satin robes in my size. “Nope, cannot conjure that mental image. I rather like you in your butch daddy bear flannel and fleece when you’re not in uniform.”
Huh. Well, okay. “Sure, well, uhm...”
“We won’t even touch on how hot you are in uniform,” he said then, as he liked to do because the shitter knew it knocked me off-balance, he went back to movie talk. “So, let’s pick up where I ask her to dance. Do you have any music we could play as background to help set the mood?”
Not being a big fan of Christmas, it was doubtful, but I waved at the TV stand where a small stereo system set on a shelf under my flat screen. Poor dusty television. It was probably sad and confused over how little it had been used since my house guest had arrived.
“Mom had a lot of holiday music, I think,” I said and then returned to reading over the pages of lines Tony had. Hundreds of lines of dialog were outlined with yellow highlighter. Holy hell. How the shit could he possibly remember all of them? “Movies too. You’ll have to look through them. When she died, I just stuffed them all in there.”
“I’m sorry to hear about Gayle. She was a lovely woman,” he softly said and padded over to the TV to hunker down on one knee. I glanced over at him, feeling that familiar gut punch whenever someone mentioned my mother.
“Thank you,” I croaked and quickly went back to reading.
A moment or two passed before Tony yelped in glee. Assuming he’d found some sort of jolly music CD, I flipped a page. A movie case was shoved under my nose, startling me. I blinked at the change of vision, then felt my face flame. Fucking hell. Of course he found it. Just fucking of course.
“Pray tell, what is this?” he asked, his deep brown eyes full of mirth. I stared at the well-worn case holdingMamma Miaand then started to try to think up some feasible excuse. There was none. Yes, I owned a copy of a musical based on Abba songs. “Be honest, Stillman. Is this yours or was this your mother’s?”
I could have lied. I probably should have. But for some inexplicable reason, I felt compelled to tell the truth.
“It’s mine,” I confessed with my chin held high. He gaped at me. Then he smiled and kissed my cheek. Lightly, just a brush of his lips over my rough face, but it was enough to have me backpedaling. “There is nothing wrong with a man liking a musical. I happen to think Meryl Streep is—”
“Hey, please, no.” He held up his free hand. “You do not have to explain yourself to me. I personally love the shit out of these films. Did you see the second one with Cher? Talk about iconic. Let’s watch it.”
Now it was my turn to go slack-jawed. “But your lines?” I shook the script.
“Meh, we’ll do them after the movie. It’s only a little after eight.”
He hurried over to the DVD player, blew the dust off the top, and slid the disc in. With a twinkle in his eye, he rushed back and flopped down on the sofa. I was still standing with my backside to the stove, holding a script while he settled down. “Stillman, come on. Have a seat. I promise I won’t bite.”
A little nip wouldn’t go amiss.
Stop it. We’re not nipping with Tony. We’re over him.
Yeah, are we really though?
Sensing defeat, I snapped the script shut, sighed as if watching Meryl and Pierce was the worst fate in the world, and then gingerly made my way to the couch. Tony patted the spot next to him. I sat on the far end and placed the script on the cushion between us as if it possessed some sort of magic that would keep us apart. My cheek was still tingly from that tiny peck.
As “Honey, Honey” filled the living room, I had to think this was probably a very bad idea but damn if I could tear myself away even if I’d seen the film over a hundred times.
The next two hours flew by, my shoulders sinking back into thick cushions as Tony showed me what a geek he really was by singing along to every song and reciting a few lines as well. Truth be told, I knew he was a theater nerd already. After all, he had left Philly, and me, to seek fame and fortune on the West Coast. And find it he had. But at what cost, I had to wonder. He’d surely lived a rich life out there in Tinsel Town. Perhaps he didn’t consider what he had given up a loss given how successful he now was.
“What is it about this movie that appeals to you?” he asked out of the blue, jerking me from a rousing rendition of “Dancing Queen” with Meryl leaping about on a bed. “I mean, it’s not your usual film choice, is it?”
