Acts of Love (58 page)

It was her voice most of all that made Luke catch his breath: that vibrant, musical voice that he had heard on Lopez Island, but not for many years in a theater: passionate, intense, reaching the farthest rows without effort, conveying in every word, every phrase, love or scorn, fear, longing, elation, anger or the wistfulness of a dream.

He sat without moving through the first act, waiting for Jessica to look his way so that their eyes could meet. But of course she would not do that. She was sharing the play with the audience, but at the same time she was Helen, sharing the story with the other members of the cast, and Helen did not know Luke Cameron or care that he was there.

The minute the houselights came up, he lunged from his seat, driven by the need to go backstage. Hermione grabbed his hand and held it tightly. “You know better than that,” she said firmly. “What do you do to people who come backstage at intermission in one of your plays?”

He chuckled. “Kick them out. You're right.”

“Well,” Hermione said as they moved up the aisle. “Was I right about Jessie?”

“You know you were.” They stood at one end of the lobby, far from the crowded cafe at the other end. A few people braved the light drizzle to go outside and smoke, but most stayed inside, talking about Jessica. Luke caught snatches of their conversation and felt an enormous pride, as if he had had a part in the evening. “She's extraordinary,” he said to Hermione. “It's been so many years since I saw her on stage that I'd forgotten how compelling she is. It's as if she gathers the stage around her and carries it with her  . . . and she isn't even moving! My God, all these years, she could have been in New York, London, anywhere.”

“Don't tell her that.”

“No, of course not. And maybe I'm wrong. Maybe she needed those years to get ready for tonight.”

“Incubation?” Hermione asked.

“Something like that. I think, when really terrible things happen to people, the ones who come out strongest in the end are the ones who accept the fact that when they put themselves back together they can't be exactly the same as before, that they might even have to make a new self, a new life. So I suppose it really is like being reborn, or re-created.”

“You helped her do that.”

“By the time I found her, she'd done most of it herself. You probably helped more than I did.”

“It's not a contest,” Hermione said drily. “We both love her and admire her. She really did figure out what to do with her life, and how to do it.”

“You haven't figured that out yourself.”

“Sure I have. This is my life; it won't change. I told you all about it at dinner. You're a good listener, so I talked a lot.”

“But you might marry again.”

“Nope. It won't happen. There aren't a lot of good men out there, Luke, especially when you get to my age, and the man I had was as special as they come. What are the chances of finding two like that in one lifetime? Zilch. I've had some nice affairs, but they weren't great passions and as long as I can support myself why should I settle for anything less? Are you thinking of taking Jessie back to New York?”

“If she'll come.”

Hermione nodded.

“I'm sorry,” Luke said. “I know how much she means to you.”

“We mean a lot to each other. And she's got a terrific future here, you know. Not only with me; there are plenty of other producers  . . . well, you can guess all that, from tonight. She'll be able to write her own ticket. Without any of the crap she'll get in New York.”

“You told me she had her share of it here. Rumors and such.”

“She got past them. They're gone. She doesn't have a gossip columnist here who hates her guts.”

“Let me tell you something about gossip columnists. They think they have the power to make or break careers, but in fact their only real power is to hurt relationships. They create nothing, they only try to damage or destroy, and it's not a pretty way to make a living, but neither is it important if you're talking about careers. No one is going to refuse to see a play because of anything they write.”

“No one?”

“No one. You know why people go to the theater: because they've heard something is terrific or because they want to see the star, or both. Gossip can't change any of that. If Jessica comes to New York, people will say she looks different—older, no longer beautiful—but as soon as they see her on stage they'll forget it. Her acting will take her back to the top, almost as if she hadn't been gone. I'd think that's what you'd want for her.”

“I want the best for her. But New York isn't the center of the world, you know; she could be at the top in Australia, and travel to London and America now and then and have the best of everything.”

“New York is the center of the world to Jessica. It is to anyone who's been in the theater there.”

“Well, nobody can decide that but Jessie, can they?”

Luke held out his hand. “Peace. I don't want to quarrel.”

“Oh, were we?”

“Come on.”

“Well, okay, we were.” She shook hands with him, then kissed his cheek. “Silly to fight over Jessie, isn't it, when we know she's going to make up her own mind. Sorry, Luke. I do like you; I'm just feeling sad that we won't all live happily ever after in the same town.”

He gave her a long look. “You can't be sure of that.”

“An educated guess. I know how much she loves you.”

The second and third acts seemed to fly past; Luke recognized the strong hand of a director who was making the action seem to go by even faster than it was. The cast picked up on each other's fines, almost overlapping; their actions were sharply defined; the lighting subtly changed, leaving the periphery in shadow, making the center brighter and more urgent. By the time the final love scene between Helen and Rex was played, there was not a sound in the house: tension held everyone still. And then the action slowed and the lights began to dim, so gradually that it took a minute for Luke to identify what was happening: slowly, slowly, the stage lights faded until at last, with the final few minutes of the play, only one lamp threw its soft circle of light around the lovers. And then it, too, went out.

There was a faint sound, almost a collective sigh, and then applause rose like a huge flock of birds taking wing. It thundered through the house and in a moment everyone was standing. “Quite right,” Hermione said, standing up and applauding loudly. There were tears in her eyes. “A wise audience, don't you think? Very wise, very discerning. Oh, God, Luke, wasn't it
wonderful?”

“Wonderful,” he echoed. He was standing beside her, straining to see through the darkness on the stage.
Look at me. Tell me you know I'm here. Let me share this with you.
The stage lights came up, revealing Jessica and Whitbread still in the same pose, on the couch in Helen's apartment. It did not seem possible that the applause could grow louder, but it did, and it continued for a long moment, as Nora and Edward came from the wings to stand at the front of the stage, bowing. They stepped apart and turned, and Jessica and Whitbread came to stand between them. Jessica used her cane to take the ten paces and when she reached them, the other three stepped back and stood there, applauding with the audience. And then there came a chorus of “Bravo's,” a sustained, deep bass note rising through the applause, almost drowning it out. Jessica's eyes glistened; her face was radiant. A stagehand brought flowers—two dozen roses from Luke, bouquets from Hermione, Edward, Nora and Whitbread, Dan Clanagh, Alfonse Murre—too many for her to hold, and they piled up so that she seemed to stand in a field of flowers. She bowed her head as the applause and cheers continued. And when she raised it, she looked straight at Luke.

The applause went on; even the critics sitting in the fifth row had not left. But then Jessica stretched out her hand, palm up, to Luke and Hermione and the audience, uncertain of what was happening, slowed their applause. “Please,” Jessica mouthed; there was still too much noise for her to be heard.

“She means us,” Hermione said. “I don't know what she's up to, but what the hell; right now I'd follow her anywhere. Let's go.” Holding Luke's hand, she led him to an unobtrusive door beside the stage. It led to a narrow corridor, and when the door swung shut behind them the applause was cut to a faint hiss. They followed the corridor to a stairway with a closed door at the top. Luke went first, opening the door and waiting for Hermione. They were in the wings, looking at the stage and the actors in profile, Jessica alone in front, acknowledging the applause that had risen again.

She turned and saw them and held out both hands. Hermione turned to Luke. “What do you think?”

“She wants us with her.” He and Jessica were looking at each other, and their look held as he led Hermione onto the stage to stand beside Jessica. Edward had begun to scowl, but remembering the audience, he smoothed it away, allowing only his eyes to show first bewilderment and then a growing anger as they settled on Luke.

Still looking at Luke, Jessica raised her hand to quiet the audience. “I love you,” Luke said beneath the applause. “You were magnificent. As always.”

The applause stopped and Jessica turned to the audience. “I want to introduce two people to you. This is Hermione Montaldi, the producer of
Journeys End,
who has been my good angel since I came to Sydney, who took a chance on me when no one else would, who gave me help and advice, and scolded me when I began to lose confidence in myself, and finally—when Angela Crown had to leave the cast—forced me to take a chance on myself and play the role of Helen.”

The applause began again, sweeping over them. Luke had never stood on the stage for curtain calls, never felt the force of that surging wave, and he drew a sharp breath of wonder at what it carried with it: adulation, gratitude, love . . . and power. No wonder giving it up is like dying, he thought.

Jessica's hand was up and once again the theater grew hushed. “But most of all, what Hermione Montaldi gave me was loving friendship. Without that, I could not have directed
Journeys End
or taken a role in it. Without that, I probably would have given up a lot of hopes and dreams a long time ago. She knows she has my love and my thanks; I hope she has yours.”

Once again the applause stormed over them. Right on cue, Luke thought, admiring Jessica's perfect timing. He saw Hermione make a gesture, as if to say she had no idea what to say and so would say nothing. She bowed her head in thanks, then put her arms around Jessica and kissed her on both cheeks. With her mouth at Jessica's ear she said, “You neglected to tell them you put your own money into this play.”

“Not important.” Her hand went up, once more quieting the audience. “And I want you to meet Lucas Cameron, a director from America, a good friend who first made it possible for me to come back to this life. Some years ago, I was in a terrible accident, and I thought that it had ended my life in the theater. Luke insisted on believing in me when I had stopped believing in myself. He had faith in what I was inside, when I had lost the courage even to look. He loved me when I thought I wasn't worth loving.” Her eyes met Luke's and she took his hand and looked at the rapt faces turned up to her. “He knows he has my love and my gratitude. I hope he has yours.”

The applause rose, the audience stood, clapping, smiling, and Jessica beckoned to Nora, Whitbread and Edward to come forward. Hermione and Luke stepped back—like a minuet, Luke thought; in a minute we'll be twirling each other—letting the cast stand in the spotlight, bowing again and again. The critics left, a few people were walking up the aisle, and Jessica turned then and limped to the wings at stage left. Nora and Whitbread followed, Luke and Hermione just behind them. Edward, still stunned by Luke's appearance, hung back, and so had his own curtain call before the applause died away and the audience began to break up, pulling on coats and jackets, moving sideways to get to the aisles, talking among themselves. Opening night was over.

Except for the party at Bennelong, the restaurant just above them, off the foyer of the Opera House. “You go ahead,” Jessica said to Hermione backstage when they all had changed into their evening clothes. Nora and Whitbread had gone to the restaurant after stopping to talk briefly, euphorically, to Jessica; Edward was wandering around, trying to decide whether to let his anger at Jessica and Luke spoil the triumph of his performance.

“But you will come,” Hermione said. She looked at Luke, then back to Jessica. “You can't stay away. I have to find a quiet minute to thank you, I mean, my God, Jessie, I was almost crying up there. Don't do that again.”

Jessica laughed and held her cheek against Hermione's. “I think this was a one-time event.”

“And you'll come to the party.”

“Yes.”

“Not too late.”

“Hermione.”

“Sorry. I know you two have a lot to talk about. I'll see you upstairs. Luke, I'm glad you're here. I'm glad we're friends.”

“So am I. Thank you for dinner. And especially the ticket.”

The crew was cleaning the stage, adjusting furniture that had been shifted out of place, returning props to backstage. One by one, they finished and drifted off. Backstage was lit by the bare bulbs of safety lights, stark shadows crisscrossing, stretching to climb the walls and disappear into the blackness above. The stage was dark except for a safety light high above the couch. “I don't have a private dressing room,” Jessica said. Luke took her hand and they walked to the stage and sat on the couch. He put his arms around her and they held each other, their bodies instinctively fitting together, remembering. “I wrote to you,” she said, pulling back. “You didn't answer.”

“Wrote to me? When?”