CHAPTER THREE
The bartender stopped taking orders when he noticed Oren approach. Sometimes getting recognized had its benefits. Lately, Oren had taken to going around with the brim of his hat pulled low and the collar of his coat hiked up. Most days he had a private driver transport him to the theatre and his social appointments. There was a time at the beginning of his career when he enjoyed getting stopped by fans and members of the press. The novelty had quickly worn off, though. The only time in recent memory he’d been grateful for his recognizable face was when he’d run into Tillie at Centerstage.
“I’d like a glass of champagne and a whiskey sour.” With two fingers, he waved the bartender to lean closer. When the other man complied, Oren inconspicuously slipped him a five-dollar bill. “Dress a ginger ale up like a whiskey sour. Orange, cherry, the works.”
The bartender tucked the money into his pocket and nodded. “A champagne and a whiskey sour, coming right up.”
Oren leaned on the bar and looked back to Tillie. He’d nearly stumbled earlier when he first saw her in that dress. The vibrant red satin brought out the creaminess of her pale complexion, stunning him with her flawlessness. Her blonde hair had been swept off her face to reveal the round cheekbones, upturned nose, and bow-shaped lips of a starlet.
Oren scrubbed a hand over his face and turned back to the bar. God, he wanted her. But bringing her up to his room would be a bad idea. All her bright-eyed optimism would be wasted for a frivolous one-night affair. If he could give her more, he would. He knew he would. But not now. Not when he felt so broken.
The bartender reappeared with two glasses. “Your drinks, Mr. Cooper.”
Oren left a tip on the bar, picked up the glasses, and walked over to join Tillie and George.
He offered Tillie the long-stemmed glass as he sat. “I took a guess and ordered champagne. How did I do?”
She took it from him and had a sip. “It’s perfect. I wouldn’t be able to finish anything stronger than this.”
George lifted his glass and clanked it with hers. “Aren’t you a breath of fresh air?”
Coyly, Tillie tucked her chin and took another small sip. “You’re too kind.”
“While you were gone, we uncovered an interesting coincidence.” George puffed on his cigarette and looked to Oren. “Tillie lives on the same street Bonnie did when she was first starting out. If memory serves me correctly, it may even have been the same building.”
Bonnie Walton was George’s former muse and ex-fiancé. She’d left him four years ago when Hollywood beckoned. If the rumors were to be believed, George had a deep running hatred for stage stars who defected to California because of it. At first, he’d refused to do Me and Juliet when Oren’s name was attached to the project. Luckily, after a pleasant phone conversation with Oren, who’d talked about how excited he was to work with the talented director, George had changed his mind.
Oren spun his glass on the table, feeling less compelled to drink the contents than he would be if he’d ordered whiskey. “Isn’t that something?”
Laugh lines streaked George’s face. “It’s the word from the bird.”
Tillie smiled politely, the champagne glass stem pinched between her delicate fingers. She looked around the room as George took a drag on his weed, seemingly in awe of it all.
As he watched, Oren realized how in awe he was of her.
“Tillie, will you sing with me?” He’d asked the question before he’d fully thought it through.
She gasped. “Right now?”
He’d returned to New York looking for inspiration. And there it was, sitting across from him like a pretty package, all tied up in a red bow.
“Of course.” Oren motioned to unoccupied upright piano at the other end of the bar. “No one’s sang yet, and someone always does. Let’s start things off.”
“I’m—I’m not prepared,” she said in a scratchy voice.
Oren realized the risk involved in asking her to perform in front of his peers without having heard her sing before, but felt confidant anyway. The girl had landed a few small roles, and she claimed to have extensive training. Plus, if he remembered the Parkers correctly, they were a reasonable, straight-laced family. They wouldn’t encourage their only daughter to pursue a career in show business if they didn’t think she had the talent to succeed.
“I’d love to hear what you can do,” George said loudly before taking a swig of his drink. “There’s no better place for a young hopeful like yourself to showcase her talents. The bar is filled with Broadway-types,” he leaned in closer and added, “and most of them are more easily impressed when they’re blitzed.”
Tillie took a healthy gulp of her champagne and then another. She gripped the long-stemmed glass less delicately than before and straightened her shoulders.
“Can I pick the song?”
One corner of Oren’s mouth curled. “Of course.”
Tillie flashed a confidant smile at George. “Will you save my seat for me?”
He blew a plume of smoke into the cloud hanging over the room. “Darling, if you’re any good, so many men will be trying to buy you a drink you’ll never make it all the way back over here.”
By the time they’d crossed the room to the piano, Tillie had drained her champagne glass. For his part, Oren’s hands shook as he adjusted his cuffs. He hadn’t felt this keyed up before a performance since his first run in a starring role...and it was intoxicating. “So, what are we singing?”
“‘If I Loved You’ from Carousel.” Tillie looked at him over her shoulder. “Will that work for you?”
Oren laughed as he straightened his tie. “Sweetheart, I could sing the phone book and make it sound like another Rodgers and Hammerstein original.”
“Perfect.” Tillie smoothed her hands over the front of her dress. Her gaze darted over the room as she assessed the crowd. “It’s settled then.”
“Nervous?”
Tillie blew out a heavy breath the ruffled the curled ends of her hair. “A little.”
“It would be strange if you weren’t.” Oren placed a hand on her shoulder. “You can do this, right? You should tell me now if you can’t.” He cocked his head toward the exit. “You can still slip out before anyone notices. I’ll tell them you got sick or that your roommate needed you, whatever you’d like.”
The corners of her mouth curled. “There’s no need.”
A man in a dark blue suit settled at the piano. Oren had never seen him before, and he assumed George found him after combing the guests for a pianist.
“What’s it gonna be?” the man asked as he played a few trial chords. The resonating sound drew the everyone’s attention. Conversations dropped to a murmur, so much that ice could be heard clinking inside of drink glasses.
Oren parted his lips to respond, but Tillie beat him to it.
“‘If I Loved You’.”
Tillie turned into the corner, her shoulders rising and falling with a deep breath. When a few moments passed and she didn’t turn back around, Oren went to stand alongside her. Her eyes were closed, and her lips were parted. He didn’t want to disturb her, but the crowd was expecting a song.
He touched her arm and she jumped.
“You scared me.” Tillie pressed her hand to her heart, then smiled. “I was repeating a little mantra in my head that I usually say before a performance.”
“What is it?” Oren asked.
“I’m the best performer to ever come out of Ridgewood, New Jersey. Even better than Oren Cooper.”
With that, she took his drink from his hand and downed the contents. Her eyes widened as she swallowed. Before she could say anything about the ginger ale, Oren pressed a finger to his lips then nodded at the pianist.
The opening notes were met with hoots and hollers from the crowd. With no choice but to proceed, Tillie rested her hand on the corner of the piano and swayed to the music.
When she sang, Oren felt his heart in his chest for the first time. Sure, he’d felt his heart beating before, but this was different. He could feel it swell with a longing so acute he finally understood how his female fans must feel.
Humbled, he moved to stand beside Tillie. The corners of her eyes crinkled with a smile when she noticed. She so transfixed him, he nearly missed his cue.
As the song rolled on, their voices blended to create harmonies that at times, stunned the crowd into silence and at others, brought them to their feet. Near the end of the song, Oren reached for Tillie’s hand. She turned to him as their fingers made contact. Their gazes met, and the rest of the room went dark. Tillie was all Oren could see, all he could hear. She led him through the rest of the song until the piano faded into quiet.
Applause sounded, eradicating the spell Oren had been under. He slipped away as Tillie baked in the crowd’s adoration. Several people slapped him on the back and shared their congratulations as he pushed past, ducking his head to get out as quickly as he could.
He looked back at the scene before he left. Tillie beamed as she shook hands with one person after another, a crowd gathering around her.
It was too much for him. Tillie was too much for him. She had everything—talent, beauty, drive—and she had it in abundance.
He knew she’d be better off without him.
***
After the last note sounded from the piano, Tillie’s world exploded with white light. Cheers and applause rang out, filling the tiny room with an uproar of noise. She closed her eyes and basked in the moment. Not only had she flawlessly sang in front so many important people in the Theatre District, but she’d done so with Oren at her side. None of this would have happened if he hadn’t invited her to the party and asked her to sing with him.
When she opened her eyes, Oren wasn’t there. Suspecting he’d been pulled into the crowd by a throng of admirers, she pressed to her toes and peered around. She caught him bolting though the door before the applause for their duet had ended.
Feeling the excitement whoosh out of her like a deflating balloon, Tillie pressed a hand to her stomach. What had happened? Had she done something wrong? She’d thought they’d shared something special during that song—a connection unlike one she’d ever shared with anyone else.
She considered going after him, but the idea vanished as soon as the chants for an encore started. A simple, career-minded girl like her with no intention of jumping into his bed for a one-time romp couldn’t hold his attention all night. She should have known that.
She turned to the pianist. “‘Many a New Day’ from Oklahoma!”
He nodded then began to play the opening chords. The room got louder, its occupants happy to indulge her with another song. Tillie would have sung a third, fourth, and fifth if they wanted her to.