Chapter Thirteen
Vera Tetley ruled her empire from her sumptuous castle on the Upper East Side. The mega mansion was made up of two apartment buildings, gutted and renovated with a courtyard at its center. Stepping down into the sunken stone terrace in the middle of the courtyard’s lush garden, Zack felt like he was entering a great room in a witch’s palace.
By some sorcery, the sounds of the city beyond the limestone walls were nearly shut out, and all he heard was the sound of tinkering china, and the steady stream of water pouring from the marble lion’s head mounted on the garden wall behind them.
It was a sweltering eighty-five degrees when he’d left Alex’s brownstone for the theater an hour ago, but it felt like a balmy seventy-five in Vera’s garden.
Yup, sorcery.
He’d been summoned by the witch—plucked from the street by an old man in a monkey suit who seemed to know only a handful of words, “Vera Tetley would like a word.” That was it. Then Mr. Monkey Suit kindly held open the backseat door and waited for him to slide in like a good little lad. Disappointingly though, unlike the monkeys in The Wizard of Oz, this one couldn’t fly, so it took an eternity to arrive at Vera’s fortress at mid-fucking-day. He’d sent an apologetic text to Faye alerting her that he’d be significantly delayed, which earned him a very eloquent
????!!!!
He replied,
I’ve been kidnapped again.
She replied,
Vera.
…
Affirmative.
…
Fuck.
…
Indeed.
His phone remained silent for a few minutes, and then vibrated again, with Faye’s assurance that the assistant director and choreographer could wrangle the zoo animals for as long as he needed.
Faye, lovely Faye. Moon of my life, my sun and stars…
…
Game of Thrones? Nice. Say hello to Norma Desmond for me.
He set his phone down, trying to silence his scolding brain.
You missed lunch. Turkey on wheat. Extra veg and olive oil. Grapes. Yogurt.
His leg bounced in irritation.
It’s fine. You’re in control. Swap lunch for dinner. Make lunch your cheat meal.
Besides, the more pressing matter was that he was forty minutes late for the first out-of-studio rehearsal for Lady in Red. The cast had been split into groups the last three weeks, and he was excited to get everyone together in the same place, see all the moving parts working together.
By the time the illustrious lady swept in on her broomstick a cool twenty minutes after he’d arrived, he was over an hour late, and not in the mood for her antics. He cursed under his breath.
“Zack-a-ryyy, darling! I’m so glad you could join me!” she gushed, breezing onto the terrace like a heavily-scented hurricane.
“Vera.” He managed to show appropriate levels of deference with a kiss to her outstretched fingers, then pulled out her chair. “I wasn’t exactly in the neighborhood, and it didn’t sound much like an invitation—”
Her face fell, and so did the thick liner around her eyes, giving them a slightly sinister shape. “Oh poo! Don’t get your tutu in a twist, Coen!”
Before he could respond to that little gem, the south wall of the kitchen, made entirely of glass and bronze, retracted, a handful of servants filing out like penguins with trays of pastries stuffed with chocolate, creamy cheese, fruit preserves…
Eye of newt, toe of frog.
The pulse at his temple gained pressure with each tray set on the table.
For crying out loud.
Adjusting the silk turban on her head, she straightened to allow one of the penguins to lay a cloth napkin in her lap. It was a fucking Mad Hatter party. At that thought, his heart lurched. He’d been making a lot of internal references to Alice in Wonderland over the last two days which, coincidentally (or not), was exactly how long it’d been since he’d left Mina on her doorstep. She’d looked so beautiful, and happy, and tired, and confused—and scared. She was very likely freaking out after the turn of events that weekend.
He hadn’t called her, sensing from their last kiss that she needed her space. The kiss had felt so final, a lingering press that seemed more like “Goodbye” than “See you later,” or “I’m scared-as-shit but we’ll figure this out.” The need to see her felt almost physically painful.
Curious.
Massaging his temple, he squeezed his eyes shut briefly against his train of thought. “I’m keeping about a hundred and fifteen people waiting—”
“Let them wait! They’re on my payroll, honey. Thanks to the Actor’s Equity—which I fully support, of course—they’ll be compensated for their time whether they’re working or picking fleas from each other’s backs.”
Zack swallowed an exasperated sigh.
Vera didn’t swallow hers. “Money talk is so vulgar.” Remarkably, she sounded genuinely aggrieved. “I thought a little noon tea would be nice.”
He glanced at his watch. 1:07 p.m. Then he looked back at Vera. Dressed in art deco from head-to-toe, emphasizing her already-emphatic words with swirling hand motions and exaggerated lifts of her shoulder, she really did embody Norma Desmond’s eccentric persona—even with the grating chain-smoker’s quality to her voice.
He winced.
No need to be a dick.
It’s not like she was intentionally rude; she was just blissfully out of touch. It would never occur to her that anyone’s time was as important as her own. She spooned the yellow center of a soft-boiled egg into her mouth at a snail’s pace between a recap of her conversation with her neighbor (former Mayor Bloomberg) that morning, and he was sorely tempted to funnel the rest of her food into her mouth, so he could move things along.
“What’s on your mind, Vera?” he asked more politely, tapping a tiny silver spoon on the edge of the table. —He’d reflect on the irony of that later. “Are you backing out? Am I gonna have to dance in the street at the mercy of kind strangers with spare pennies to chuck into my hat?”
She frowned, increasing the number of cracks in her thick mask of foundation. “Oh, for God’s sake, Zachary, don’t be so dramatic!” She wiped her chin, then waved one of her penguins over without turning her attention away from him.
Within seconds, a timid young penguin materialized before them with a short stack of newspapers and, at Vera’s nod, set them in front of Zack. He smiled sympathetically at her before she disappeared as quietly as she’d come.
Vera considered him thoughtfully. “I thought you’d like to see the early buzz for your show. You’ve even managed to pull The Morning Metropolitan out of hiding. They only ever trouble themselves with the arts if an actor breaks her neck or sleeps with a director.”
Zachary coughed, choked, then redoubled his coughing effort until his eyes watered.
Jesus.
“Good Lord, are you alright?” Vera motioned another penguin. “Water! What is it? Allergies? They just cut the grass this morning and I don’t think the air’s settled just yet—”
“I’m fine.” He dutifully sipped the water. “Forgive me. I enjoy going toe-to-toe with you any other time—”
“It’s alright, Coen, I know you’re eager to be rid of me, but some news should be delivered the old-fashioned way. Face-to-face.”
She said it with a mischievous smile that wrinkled her cheeks but didn’t quite spark in her eyes. Zack frowned. Vera’s eyes always sparked, whatever her mood. It was unlike them to burn out. That’s when his senses sharpened, homing in on the penguins shuffling about in his periphery, manning their stations in a house much too large for one person. He recognized something in her faded eyes he hadn’t experienced in many years, but could never, ever forget.
Loneliness.
Vera had the dance and theater circuits, her social circles, infinite influence, and enough money to circle the globe a million times, but she was lonely. The ten-year-old inside of him wanted to reach out and hold her hand. Grown-up Zack sensed Vera would find pity undignified. Instead, he cleared his throat, and lifted a newspaper from the stack. Giving it a snap to straighten it out, he smiled warmly at her before reading each bolded headline she’d circled in red.
Lady in Red is filled to the gills with fresh star power. -USA Today
Bare-bones in the best way, stripped down to the marrow. – The New York Times
Coen and Allende are flint and tinder, striking sparks throughout the entire performance. – The New York Post
Evocative, provocative, rousing, arousing. If Coen’s opener is any indication of what’s to come this Broadway season, audiences will need Xanax and cigarettes. – Newsday
“I see the Tribune is in rare form,” Vera croaked. “The new critic makes Ben Stein sound like Robin Williams.”
Zack tossed the last paper on top of the stack, giving her his first genuine smile since their meeting began. “Thanks for that, I haven’t had time to read anything, mostly because I hate reading critiques—”
“Zachary—”
“But the unanimous use of the most time-honored clichés must be a good sign. Sizzling, scorching, electric, hot…”
“I don’t give a rat’s ass about reviews either, tell you the truth. Look how wrong they were about Wicked. It’s what the audience wants that matters, which is why I invited you here, Coen. I have faith in you, you know that. We’ve known each other a long time.”
His left brow lifted at the gravity in her tone. “Vera?”
“I refuse to be at the mercy of some burned-out critic who could wake up on the wrong side of the bed and decide it’s not only risky to turn a ballet-turned-opera-turned-play back into a ballet, but stupid.”
Just like that, the throbbing returned to his temple. “To be fair, it’s a musical…”
“It’s been on Broadway before—”
“As a play, not a musical.”
“I also refuse to be at the mercy of theater owners who decide what to book and what to evict,” she continued without so much as a blink. “It’s about real estate, darling.”
“I’m afraid you’ve lost me.”
“Lady in Red won’t be playing in any pint-sized theater on West Forty-Fifth. It’ll play in front of thirteen hundred people, in one of the few houses that are actually on Broadway.”
“On Broadway?” He leaned forward. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but aren’t those big, shiny houses completely booked? Not to mention, exclusively owned by about four organizations? How’d you swing this?”
Vera looked so smug, so incredibly proud of her secret, Zack could hear Norma Desmond’s voice saying, “Alright, Mr. Demille, I’m ready for my close-up!” in the long, dramatic pause that followed.
His heart pounded so fiercely, he thought it might dislodge and get stuck in his throat. “You’re killing me.”
“I bought a theater.”
Zack choked again, peering at the madwoman in stunned disbelief. “Incredible, the way you said that, as if you just told me you bought a new pair of shoes.”
“Well, technically I bought a landmark hotel and flipped it.” She cracked her first genuine smile. It turned the corners of her eyes—and her thick black liner—back up, framing her mouth in rows of parentheses. “Renovations are ahead of schedule. Tetley Theatre will be ready in time for previews.”
Right. Sure. Absolutely.
Also, holy fucking shit.
Of course, it was entirely plausible that Broadway was teeming with relics just waiting for billionaires to snap up and turn into their pet projects…and plausible, still, that the small army of workers it would take wouldn’t squeak to the press.
Plausible, but not probable.
“Why?”
She scowled. “I realize you young people speak in abbreviations and acronyms, but I need you to elaborate, sweetheart.”
He wondered how many more endearments were left in the English language she hadn’t employed in the last twenty minutes. There couldn’t be many. He made a mental note to be more mindful not to sound like a condescending ass in the future.
Except maybe “petite.”
He grinned. It was his favorite. He’d be loath to give it up.
“Zachary!”
He came to, clearing his throat. “I’d have to be living under a rock not to know how much you love the arts, and that your contributions to them over the years have probably kept a lot of institutions from closing…This isn’t just about profit or control for you, I get that. But this feels like a little more than charity.”
“Handsome and astute, I see.” Her hawk eyes looked him over, searching, narrowing—then softening with what looked like recognition. Whatever she saw must have earned her faith, and she let go a sigh. “I’ve loved the performing arts since I was a little girl. While my father troubled himself with business and selfishly trying to make a boy heir with the woman who nearly died giving birth to me, I busied myself with ballet and theater. I didn’t have the natural talent, but I’ve always had a passion for it. This gives me something to do in my old age. When your play is established, I’ll find myself another. My father’s legacy is Tetley Media Group. This will be mine.”
The clouds didn’t break, and a chorus of angels didn’t rush in singing hallelujah. Vera didn’t suddenly seem less absurd, or out-of-touch, or obnoxious, or proud…but she did feel more accessible. More…human.
His lips twitched. “Since I’m tacky and classless and have absolutely no shame for it, how much is this pet project?”
“About a hundred million dollars.”
The wind left his body in a sound like, “Huh.”
When his wits returned, he spoke again. “And the manager of the theater we’ve already contracted with?”
The light of mischief returned to Vera’s eyes. “The idea that happiness cannot be bought is a lovely sentiment, but deeply flawed.”
Well. That was that.
*
Mina did not have sexy feet. It was something she’d grown to accept, and even be proud of. She didn’t need sexy feet, because she had warrior feet. Warrior princess feet. The feet of an incredible athlete. The feet of a prima ballerina.
So why was she sitting on a bench in Central Park, staring at her feet? Her subconscious sat down beside her on the weathered bench, leaned in close and whispered, “You know why.”
She shivered, though it already felt like a sauna at half past ten, despite the cloudy sky and the shade of lush trees where she sat along the edge of the Harlem Meer’s tranquil water. The air gifted her with the sweet scent of hydrangea and summer rain, Mother Nature’s apology for being so humid.
Slipping her feet from her two hundred-dollar shoes—ballet flats designed by an orthopedic surgeon that had substantial arch support, plenty of room for her toes to wiggle, and cushioning that felt like layers of fluffy clouds—she stretched her legs out in front of her. She examined her abused appendages, seeking some characteristic that might be considered conventionally attractive to any sane human being, let alone sexy. She’d learned to hide her imperfections with artfully-executed straps and well-placed appliqués. Perhaps it’d been enough to deceive eyes the color of the ocean on a stormy day, green with tinges of blue, gray and silver…
Her subconscious rolled her eyes. Oh, so we are poets now?
Merde.
Her subconscious was annoying.
Frowning, she flexed her toes. Her feet were slender, strong, beautifully curved, and at size seven and a half (though they shrank to size seven during the season), they were long for her petite frame—perfectly proportioned for ballet. All her toes were about the same length, nearly square in shape. “Peasant’s feet,” Madame had called them in Third Section. Mina used to hate them. They reminded her of Shrek’s feet—until she’d risen en pointe for the first time at twelve years old and realized what good fortune the genetics gods had gifted her with…
The pressure distributed more evenly when she danced on her toes than it did for other dancers. It certainly didn’t make it easy. She was still prone to the delightful spectrum of injuries and annoyances that befell ballerinas—stress fractures, purpling flesh, blisters that brought tears to her eyes at the slightest touch. But at least she’d been able to avoid painful cracked toenails and bunions.
Small mercies.
Her Shrek feet had made her triumphant at sixteen years old, when she’d taken to the bare stage of the Palais Garnier, before eleven unsmiling faces staring at her from the empty orchestra section, to dance for her life. Or at least, that’s what it had felt like—her heart pounding so violently, she could feel its relentless pulse from her fingertips, to her battered, silk-bound toes.
Twelve years later, she still heard the director’s voice sharply commanding, “Begin!”
It had been like the voice of God—resonant, authoritative, with an omniscient tone that was both a promise and a threat. She’d heard it loud and clear: she had one chance to advance to the rank of premier danseur, and this was it. Taking a deep breath, she’d closed her eyes and meditated on three simple words:
Never be dishonest.
They’d proven a soothing balm to her anxiety, rendering one of the greatest performances of her life from a moment of pure fear and desire. At the end of the piece, Mina had stood onstage on legs she hardly felt, listening to the deafening sound of her quick breaths echoing in the hall. Terrified and uncertain, she’d scanned the faces of the veritable jury for any expression whatsoever.
An eternity had to have passed, because her breathing had slowed as much as her nerves would allow, the sweat on her body had cooled and dried, and the silence had become excruciating.
“That’s all,” the beak-nosed director had said stiffly, and her heart had sunk to her toes.
Just as she was about to weep, he cracked an almost imperceptible smile. “I’ve never seen a dancer so young execute Odile’s thirty-two fouetté turns so flawlessly. Well done, Mademoiselle Allende.”
A whisper went through her, and her heart slammed into her rib cage, snatching her from her reverie. Goosebumps rose on her arms and neck. She went on high alert, quickly scanning her surroundings. Seconds later, she relaxed her posture, smiling politely at a young woman having a jog along the path with her dog.
It was stupid, really, feeling like she was being watched. She’d been on edge since Sunday night. Of course she was being watched. Never mind that New York was one of the most populated cities in the world—She’d just performed on one of its biggest stages, and she would only become more recognizable after opening night. A ripple, then a splash, went out over the water, drawing her expectant gaze to its surface.
There you are, my elegant friend.
Looking affectionately at the magnificent bird as it glided into view, she admired its long, graceful neck and stark white feathers. It turned and looked right at her, a slippery aquatic plant dangling from its beak, and she giggled.
“Oh, you are a ‘him,’ aren’t you?” she whispered, recognizing the large black knob at its forehead. “At least, I think you’re a him. You were down there a long time.”
As if on cue, it craned its neck and lifted its wings slightly, spreading its feathers in a display of its impressive wingspan. Mina’s brows lifted at the stunning creature’s proximity warning.
Absolument a ‘him.’
She was well-acquainted with the mute swan, feeling an odd sort of kinship with the lovely bird. In Paris, whenever she missed her papa, she’d watch for them along the Seine in the Nineteenth Arrondissement, admiring them as they cleaned and shook themselves along the water’s edge. They were the quietest of their kind, a fact her papa shared with her when she was a painfully shy little girl.
“You see?” he’d told her. “One of God’s strongest, most beautiful creatures is soft-spoken, too. They don’t have to be loud to leave an impression. Never change who you are to please someone else, do you hear me?”
Sniffling, she touched the back of her index finger to her nose to halt the trickle of moisture there. It was exhausting, being haunted by two ghosts. Or perhaps she was conjuring them herself, desperate to hold onto two of the most important people in her life.
That’s not the only reason you’re upset, her meddling subconscious goaded.
Mina laughed without humor, and the swan craned its neck at her again, holding her in his stately stare for a few heartbeats. He must have concluded she wasn’t a threat to him or his territory because he didn’t bother preening again before ducking his head into the water.
Zack doesn’t want to change you.
She tapped her foot, exasperated.
Fine! So what if he likes my feet?? What of it, then?
She wanted to scream at how pathetic she was, obsessing over such an insignificant detail. But her heart told her it was more than what it seemed on the surface, beating faster each time she replayed his compliment in her head.
In the short time she’d known him, Zack had never spared her feelings. He was honest to a fault, painfully, infuriatingly so. But as brutal as he could be, he was equally as generous with his praise, leaving her breathless at his brazen admiration. He hadn’t been mocking her or playing to her ego when he’d given her compliments.
Oui, her subconscious said. You’re catching on…
Her heart did a sad little pirouette. It was much, much more than him merely liking her feet. It’s that he’d seen them for what they were, in all their perfect imperfection, and still found them beautiful.
He sees you in your perfect imperfection, and he thinks you’re beautiful.
Letting her tears fall this time, they streamed hot down her face. What was the point of stopping them? Few people interrupted her tumultuous thoughts, walking their dogs or taking a morning stroll, so she could succumb to her pity party in peace. She’d held back all night, and through the morning, through her workout and pointe class. Better to let go and cry it out now, so there was nothing left when she told him she couldn’t do this.
Admittedly, she’d taken this role in a desperate effort to escape her haunted life, but the ghost had followed her here, and performing at Radio City Music Hall—exposing her soul to millions of people tuning in on Sunday—had yanked her from limbo and plunged her back into the world of the living. No longer transient in her own existence, she had a taste of what could be, and it awakened a hunger in her she’d been missing for so long it felt like someone else’s memory. She couldn’t get distracted. Not now.
Mina’s eyes jerked up, her heart leaping into her throat.
Where’d he come from?!
The hooded figure hadn’t made a sound. He just stood there, shifting his weight for a beat…
She opened her mouth to ask what he wanted, then hesitated. It was obvious from the way he hid his face that it was nothing good. Perhaps she could dissuade him with—he was so fast, lunging at her before she could gather her wits.
“Non!”
Pain stabbed the point where her arm met her shoulder as he practically ripped her arm from its socket trying to snatch her beloved Chanel bag. She cried out again. It was fight-or-flight. Acting against everything she knew to be smart, against self-preservation, she kicked at him and clutched the bag with both hands to keep him from making off with her…everything.
Everything is in this bag!
It was the only thought in her head in the heightened moment, her every breath and motion powered by a shock of adrenaline. Instinctively, her eyes traveled over his tall form in search of the tell-tale bulk of a weapon. Saliva tinged with bile flooded her mouth at that thought, and she choked, but she held on through the fleeting fear that he might hurt her, through the ache in her shoulder…
“Lady, please!” her assailant gritted. “Just let go!”
She froze at the first sound of her attacker’s voice—deep, but pitchy, cracking at the word “go.” Her eyes flew to his face—partially hidden in shadow, but unmistakably missing the angular features of a fully-developed man.
Oh mon Dieu…
Her lips parted in shock.
He was just a kid. And he looked scared.
Taking advantage of her distraction, the youth shoved her away, giving her bag another yank. Another piercing pain shot through her arm, and she wailed, letting go of the bag in defeat. Seconds later, he was gone, disappearing beyond a bend in the path.
She struggled upright, new tears quickly pooling in her eyes, blurring her vision. Shaking, sobbing, her arm throbbing, she felt along the bench for anything that might have fallen from her bag during the struggle. Her mind was going too fast for any single thought to stick. Coming up empty handed, her sobs intensified. Her eyes darted left and right and behind her, seeking out a good Samaritan, widening at the thought that her attacker might return, then clouding again when she found there was no one. Her throat was too dry to scream for help, backed up by a lump she hadn’t the strength to swallow down. She looked despondently over the water again.
Nothing.
Even her silent companion had abandoned her.