“What were you doing in Atlanta?” she asked, curious.
“Trying to get a job in summer stock.” He shrugged. “I didn’t. I wound up in New York instead. It was a good thing, too.”
“You’re very good,” she said genuinely, sipping her coffee as she studied him. “But aren’t you Shakespearean, primarily?”
“By jove, yes, madam,” he said with his own British accent and laughed. “I’ve done all of Shakespeare’s plays at one time or another. But I’m trying to branch out.”
“If the two of you can spare the time,” a harsh voice rumbled behind them, “I’d like to start.”
They got to their feet in a rush, noticing that the rest of the company was already assembled on stage, and Cul was nothing if not impatient. He glared at them as they joined the rest, and his mood didn’t improve all morning. He snapped at Bett more and more, until by the end of the day she was practically in tears.
“Come on, darling,” David said, taking her arm as she wrapped up against the chill to go out the stage door. “I’ll buy you a nice cup of coffee.”
“How about a sweet roll to go with it?” she asked with a wan smile.
“Whatever you like.” He checked his pocket. “Well, almost.”
She smiled gently. “Starving in garrets isn’t what it’s cracked up to be, is it?”
“How would you know?” he teased. “You’re on top.”
“Is that what I am? You really ought to come home with me.”
“Can I?” he asked, all eyes. “I’ll make the coffee.”
She relented. It would be nice to have company, and she didn’t really mind if David saw her deplorable apartment. He probably had one just like it. “Okay,” she agreed, and went out with him, oblivious to the glittering green gaze that followed them.
It was a nippy evening, although it wouldn’t be long until spring. Bett huddled into her tweed coat and led David up the long staircase to her apartment. The baby was crying, but the man who sang off-key was apparently resting his throat for the moment.
Bett opened the door and let David in with her. “Well, as they say, it ain’t much, but it’s home.”
“My God, you weren’t kidding, were you?” he burst out, staring around him. “What happened?”
“I had a very inefficient business manager,” she confessed. “He talked me into a bad investment, and also neglected to tell me about my taxes. I’ve got quite a bill with Uncle Sam.” She shrugged. “They were very nice about it, in fact. I guess they get used to dumb people like me.”
“I wouldn’t call you dumb, not the way you act,” he said kindly. He moved to the cabinet. “Is this the coffeepot?”
She glanced over her shoulder. “Yes. Isn’t it the pits? But it works, all the same.”
“Old-fashioned,” he murmured, filling the basket with a filter and then dumping in a generous amount of coffee out of the can. “Boiling it on the stove.”
“Well, coffee is coffee.
He sighed. “I guess so.” He finished, turned on the burner, and sat down at the kitchen table across from her. “How did you wind up on the stage?”
“My mother convinced me that it was what I wanted to do,” she said, laughing. “I was torn between acting and driving a semi, and she decided that it was more ladylike to act. Honestly, though, I guess it just came naturally. There was never anything else that I wanted to be. How about you?”
“Same thing.” He made patterns on the table’s chipped surface with a long finger. “I started out playing a squirrel in our third-grade play, and I was hooked. I’ve never wanted to do anything else. I studied and worked and eventually became the practically unknown actor you see before you.”
“That’s not true,” she chided. “You were on one of the soap operas, I heard.”
“For six weeks, until they killed me off.” He propped his face in his hands. “I die well, you know.”
“Yes, I know. Too bad you have to do it offstage in this play,” she murmured on a laugh.
“I thought I’d do it with sound effects,” he said with an evil glint in his eyes. “Screams and groans and thuds, that sort of thing.”
“Cul would kill you,” she suggested.
“He already wants to, I think.” He watched her quietly. “But he’s really after you, lady. I’ve never seen a director ride anyone as hard. What have you done to make him so antagonistic?”
“I breathe,” she said simply. “It’s something I’d rather not talk about, anyway. Would you like some cake to go with the coffee? I just happen to have two slices left.”
“What kind?”
“Chocolate,” she said.
He grinned. “My favorite.”
She dished it up and he poured the coffee into the thick cracked mugs she’d found at a second-hand shop. “Isn’t this fun?” she laughed as they sipped and ate. “There I was, living on Park Avenue in a luxury apartment, wearing leather coats and buying silk lingerie…and I never knew what I was missing.”
“Must be hard,” he said with real sympathy.
She considered that, stirring her coffee idly, with a spoon after she’d added cream. “Do you know, it isn’t? I think I had my values all mixed up. Money and power and getting ahead were all I thought about. I’ve been noticing—forced to notice—how people live around here. It’s pretty sobering. I think I’ve changed directions, all at once.”
“Yes, it does make you think, when you see people so much less fortunate,” he admitted. “I haven’t had the kind of life you’ve had, not yet. But I hope that if I ever do make it, I won’t forget who I was.”
“I can’t see you forgetting,” she said, and meant it. “But you’re supposed to say `when,’ not `if,’ you make it.”
He grinned sheepishly. “Yes, I guess so. I get discouraged once a week and have to drown my sorrows in cheap wine.”
“We all get discouraged, it comes with the territory. Just don’t ever give up. Think through it. That’s what I’m trying to do. I like to picture how it will be on Christmas Day this year.” She sighed. “I’ll have paid off my tax bill, I’ll be in a hit play, and happy as anything.”
“No man in that picture?” he asked softly.
She shook her head with a tiny smile. “Nope. I’ve never inspired a man to propose. I don’t see it happening.” Not ever, because of the scars Cul had left on her. But she wasn’t telling that to a relative stranger.
“You might be surprised one
