Loving Liz Read online

  Synopsis

  When love takes center stage, even the best of scripts might need a rewrite.

  Broadway actor Marty Jamison is the reigning queen of musical theater. Saddled with a one-woman show, a mediocre script, and a shoestring budget, Marty hires newly divorced novelist Liz Chandler as writer to bring the show to life. Marty and Liz are soon writing their own personal script, but the budding romance is threatened when Marty begins to question her judgment on past love and of loving Liz.

  Enter Felice Tate, a young, talented Off-Broadway actor who is eager to dethrone Marty. As the pressure mounts in Marty’s professional and personal lives, Marty walks out of the show. Will the curtain go up for Liz, Marty, and the nameless play? Or will the lights go out on stage and in Marty’s heart?

  Loving Liz

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  eBooks from Bold Strokes Books, Inc.

  eBooks are not transferable. They cannot be sold, shared or given away as it is an infringement on the copyright of this work.

  Please respect the rights of the author and do not file share.

  Loving Liz

  © 2011 By Bobbi Marlot. All Rights Reserved.

  ISBN 13: 978-1-60282-506-2

  This Electronic Book is published by

  Bold Strokes Books, Inc.

  P.O. Box 249

  Valley Falls, New York 12185

  First Edition: March 2011

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.

  Credits

  Editor: Cindy Cresap

  Production Design: Susan Ramundo

  Cover Design By Sheri ([email protected])

  Acknowledgments

  Many thanks to:

  Cathy “Ma Barker” Rowlands: For your input and endless support.

  Cheryl Craig: For reading and for the terrific vibes you and JLee sent to Connecticut.

  Cindy Cresap: I owe you—big time—for helping me dodge a bullet.

  Lynn Richardson: Your kumbaya moment made my day and gave Marty the perfect reaction.

  Nikki Grimes: Thank you for your support, and for cleaning up my “acts.”

  Melissa McGuire: For reading, for terrific support, and for your friendship.

  Radclyffe: I owe you bigger.

  Sheri: A perfect cover from the perfect “cover girl.”

  And, of course, Carsen Taite, for being a good sport.

  Dedication

  For Jo, who lovingly rearranged her schedule and drove through the night when I needed her most.

  And for Shohreh Shahabi, MD, gynecologic oncologist, who caringly rearranged her schedule to preserve my life.

  Chapter One

  “I’m on Forty-third and Broadway,” Marty Jamison said over the phone to her assistant Nina. She slammed the door of the disabled taxi. “Traffic is backed up and my cab just died. Tell Bert I’ll be there in five.”

  She made a mad dash across the street and didn’t dare look at her watch with hope that time might have stood still for the last thirty minutes. The St. James Theater was a street away and she could double time, with added hope that she’d make the opening curtain for the matinee show.

  With skillful maneuvering and a sudden left turn at 44th Street, she avoided brutally trampling tourists. As she reached the doors of the St. James Theater, she yelled to the door attendant, “What time is it?”

  He opened the door. “One fifty-two. Bert’s gunning for you,” he said when she flung herself into the building and rushed to her dressing room.

  Bert was stage manager and never tolerated tardiness. Normally, final call meant the performers were in the theater thirty minutes before show time. For Bert’s final call, you were in costume and hanging out in the dressing rooms forty-five minutes before the orchestra began the overture. Bert was a strict bastard. His shows never ran late, and he was the best stage manager in town.

  Marty dodged props, people, and fire extinguishers that littered the brief maze of hallways. “You’re late,” a blurred man said as she ran past him. When the bold and thunderous crack of timpani rang throughout the theater and began the overture, she knew her curtain was doomed.

  “No kidding,” she said and pushed open the door to her dressing room. Bert sat in her chair at the makeup vanity. His reflected eyes stopped her in her tracks and he swiveled to face her.

  “I’ll be ready in five minutes,” she said and tossed her handbag to him. She looked around the room. “Where’s Nina? I need to get dressed. I can beat the overture.”

  Bert pointed toward the door. “Nina left and everyone else dressed Allison. You should be on the wing, Jamison. Allison’s there instead, and she’s been announced to the house. I could do a no-no and hold the show for five minutes, but you don’t want to be the one who tarnished my record, do you? Give Allison the show.”

  Marty’s heart hammered against her chest. Yes, she did want to be the culprit, but she dropped onto a soft chair and let out a final labored breath. The show would close in three nights, and her understudy had gone on only three times during their eighteen-month run. Allison wasn’t a threat. Marty Jamison was a professional who insisted on performing unless hampered by outside forces: a funeral, laryngitis, or a terrorist attack to name a few. In today’s case—traffic and a flat tire. She looked at her Tony Award on the vanity. The recent acknowledgement for her performance told her it was okay to take a break, although her public would be disappointed, if not totally pissed off.

  Marty looked around the room as though she could see each note of the score dancing through the air. “I guess it’s hers.”

  “You’re the best, Jamison.”

  Marty pushed herself from her chair and followed Bert to the wing. She hummed along while the medley of show tunes grew louder. Around the final corner to the stage, Allison stood with her eyes transfixed on the catwalk that spanned above the stage. Marty looked up and saw Allison’s fiancé say, “I love you.” She smiled and approached her understudy.

  “I think he means it,” she said and quickly noted the disappointment in Allison’s eyes. “It’s your show, honey. Break a leg.”

  “Thanks.” Allison moved to her position at center stage. The conductor ended the overture and the curtain rose for the silent house. Applause was plentiful.

  Marty watched the first ten minutes of the opening act and then headed outside. A few feet from the theater, the heavy scent of fresh bagels captured her attention, and she glanced into Times Square Bagels. Tempted to stop for a snack slathered with cream cheese, she redirected her attention to two women who shared a table near the window. One looked familiar, but she couldn’t quite place her. When Marty smiled at her, the woman smiled back. Her flattering, soft yellow summer dress appeared a comfortable half size too large. Dark hair grazed her shoulders, and she wore blue reading glasses that complimented her outfit. The woman leafed through a thick stack of papers. Occasionally, she looked up and spoke to her companion.

  “Liz Chandler,” she said to herself. “If there was ever a perfect time to lose an opening curtain, this is it.” She pulled open the door, approached the two women, and smiled. The woman on the left had just taken a large bite of quiche.

  “Hi. I’m Marty Jamison. I’m sorry for intruding, but”—she looked toward the woman to her right—“you’re Liz Chandler, and I’m thrilled to meet you. I love your books.”

  “Yes, I’m Liz. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Jamison.” She removed her reading glasses and nodded to her companion. “This is my editor,
Trish the hungry.”

  Trish turned an interesting shade of red and could only offer a handshake and a vigorous nod.

  “Hello, Trish. That’s great quiche, huh?” Marty turned back to Liz. “I’ve read all of your books. They’re fun and hot. Nice work.” Feeling awkward but giddy for having met the best lesbian novelist in the business, she set her handbag onto the table and riffled through a myriad of cosmetics, cell phone, wallet, keys, and sunglasses. Finally, she pulled out two theater tickets and handed them to Liz.

  “Your books have entertained me for years, and now I want to return the favor. Those tickets are for tonight’s performance of my show, if you’d like to attend. I’ve signed the back, and that will get you backstage afterward. I’d enjoy seeing you again.” Marty flashed a large smile and winked at Trish who simultaneously nodded and chewed.

  Liz studied the tickets and looked up at Marty. “Thank you, Ms. Jamison.”

  “Just Marty. Well, I think I’ve barged into your business meeting, so I’ll be on my way. Good-bye,” she said and left the café.

  The sound of steel drums resonated and she followed their echo to the bleacher area of Times Square. Two men played compositions of tropical beaches and liquored fruit beverages while visitors, and probably some locals, sat and listened to the harmony of the musicians’ current island song. Fond of the steel drum sound, she strolled over to listen. The afternoon was warm, and she had to admit it was wonderful having a sunny Wednesday afternoon off work.

  A couple of seats were vacant on the bottom row and Marty wound her way through a smattering of tourists and snagged a space. She contemplated stopping in Sephora to sample new perfume scents, but the lazy sound of island music kept her in place. For fifteen minutes, she listened to the calypso tunes and watched pigeons and pedestrians as they came and went. Warm winds blew through the square.

  What were the chances of her having just met Liz Chandler? She wished their meeting had had greater length. The author was more attractive in real life than on her book covers. That was the first thing she’d noticed about Liz. The second thing was Liz’s calm demeanor at having met Marty. Most people gushed, but Liz was full of reserve.

  “Slide over,” a woman said.

  After a quick scoot to her left, Marty was about to ask the woman if she could be any more rude. When she turned to offer a piece of her mind, Liz dangled a bottle of chilled spring water from her fingertips. It dripped onto Marty’s lap and she smiled.

  “Perfect,” she said.

  Liz took the vacated space. She twisted the bottle open and handed it to Marty. “You looked parched.”

  “I am. Thank you.” She took a swig and capped it again.

  “No matinee today?”

  “Fate threw me a curve, and my understudy booted me for the afternoon.”

  “I’ve read that the show closes this weekend. Do you have something new lined up?”

  Marty nodded. “I have a half-baked drama that has yet to thrill me. My manager read the script, told me of the possibilities, and I signed on the dotted line after a quick read-through. I don’t know why I assumed music would be involved.”

  “You prefer dancing and singing?”

  “Yes, and I don’t get enough of those roles. I’ve received two Tonys for dramatic work, but it’s music and dancing that gets my blood flowing. Such is life on the boards. We’ll work it out.” She listened to the drums for a moment. “How about you? Do you have any new books coming out?”

  “Taylor Rock was released two weeks ago. I gave Trish my final manuscript today. She was disappointed that I’m taking a sabbatical. I think she’s my biggest fan.”

  “A break? That’s too bad for your fan base. For me. I’ve enjoyed your novels. Not too heavy, just enough romance, some nice sex. They’re great reads when I have a little time. Maybe you’ll sign them for me one day? I have all of them, except Taylor Rock.” Marty liked watching Liz’s hair whip against her cheek. She also liked the prospect of having her novels signed. It would allow her to see Liz again, and the thought brought a smile to her lips. She glanced at the entrance to Sephora and thought a new bottle of perfume might have a role in this evening’s performance after all.

  “I would do that. Twenty-two novels.” She squinted into the sky and looked back at Marty. “That’s a lot of signatures. It sounds like you’ll have to invite me over for that feat.”

  “No way will I lug them anywhere, that’s for sure. Will you make it to the show tonight?”

  “I’ll try. There’s this thing I have to attend, and it may not go so well. I appreciate the tickets. Thanks.” She looked at her watch and stood. “I have to get to my attorney’s office.”

  “Ouch. I hope that’s not serious.” When she stood, Liz took a gentle hold of her hand. Marty returned the squeeze. “Maybe I’ll see you later, then. It’s been nice talking with you.”

  “I’m glad we met today,” Liz said and her thoughts were obviously elsewhere. “Good-bye.”

  “Good-bye,” she said and watched her cross Broadway and disappear among the crowd. “You are one cute woman, Ms. Chandler.” Marty let out a joyful whoop. “Damn.”

  New perfume, a haircut, a manicure, and seven new CDs later, she made her way back to the theater instead of going home before her evening performance. She’d order a salad, have a nap in her dressing room, and Bert wouldn’t have to pace the hall waiting for her.

  *

  Before the start of the evening show, Marty finished getting into costume with Nina’s assistance.

  “Nice trim,” Nina said. “I would have cut your hair for you.” She completed the back lacing of the blouse with a final tug on the laces and then tied a bow.

  “I know. I got caught up in some weird thoughts and decided an immediate haircut went along with them.”

  “What weird thoughts prompted a haircut? I smell new perfume, too. I’m guessing Dolce and Gabbana. Subtle, not over-priced.” Nina spun Marty around to face her. “You screwed up your eyeliner. Sit. I’ll get you cleaned up.” She pushed her into the chair.

  “You’ve been my assistant for nineteen years.”

  “Nineteen long and arduous years.” Nina rolled her eyes. “Yes. Why?”

  “Have you ever known me to act silly about a woman I’d just met?”

  “No.” Nina dabbed some cold cream onto the smudge and wiped it off with her thumb. “Did you?”

  “Did I meet someone? Yes. Did I act silly?” She thought. “I think I did. I let out one hell of a hoot in the middle of Times Square and scared a flock of pigeons. Probably a few people, too. Then I proceeded to buy several items that I thought I needed, haircut included. Not that I don’t need those things. I can always use them, but—”

  “You’re babbling. Simmer down and tell me about the woman.”

  “She’s Liz Chandler. She writes lesbian fiction.”

  “Okay.” Nina applied the missing eyeliner. “I don’t read that stuff. I don’t know her.”

  “Five minutes, if you’re here, Jamison,” Bert yelled through the door.

  “Long story short, she’s damn cute and made me tingly inside. Women just don’t do that to me. They grow on me.” She shook her head in disbelief of her attraction. “I think she’s about my age.”

  “Old geezer,” Nina said. She wiped a smudge of lipstick from the corner of Marty’s lips and then pulled her up from the seat. “You look great, sugar.”

  “I gave her tickets to the show. Third row, right orchestra, aisle. She’s a brunette.” Marty remembered Liz’s hair blowing wildly in the wind. She was a sharp dresser, but her hair didn’t top her list of worries.

  “Aw,” Nina said with a nudge. “You have a crush. You’re bubbling. So after the show you ask her out for a little chitchat.”

  “Crush?” She grinned. “Yes, I do. I hope she’s in the audience.”

  “Who could resist?” Nina answered in a bored manner and pointed toward the door. “Go on. Get out of here.”

  Marty yanked the
top of her blouse down, enough to show a fuller bosom. “Too much?”

  “You look like a tramp.” Nina poked Marty’s breasts back into the blouse. “Just go out there and knock ’em dead. You don’t need more tits for that.”

  “Where’s my gun?” With the prop, she would shoot a man at the end of the first act, but first she’d sing her show-stopping number that had nailed the Tony for her. During fourteen separate performances, the audiences taunted her until she performed the song again.

  Nina tucked the pistol into the back of the skirt. “Go shoot the bastard, will ya? I need a nap.”

  Marty grabbed Nina and planted a fat kiss on her cheek. “Love your support.” She whisked herself out the door and followed the twists of short hallways. Inching behind the orchestra, she made her way to stage left.

  “Glad to see you could join us this evening,” Bert said. “Got your gun?”

  “I’m a pistol packin’ mama.” She stepped toward the curtain and Bert yanked her back by her arm.

  “Where do you think you’re going?”

  “I just need a peek at the third row.” Bert released her arm and she pulled back the curtain enough to see Liz’s seats were empty. “Damn,” she muttered in disappointment, but read the other patrons as a friendly house. House lights, at Marty’s request, were always bright enough that she could see and play to the entire audience, not just the first few rows. She let go of the curtain and stepped back to the wing.

  “Felice is in the audience,” Bert said.

  She cringed. Felice Tate was the one person she didn’t care for. Felice was hot to dethrone Marty’s rule as the First Lady of Broadway, and the diva wannabe said so in as many words. Marty wasn’t afraid of Felice, because she’d seen her type go down quicker than the final curtain that closed a bad show. No, Marty wasn’t afraid. She simply disliked Felice’s arrogance.