Loving Liz Page 9

  “Here it is,” Liz said and kicked off her pumps. She climbed to the top of a large boulder and sat.

  Marty climbed the massive rock and dropped next to her. They sat beneath a shady tree, facing the pond. “It’s peaceful here.”

  “I want to share this spot with you. Before I moved to the village, I used to come here to work. I’ve missed my perch. It’s always been special to me.”

  “It’s a big perch, that’s for sure, and tough on the rump, too. What makes this rock special for you?”

  “This is my mini version of the Stanwyck. When I was young, my father often brought me here. Dad was a geologist and he taught me a lot about the formation of this island.”

  Marty looked around the area. “My guess would be receding water and then land appeared.”

  “Not even a smidgen close. This outcrop”—she slapped her hand against the rock—“is roughly four hundred fifty million years old.”

  “Get out.”

  She smiled. “It’s granite, Manhattan schist, and it’s the bedrock of this island.”

  Marty listened, eager to learn something new about Liz and the island.

  “Schist was formed under extreme pressure. Long story short, there were once mountains here that may have been as high as the Alps.”

  “That high?” She looked into the sky and imagined jagged, snow-covered Alps towering above. “Mountains like that were here?”

  Liz nodded. “Their pressure formed this bedrock. After erosion by wind and water, a final ice age completed the job of leveling many of the mountains by shoving a mile high glacier through here. That chunk of ice tore a path without as much as an apology, and exposed this bedrock.”

  “A mile high glacier? That’s about four times as high as the Empire State Building. That’s some big ice.” She ran her hand over a dip in the stone. “How did these small channels happen? They’re almost smooth and they’re linear.”

  “That mean old glacier picked up debris along the way. She confiscated and then pushed various sized rocks from the Palisades, for one.” She pointed toward the Hudson River and New Jersey where the Palisades were located. “Depending on the size of the rock, they carved these striations.” She ran her hand over a dip in the rock. “This larger bow is like your lower back. A lovely slope.”

  “I’m hoping you’ll make my bed rock.”

  Liz groaned. “Where the city’s skyscrapers are built, in the south and midtown areas, granite anchors the structures and that’s what gives Manhattan her cool skyline.”

  “Fascinating. That bitch of a glacier destroyed nearly everything in front of her, but she left us something to work with. I guess that was her way of apologizing.”

  “Speaking of making amends, do I owe you an apology for breaking into your script study today?”

  “Are you kidding me?” She gave Liz’s hand a squeeze. “My heart went flip-flop.”

  “Good. I enjoyed my private show, and you made some excellent dialogue changes. You’ve also found the humor in the script.”

  “I’m still struggling with humor, but maybe we’ll make a decent show out of that mess. Are you anxious to begin your foray into the theater?”

  “I’m excited about writing for you. I was like a school kid in Office Max yesterday. I picked up a notebook and then some red pencils that I’ll sharpen to the likes hitherto unknown to mankind.”

  Marty laughed. “Hitherto, huh? That’s some serious sharpening.”

  “Hitherto,” she repeated. “Not only that but henceforth, I am your writer, Ms. Jamison. I’m thrilled and honored.”

  On her stoop, she had claimed she would hand the script over to Liz, and she literally had, but the changes would be a joint venture between Liz and the director.

  “If we strike a deal with the author, I think you’ll enjoy working with us. There’s an incredible amount of affection among theater people. At least that’s the way it’s been for me.”

  “Have you ever questioned why?”

  “For me, it’s because I share a gamut of emotions day after day. They’re not necessarily my emotions, but they leave me open to feel more compassion and tolerance in the real world. I also think acting allows me to express myself better as a person.”

  “When you delivered your put up or shut up ultimatum to me, you were expressive but not tolerant.”

  Marty blushed and took Liz’s hand. “That was the wine talking, but I knew I was on to something with you.”

  “When I called your cell today, Nina answered. She explained who she was and said you were onstage playing make-believe. Nina met me at the entrance and that’s how I found you. I liked her. She called me Wonder Woman.”

  “I might start calling you Wonder Woman. The way you kiss unhinges me, and I’m curious what might come next.”

  Liz squeezed Marty’s hand and then moved to her wrist. Another squeeze and then she moved slowly up Marty’s forearm. Liz stopped at the elbow, but she had awakened each nerve ending in Marty’s body.

  “Twenty years,” Liz said quietly. “I’ve kissed you like there’s no tomorrow, but right now I’m in awe of you. Touching you…no, my entire situation with you defies probability.”

  “And you don’t seem hesitant.”

  “Not at all.” She leaned back on her hands. “Every time we’re together, I’m giddy. The sight of you makes me want to do a happy dance. That’s how I feel when I’m with you.”

  “You’ve written of similar reactions. I think my favorite description was ‘she was an expensive support bra for my emotions. Her presence always uplifted me.’ ”

  Liz rolled her eyes. “That wasn’t one of my better moments at humor.”

  “It worked for me. The scene was playful from the beginning. Now, had you written that when your main character was on the brink of orgasm, no.”

  “With that said, I don’t understand why you don’t get the comedy within the tragedy of your new show. It’s under the surface, but it’s there. Wait until I’m officially your writer. I’ll write you until you can’t stand laughing. Then I’ll make sure your character understands the love that’s surrounded her all of her life.” She looked out to the pond.

  Marty admired Liz’s self-confidence and they shared that strongpoint. Concerning their play, or their private life, she visualized a healthy relationship on the horizon.

  “Come over here,” she said and Marty followed to another part of the rock. “Do you see these elongated chips in the rock? Glaciers fragmented chunks of this granite. And look here.” She pointed to a nearby section. “This schist is folded. Folded rock. Pressure created these abnormalities, and now they’re a part of nature’s beauty. We’re sitting on your character. She’s lost pieces of herself along the way, and now she’s folding under pressure—her own pressure.”

  “Then she is tragic.”

  “She’s not. She’s a thing of beauty, too, and understands that her creases and chips are not life threatening. They’re her life’s battle scars. When her mile-high glacier passes that night onstage, she’ll laugh at herself and I’ll make sure the audience has fun while she figures everything out.”

  “A rock and a woman.” Marty stared at her. “How do you do that?”

  “What?”

  “You have an incredible sense of words and how to relate them to other things. You do that all the time when you write.”

  Liz smiled and shrugged. “It’s just word association. Words are convenient. They’re best when referred back to and then I play with them.”

  “What other treasures do you have hidden inside?”

  “If you mean talent, I’m also an artist. I’ve designed all of Liz Chandler’s book covers, among others.”

  “Nice.” Marty placed a small twig with a single leaf between her teeth, stretched to her side, and struck a pose. “Could you create me on paper?”

  “I already have.”

  She removed the twig and tossed it at Liz. “Really? If I didn’t feel otherwise, I’d say you’re stalk
ing me, Ms. Chandler.”

  Liz shook her head. “No. That would have happened years ago. I obsess privately.”

  Marty sat up and brushed the dirt from her arm. “Did you create the piece from memory?”

  “Sort of. Do you remember your appearance on the PBS tribute to Cole Porter?”

  “I sang ‘Blow, Gabriel, Blow.’ ”

  “At the end of the song, on the last note, you flung your head back and reached toward the sky with both arms. You held that final note for what seemed like eternity.”

  Marty smiled. “Audiences eat that up.”

  “I did, too. You sang that song like both of you were loose and trashy. You were hot and that’s how I drew you.”

  “Let’s see: In your mind I’m loose, trashy, and invasive. I’m not so sure that’s a great start for me, but I kind of like those labels.”

  “No, you have two different personas. You’re invasive. The woman onstage can be loose and trashy.”

  “When I belt a great ballad, or even a fun song like ‘Gabriel’—those are my best songs.”

  “Musically, they’re your finest moments in the theater. The reverberation of your voice bounces fabulously throughout the house. Unfortunately, television doesn’t capture that quality.”

  “You’re my biggest fan.” Marty nudged Liz’s leg. “Tell me about the picture you created.”

  “It’s an angle shot, as though I had a camera.” She stood and approached Marty’s left. “Hold your arms high and throw your head back.” She adjusted the arms wider. “This is the shot.” Over Marty’s left shoulder, Liz used her hands to frame the pose. “The vision is downward and shows a portion of your arms, your profile, neck, and then lots of cleavage.” She smiled and helped Marty to her feet.

  “I hope you’ll show the piece to me. Maybe I could use it for an advertisement.”

  They stepped down from the boulder and Liz slipped her feet into her shoes. “You have quite an ego, Ms. Jamison.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “You like hearing those things I say about you.”

  “I think everyone likes their ego stroked. I happen to get a lot of public attention. Even you admitted having been caught up in at least one of my performances.”

  Liz took Marty’s hand into her own. “What would you do if the attention ended?”

  Marty hesitated. “I don’t know.”

  Liz chuckled. “You aren’t prepared if your starstruck admirers should find another Marty Jamison type to fawn over, just like your character wasn’t prepared.”

  “Well, if it’s any consolation, I don’t own any guns.”

  “How did wearing her shoes feel for that moment?”

  “I wanted another chance. I felt empty inside. I wanted to rewrite my script.”

  Liz opened her ringing cell phone. “It’s Melissa from Barnes and Noble. I have to take this call.”

  Marty walked over to the concession and purchased a bottle of water and a pretzel. She sat on a bench and thought about Liz’s hypothetical statement.

  When she’d taken over the lead for Bourbon Street, praise came quickly and from every direction. With its nearly constant barrage, fanfare had become a staple in her life. Friends honored her as a guest at the finest parties in Manhattan, she sat at the best tables in any restaurants, and performing garnered a phenomenal monetary payoff. If audience approval stopped tomorrow, what did she have beyond singing, dancing, and acting? She wondered if she should ramp up her act and not allow her competitors the edge. The thought of losing her audience left her queasy.

  “Did you sell out at the store?” Marty asked as Liz approached and sat next to her.

  “I wish. No, she reminded me of a reading I’ve scheduled for tomorrow. Would you like to come and listen?”

  “I’d love to hear you read.” She handed the pretzel to Liz. “What time and where?”

  “I have some things to do uptown, so meet me at the Barnes and Noble on Fifth Avenue at five o’clock.”

  “Okay. Now back to the character. You placed me into her shoes because.”

  “To make you better understand her problem. She’s lost and needs help in recognizing what she’s done to her life.”

  “I have to admit I didn’t like the feeling.”

  “Good. Now you just have to trust me to help you get your role right.”

  Had double entendre snuck back to haunt her? Marty smiled at her life. She wasn’t the character onstage. She was the happy actor who sat beside a lovely new love interest.

  Life was good in Central Park.

  Chapter Seven

  Two hours before meeting Liz at the bookstore, Marty stared into her closet of dresses. She’d never attended a reading and was clueless what to wear. Casual? Daring? Elegant? Shorts and a tank top? She called Liz for a proper wardrobe.

  “Casual. You’re attending a reading, not a Broadway opening.”

  She opened a different closet and chose a white skirt, a bright blue blouse, and then a single strand of pearls for an accessory. White sandals completed her outfit.

  “There,” she said to her reflection in the full-length mirror. She pulled her hair out from under her collar and then opened an additional button on her blouse. “What’s a little extra flesh among a group of women? I think I’ll look acceptable for Liz, without distracting from her afternoon.”

  *

  Marty grabbed the door handle to Barnes and Noble and suddenly stopped. Had she read Elizabeth Mathieu on the sign in the window? Maybe this was the wrong Barnes and Noble? She walked back to the display window and photo of Liz. Clearly, the last name was Mathieu. Puzzling. Why would she use another name? She read the placard aloud.

  “‘Barnes and Noble presents author Elizabeth Mathieu, reading from her series The Adventures of Lily and Billy: Tree House Troubles.’ Her what?” A copy of the book lay open and another was propped against the announcement. On the cover, a small boy climbed a tree and a girl peered out the window from above him. “Really? Liz writes for children? Yes, really. It’s right in front of you.”

  Marty entered the store. Once inside, the scent of paper filled the air around her. Then she figured every mother and early grammar school child between Fifth Avenue and Harlem had invaded the bookstore. More children arrived and scurried around Marty; some bumped into her, spun her around, and headed toward the back of the store. When she composed herself, a hand touched her shoulder.

  “Ms. Jamison?” A woman asked.

  Marty turned around and wished she’d worn a shoe with decent heels. She faced an attractive woman who was at least six feet tall. “Yes.”

  “I’m Melissa, the store manager. Liz said you’d be here, and I wanted to help you find your way through the throng. As you can see, she’s quite popular with the kids. Come with me.” She led Marty into a small office. Liz waited inside, dressed in faded denim blue jeans and a white T-shirt with an annoying happy face painted onto the middle. “You still have ten minutes. Come out when you’re ready.” She left the room.

  Marty smiled at Liz. “I’m pleased to meet you, Ms. Mathieu. Why didn’t you tell me you wrote children’s books?”

  “I think surprises are nice.” She handed her a copy of the book and lowered her eyes to Marty’s cleavage. “I don’t think you’ll need those today. I doubt you’ll find many adult women in the audience.”

  Marty quickly fastened the button through her embarrassment. “I thought—”

  Smiling, she looked back up at Marty. “I know what you thought. I’m sorry the reading won’t be what you’d expected.”

  “I think it’s wonderful that you write for children.” She looked at the front of the book. “Is this your artwork?”

  “Yes. I’ve done the complete series of ten. Like it?”

  “I do. And Mathieu?”

  “Maiden name. Come on.” She opened the office door and Marty followed the quick pace. “It’s time for you to see me onstage. I love these kids.”

  Marty stopped and leane
d against a table that was stacked with new releases. Packed tightly together, children filled the seats and several stood around the perimeter. Their loud voices stopped when Liz walked to her chair. The sudden hush surprised Marty. The children’s eyes followed each move Liz made.

  “Hello. I’m so happy to see you again.” She waved and the kids bombarded her with their own greetings. “Okay, you know what to do.” They cleared the area of seats and sat on the floor in a semi-circle around Liz. New participants caught on quickly.

  Melissa joined Marty. “They’re all underprivileged. She gives them a free copy of her new releases, on their promise to come back and read to her.”

  “To her?”

  “She also sends copies to all of the children’s wards of each hospital in Manhattan. I think she visits the kids, too.”

  The next hour and thirty minutes unfolded to Marty’s delight. Each child read once, sometimes agonizingly slow, and Liz encouraged them to take their time with the words. At the end of each chapter, she asked questions about that section. The children remained attentive for the entire program and they, including Liz’s nurturing of them, enchanted Marty. At the close of the reading, Liz signed their books and received her own gift of a hug from the children. When the last child kissed Liz’s cheek and left with her mother, Liz met Marty at the table.

  “You are one incredible woman,” Marty said. “You’re voluntarily aiding their education. How many people would do what you’ve done?”

  Liz smiled. “I’m sure others contribute in different and greater ways. Aren’t the kids great? I can tell who reads more at home and who doesn’t, but still they come and give it their all. Maybe my input will do some good in their future.” She looked around the large room. “I need to say good-bye to Melissa. Can we share a bottle of wine afterward?”

  “Yes.”

  *

  When they reached the closest outdoor café, humidity had left them sticky with perspiration. Instead of wine, they ordered iced coffee. Liz fanned her face with a napkin.

  “I’ll bet it’s ninety degrees right now.” She patted the seat next to her. “Sit beside me.” Marty moved to the chair and Liz rested her hand on Marty’s thigh. In spite of the heat outside, Marty still felt the warmth of Liz’s hand. Liz leaned against the back of the chair and watched pedestrians.