Hank was doomed. No, really. He didn’t know how to get out of going to tea with his parents on Sunday at the Plaza, the famous hotel in Manhattan that chicks loved to go to and men had to dress up for to please the ladies in their lives. He wasn’t a fan of scones and clotted cream and jam. He especially didn’t like tea. It reminded him too much of Ella.
And his mom told him they were bringing along a birthday card for Aunt Sarah. They wanted him to sign it while they were together. She always got so mad at him when he paused for long stretches over cards, and then just wrote, I hope you have a great birthday. Hank.
“That’s all you can come up with?” his mother would say. “You act for a living. I’ve seen you cry real tears in a movie when you picked a rose off a bush. And you can’t say anything more meaningful and personal?”
No. He couldn’t. He was unable to express personal feelings very well. He wasn’t sure what they were, to be honest. He was too tired, too stressed, to recognize them. And even before he’d become tired and stressed—like when he was a teenager, pre-Ella (everything was pre-and post-Ella)—he’d had difficulty showing people his real face. Not that he was a phony. But he was profoundly shy beneath his confident exterior and wasn’t quite sure what to do with that, especially since his parents and the few trusted friends he told didn’t believe him.
After all, he’d been the friendly busboy at Serendipity 3 for years. He’d talk to anyone! As an employee at the fanciful, family-oriented New York eatery, he’d never been bored. The truth was, he liked watching people. He loved observing their gestures, overhearing the things they said.
The closest he came to figuring it all out was in English class senior year when his silver-haired teacher saw how sensitive his essays were. That was what she called them: “sensitive.” No one had ever remotely associated him with “sensitive,” not even the acting coaches he’d had later.
His high school teacher was an old hippy who encouraged him to take a gap year after he graduated and go travel the world. He wanted to, badly. He decided he’d read Kerouac along the way—it was almost required of teenagers who wanted to run off and have adventures—and maybe some poets, like Whitman and Wordsworth, and a few contemporary ones, like Elizabeth Bishop. She’d written his favorite poem.
Yep, “The Fish” was the best poem in the world, but the only person he’d ever been able to tell that to had been Ella.
He’d told her on their very first date, which was like out of a movie. He’d waited for her at Serendipity 3 four years to the day after he’d asked her to …
And she’d shown up!
He also told her he wished he’d taken that gap year instead of going to college—and then quitting—and then heading straight to Broadway auditions to prove his point that he wanted to be a professional actor. He wished he’d worked on a pineapple farm in Hawaii for a summer. Or bartended in Paris.
He’d really just wanted time apart from everyone who knew him and had pegged him with all their expectations. He wanted time to think about what he really, really wanted.
He wanted time alone.
On that first date, Ella had completely understood. She liked thinking, too, and she said she did it best when she was sitting with her tea at home, although sitting with a frozen hot chocolate at Serendipity 3 always made her think interesting thoughts too.
“How have the auditions been going?” she’d asked him.
“I love it,” he’d said, “but I also want to know if I’d love anything else too. I’m on my fourth year of auditioning and getting small parts. But maybe something else is out there. Nothing hit me over the head in school.”
And she’d understood. She’d also understood that he couldn’t sit still, that he had to at least make the move toward a dream, even as he was unsure, and so she never made fun of him for his somewhat ambivalent acting ambition.
A guy had to do something, he’d said. And he’d rather act than sell insurance or real estate, or join the military, or drive a cab, or become an attorney.
All these years, post-Ella, things hadn’t changed. Hank still pursued acting because it was what he did, and he would do it until he found out the thing he really wanted to do—or had he already found it? Was acting it? Did you ever really find something that was a perfect fit? Would he ever feel as if he’d synced with his purpose in the universe—locked in, like a rocket with the mother ship?
He wasn’t sure.
But he was such a good actor, no one could sense this uncertainty in him.
The day Hank’s parents invited him to tea was the afternoon after he’d sent the flowers to Ella’s dressing room at the Dock Street Theatre in Charleston. He was in a limo heading to the Plaza. He hadn’t gotten over the shock of telling the florist over the phone her name. He hadn’t said it out loud in so long.
Ella.
Ella-bella.
He sang the name in the shower that morning while soaping his chest. He held the soap right up to his heart and stood under the sluicing hot water and thought about her. Ella was the only thing he’d always been sure about.
Their connection had made leaving her impossible for him. But he’d done it. He’d done it because the acting was panning out. He saw eventual success … he saw his parents’ beaming faces. He saw money, and he saw that the stars could align there.
And he knew in his heart that there was no guarantee that stars aligned for lovers. There was always the possibility of a supernova. Or a black hole.
He couldn’t afford to have the one thing in life he was certain about blow up in his face. He’d rather live with it in its potential state.
What could have been …
With Ella.
He tucked that possibility away in his heart. It was more important to him than his two Oscar nominations. It was what he’d look back on when he was an old man, that perfect love—
That he ended before it could end him.
“Do you ever just think?” he asked his driver.
“All the time,” said the driver. “While I’m driving you.”
“Hardly anyone has time anymore to think … to kick back, or hike, or sit staring out a window for no good reason.”
“What do you do when you look out the window of my limo?”
“Hah. I look at my phone. And the few times I do glance up, I’m thinking about something else. Like a movie script. Or a contract. Not what I’m seeing.”
“That’s a shame.”
“I don’t know anyone who takes the time to really look.”
“Maybe you’re hanging out with the wrong people.” The driver laughed.
Hank did too, but he loved his friends. He loved his family. He had two brothers and a sister, all older than he was, and they were terrific people with nice families and fulfilling careers. Hank was the golden boy of the family, but he could tell no one else at family gatherings wanted to be in his position: super rich and famous. They were all glad to leave it to him. He could tell they pitied him his lack of normalcy. And he appreciated that. It was rare to run into anyone in his life who didn’t think he was the luckiest guy on earth.
Occasionally, his brothers would try to get him to go camping with them out in the Tetons or rafting down the Colorado River at the Grand Canyon. But he always said no because he was afraid he would get time to think—that thing he used to crave.
He craved it no longer because he was afraid of what he would find out.
So Hank stayed busy, busy, busy.
No surprise there, being a celebrity, of course. Everyone thought the busyness was what happened to famous actors who got lots of work. But no. Actors could carve out downtime if they wanted to. But he didn’t want that. He hired people who would keep him moving.
And he’d never read Kerouac. As for “The Fish,” he hadn’t thought about it in years.
At the Plaza, he kissed his mom and gave his dad his usual one-armed hug. They’d changed a lot since he was younger. When Hank was a kid, his mom had always been wrapped up in her social life, and his dad had worked late all the time as an attorney. But these days, post-retirement, his dad was pretty laid back. They got along well, and he saw his parents at least once a month when he wasn’t away on a movie set.
They were still living in the comfortable brownstone he’d grown up in on the Upper East Side. He’d never had to worry about money back then except for when he had lived with Ella and refused his parents’ help. He was going to make it on his own.
And he did. It was a rough couple of years, but now he out-earned his dad and all his siblings combined. It wasn’t fair because he saw how hard they worked.
But they didn’t know what he’d given up. They didn’t know that part of him, the slice of his soul that would always look at his own success from far away and never be quite attached to it.
“I’ll take coffee,” he told the server a few minutes later.
“Coffee at high tea,” his mother said, and waved her hand at him. It was her typical gesture. She didn’t get him. But she loved him.
“Mom,” he said, “I’m finally going to admit to you why I don’t like tea. It’s because it reminds me of Ella, my old girlfriend. She drank it all the time. Remember her?”
“Of course I do!” his mother said, almost defensively. “She was a very nice girl. Whatever happened to her?”
“She moved to Charleston. South Carolina.” In case she thought he meant Charleston, West Virginia. “She’s a matchmaker.”
“Where Pammy is! Such a splendid town, so I’ve heard. Is she still single? Like you?” His mother always liked to remind him.
“I think so.”
“You don’t keep up with her?” His mother always acted so surprised about everything.
“No, Mom.” But of course, Hank knew Ella was still single. He wasn’t going to admit to his mother, however, that he checked the Internet every once in a while to see how she was doing.
His father only sat there, comfortable, immobile, enjoying the fact that he wasn’t in the fray.
No one said, “You can’t drink tea because of Ella? Why? Are you still in love with her? Is she the love of your life?”
Nope, his parents just moved on. That was how it had always been. He’d drop these massive hints, but no one picked up on them.
“Speaking of Pammy,” Hank said, “I just talked to her. Sure, she’s made a huge name for herself in historic-home restoration, and it’s paying off with this professor position. But she’s feeling a little homesick.”
“Oh dear,” said his mother in that faint voice she used when they talked about the Oregon branch of the family. They were too weird. A girl carpenter—that’s what she called Pammy. And Oregon might as well have been the moon, it was so far away.
“So I lined her up with a project on the side,” Hank said, “Beau and Lacey’s house. They’ll treat her like family. But right now they’re out of town.”
“Beau and Lacey,” said his mother with a lot more energy. “What a lovely couple.” She looked at him expectantly. She loved a good gossip, especially about his movie star friends.
But Hank wouldn’t get sidetracked. “I did contact Ella to see if she could check in on Pammy.”
His dad sat up a little higher, stirred his tea for no reason. Clink, clink, clink. “So what’d she say?” He put the spoon down and waited.
“I haven’t heard back yet.”
His mother placed her hand on her heart. “Why not? You’re Hank Rogers!”
Hank restrained a sigh. “Being a celebrity doesn’t merit everyone’s instant attention, Mom. Especially from old friends. I’d rather they not think of me that way. It’s a novel feeling being ignored, and it’s probably good for me.”
“My, my,” his mother said, her usual reply when Hank baffled her.
“I always liked that girl,” his dad said. Which was unusual for him. He didn’t often comment on Hank’s personal life.
“We barely knew her!” his mother exclaimed. “He never brought her home, except for that one time.”
It had been during a pregnancy scare, and Ella couldn’t go home for Thanksgiving because she knew she’d break down in front of her mother and father. So he’d brought her to his house, and she’d had no idea which bread plate to use or why she had two wine glasses—she didn’t touch a drop—and after the meal, she sat stiffly in a wing chair in the den to watch football with the family, and she was miserable. Absolutely miserable.
“I liked her,” his dad said.
Hank’s mom stared at him, her mouth partly open, and said nothing. Her husband was the only person who could derail her drama train.
Hank repressed a chuckle.
“So what’re you up to the next couple weeks?” his dad asked.
Hank’s phone vibrated. He always ignored it in the presence of his parents unless it was his agent’s home number.
It was his agent’s home number.
He rose from his chair. “I normally wouldn’t get this, but it’s Tracy. She only calls from home when it’s urgent. I’ll be right back. And I’m not doing anything, Dad, except reading scripts. None of which are working.”
His dad gave a brief nod. His mom nibbled a cucumber sandwich. Hank slipped away.
“Hey,” he said into his cell. He was behind a column and near a potted fern. He was an expert at hiding in plain sight in public places. “I’m with my parents. How ya doin’?” He tacked that on because he knew she’d like it. Tracy was from Staten Island, a very nice person, and that was how she spoke to him. She refused to move out of her little house a couple of blocks from the bay, even though she could afford a very big one now right on the water. It was her stubbornness that made her such a successful agent.
“You believe in signs from the universe?” she asked without preamble.
“I don’t know,” he said.
“The job with Samantha Drake has come up again on Forever Road.” A thriller/suspense movie written by the two hottest screenwriters in Hollywood. “Frampton Cooke’s out. The royal dame’s none too happy to be left hanging. They don’t want to lose momentum and want you there tomorrow. What do you think?”
His heart thumped a little hard. Samantha Drake was an amazing actor. He and Ella had both thought she was the best in the biz—apart from Meryl, that is. Same league. Very few members. And now Samantha, a native Scot, was a dame of the realm, or some such title, thanks to the queen. Working with Samantha would be a huge feather in his cap and a personal dream come true.
But his heart was thumping about Ella, not Samantha. The truth was he’d been invited to audition for the movie, but he’d declined the first time around. He’d told them he had other commitments in the way. But that wasn’t why. Ella was why. No way could he be in the same city as Ella.
He’d had to tell Tracy the truth at the time because she was the one who’d had to make up some fake commitments and tell the Forever Road people he was unavailable.
“They only just set up shop, and they’re only in Charleston a week,” Tracy said. “But Frampton dropped out this morning. His new wife is pregnant, and now she’s having some complications. He doesn’t want to be away from her.”
“I feel for the guy. And I hope his wife and the baby are all right. But you know I don’t want to work in Charleston.”
“I still have an obligation to tell you about the opportunity. A potentially Oscar-winning opportunity.” Tracy was an agent, and that was what agents did.
She was right. He couldn’t be mad at her. “So who called?”
“Samantha herself.”
That surprised him. He assumed it would have been the up-and-coming, Houston-based director, Isabel Iglesias.
“Samantha heard you were in Charleston last night and didn’t stop by. She didn’t like that.”
“She’s never shown me any particular interest before. Even when they wanted me to audition—”
“They hadn’t chosen the female lead at that time,” Tracy said. “She wants you now, and if you say no, Isabel is willing to throw extra money at you. But they do need you there right away for the week, starting tomorrow morning. Then you get almost a whole month off and finish filming in Montreal. Can’t you make it happen? You have only three short scenes in Charleston. It’s not like it’s going to be hard work. Except for the minor stunt stuff. The script calls for you to jump over a railing.”
“Yeah, into the ocean. You know I’m up for it. But I can’t.”
Tracy sighed. “You want to work with Samantha. The story is right up your alley. The money is good. They’ll treat you like a king. Stay busy, and the girl won’t be a problem.”
“Her name is Ella.”
“Fine. Ignore Ella.”
“I know what I’m talking about,” he said. “I can’t ignore her.”
“Okay.” Tracy paused for a beat. “I’ll tell ’em you don’t want it. Again.”
“I’ll tell them,” Hank said. “When I’m done with my parents, I’ll call. Give me another hour.”
“Fine by me.” The good thing about Tracy was that she let him make the decisions he wanted and never second-guessed him. As long as he gave her an opportunity to state her case, she was good.
He told his parents the situation, leaving out any mention of Ella.
“That’s not enough notice,” his mother said. “Even if it is Samantha Drake. You’re a busy man.” She patted her mouth with a soft linen napkin. But Hank wasn’t fooled by the ladylike move. Mom was a dainty eater until she came to high tea at the Plaza, and then she claimed all the good stuff with cream in the middle. He and Dad didn’t stand a chance.
“I’m not ready to jump in,” he said. “I’m finally at the point I can turn things down if I want, and it’s not the end of the world.”
“Right,” said his mom.
His dad frowned. “Does this have anything to do with Ella?”
Hank paused, a lemon tart halfway to his mouth. “No,” he said.
But of course it did. Hank might be a good actor, but he was a terrible liar.
For a brief second, his dad eyed him in a way he never had before. Hank went ahead and ate the tart and five tiny triangles filled with ham. For the next fifteen minutes, they made small talk about his parents’ neighbors, especially the guy who had five dogs. But Hank had to wonder about his dad—and that look.
When they parted, Mom was her usual fluttering self, asking him to take good care of himself—he needed to eat better … and sleep more. And then she remembered the card for Aunt Sarah. She pulled it out of her purse. “Just sign it over there,” she said, pointing to a table beneath a large mirror. “I’ll be right back. Running to the powder room.”
Luckily, so far, the general public had left Hank alone at the Plaza. No requests for autographs. No surreptitious photos from fans or the paparazzi. But when he was signing the card, someone came up behind him right as he was grappling with what to say.
People hovering were a fact of his life, and sometimes he felt like little more than a freak show in a gilded cage, but blah blah blah, no one cared. He could only occasionally whine to Tracy about it without looking like a self-obsessed ungrateful jerk. But it wasn’t that satisfying because Tracy often scrolled through texts when he spoke to her, and went off on tangents—especially about the Yankees—as if she’d never heard him. And the plain truth was, whining was never satisfying.
Argh, back to Aunt Sarah … What should he write? He gripped the pen and scribbled, Have a great birthday, Aunt Sarah. Love, Hank.
It was the best he could do. At least he’d written Love. That was nice.
He took a secret deep breath and turned around, prepared to face an adoring fan.
But it was his father standing there. “Take the part in Charleston,” he said, his hands in his jacket pockets. “You’re avoiding the girl, and it might be time for you to confront whatever it is you’re running from.”
Whoa. Hank’s father didn’t often make those kinds of pronouncements. It threw Hank off, enough that he responded with equal bluntness. “She’s a woman now,” he said, “a very successful one. She was pretty much grown up when we were dating too. I just chose to act like we were kids. I didn’t deserve her then, Dad, and I don’t now.”
He’d never admitted that out loud. And it hurt.
“People grow up,” his father said. “Give yourself a chance.”
“I had my chance.”
“I don’t buy that kind of talk.” His dad rocked back on his heels. “You’re making excuses.”
“Excuses?” Now Hank was getting a little annoyed. His father certainly didn’t mince words when he chose to speak up. “Dad, I’m way too old for lectures.”
“And I’m too old to give them.” His father’s eyes flickered with challenge. “Live in the present, son,” he said.
“I’m only there a week,” Hank said.
“A lot can happen in a week.”
Hank didn’t know what to say, other than No, a lot can’t, but he kept it to himself because his dad would have said he was wrong, and they would have gone around in circles talking about a week and how much one could fit into it.
“Do you want a second chance with her or not?” his dad asked.
Hank hesitated.
“It’s a yes or no answer, son.”
“Yes,” Hank finally said. “Yes, I do. But I don’t—”
“You don’t deserve it,” his dad finished for him. “Who does? We all make mistakes.”
“Some mistakes are worse than others.”
“True,” said his dad. “But if we all held back from pursuing happiness because we’re flawed, nobody would ever be happy. You have to learn from your mistakes. But don’t let them hold you back.”
“I’ll think about it,” Hank said. “Thanks, Dad.”
Hank’s mom came striding up on her high heels, an Upper East Side grand dame, and the whole conversation was necessarily over.
“All done?” She held out her hand for the card.
“Sure,” said Hank, agitated and trying not to show it.
She read what he wrote and pecked his cheek. “It will do, sweetie. Can you come for brunch soon? I’ll make blueberry pancakes. And spinach quiche. Your favorites.”
His dad kept an enigmatic eye on him.
Hank scratched his ear. “I don’t know if I’ll be here, Mom. I’ve decided to think a little longer about the movie in Charleston.”
She sucked in a breath over her newly touched-up red lips. “Really?”
“I’m thinking about it,” he said. “Not saying yes yet, but I’ll make a decision by the end of the day.”
“Well.” She blinked. “We just might have to have brunch in Charleston, then.” She swiveled to face her husband. “What do you think? Haven’t you always wanted to go see Charleston? There’s a reality show about it: Bless Your Heart. I’ve never seen it. Maybe I’ll start watching it.”
“We’ll see,” said his dad—one of his favorite refrains. “He’s only there a week, if he goes.”
“Oh, that’s a shame,” said his mother. “A week isn’t long enough to do anything.”
Hank tried not to laugh and hugged them both.
“Let us know what you decide.” His father was calm. Wise. A good guy. And today of all days, jabbing at Hank in a way he hadn’t done since he’d encouraged him to go to college and then to law school.
Hank was mystified. And curious. And somehow grateful.
“Talk to you soon,” he said, and watched them walk away, his square-shouldered dad and his birdlike mother. His heart squeezed at the sight of them hand in hand, and he recognized the emotion. It was love for each of them separately. And love for them both, as a pair, as one unit that took on the world together.
Family could be complicated. But all worthwhile things, Hank was coming to realize, came with their challenges.