CHAPTER 8
There’s a large metal box waiting for us on the porch, warming three brick oven pizzas from Mario’s in the city. On top is a bag with a huge chopped salad and four cannoli. Apparently, Leo has taken care of dinner.
We plop down, exhausted, and tear into the pizza. Leo’s opened a bottle of pinot noir. Arthur and Bernadette are talking over each other. Who’s any good, who can’t dance. Who’s going to be thrown out of the production by Monday. Arthur sits a little taller than usual, his quiet uncertainty morphing into quiet confidence. It hasn’t been the role in the play, I realize, it’s been the attention and interest Leo’s shown him. I think Arthur feels supported.
Bernadette says the thing I cannot say. “So, tonight’s your last night?”
Leo looks at me, and I look at my wineglass. I don’t know what my face is doing but he doesn’t need to see it. Arthur is silent.
“Well, this is awkward,” he says. “I’ve been offered a job in town, co-director of Oliver Twist. I sort of promised Brenda I’d stay until opening night.”
Bernadette squeals, and Arthur is still. “That’s three weeks away,” he says.
“It is.” Leo fills both of our glasses.
“Well, that’s nice of you,” I start. “I mean, you want to do that? Of course, you can stay.” I cannot be casual. I cannot find my normal voice.
“Thank you. Now, what’s it time for? Homework?”
I putter around the kitchen, setting up the coffee maker for what will now not be Leo’s last morning here. My relief is profound, but I’m clued in enough to know that it’ll only be worse in three weeks when he leaves. And my kids, they adore him. I can’t decide if it’s healthy for my kids to know what it’s like to have a man around who is interested in their lives, or if it’s just going to make the pain they feel about Ben worse when Leo leaves. At least he’s leaving us with something—a successful school-play memory. He’s here for the play, and the duration of that play is finite. No one’s going to be surprised when he goes.
I find Leo on the couch in the sunroom. He’s opened a second bottle of wine and is looking out at the yard through open windows. “Join me?” he asks.
I grab another glass. Bernadette’s art project is on the armchair so I sit on the couch by his socked feet. “Thanks for letting me stay,” he starts.
“Thanks for helping my kid.”
He raises his glass in a toast, and I raise mine back and wait for him to speak. He puts it down. “I think toasting is really pretentious.”
“Same.”
“Do you think I should quit acting?”
I turn my whole body to him, pulling my legs onto the couch. “No. No one does. What are you talking about?”
“I don’t know. I’ve made a lot of movies, and I’m only forty. I could have a whole second life, not being famous. Using the self-checkout gun.”
“You’re just burned out. You’ve made three movies in two years. This is a reset, and honestly, I’m really glad you’re here. But you’ll get excited about the next role, and you’ll be back at it.”
“I just sort of like doing this.”
“You’d get sick of it.”
“Are you?”
“Not at all.”
He smiles. “Can I tell you a secret?”
I try to hide the excitement in my voice. “Sure.”
“I’ve watched the Christmas movies on TRC. I love them.”
“You do not.” I try to contain the smile that is overtaking my face.
“I do. When I’m home for the holidays, my mom and I stay up late and watch two or three in a row. Or we did. She liked the young people falling in love; I like the overly wreathed houses and the moms cooking things. And everyone stressing about how the lights are hung.” He takes a sip of his wine. “It’s a guilty pleasure.”
“What’s your favorite?” Pick one of mine! Pick one of mine!
He considers this for longer than I think the question warrants. “The one where the reporter gets snowed in and stays to help the innkeeper plan the annual holiday festival. I liked the two of them; I felt like it made sense they’d be together.”
“Becca and Daniel. Lake Placid. That’s mine.”
“See? You are romantic.”
“Only on paper. And when the stakes are low.”