On Saturday afternoon the Lunt-Fontanne fellows held an open rehearsal for the public. Annabelle and I went together. The theater was only half-full. Labor Day weekend, it was too beautiful to be inside, though someone had propped open the emergency exit at the front of the room.
The actors wore shorts, T-shirts, and running shoes. Kelly looked casually beautiful in cropped black pants and a black T-shirt with a white pocket. She sat on a metal folding chair to one side of the stage, her legs crossed ankle to knee, a notebook balanced on her thigh. Now and then, she stopped the actors to offer direction.
They were rehearsing the scene where Serena (Eva) has just been handed a letter revealing that her husband has left her for another woman. She reads the letter, her face placid, then picks up her teacup and resumes chatting with her friend Harriet.
“Not quite,” Kelly said when they finished. She set down her notebook and stood, cupping her face in her hands as she thought. And then, “Where do you physically feel the betrayal?” she asked Eva. “In your throat, your hands?” To the audience she said, “Truth is always absorbed and revealed in the body, before it registers in the mind.”
She asked the actors to run the scene again. This time, after reading the letter, when Eva reached for her teacup, her hand trembled—barely, but the cup clinked loudly against the saucer. It was the only sound, and it was devastating. It changed the scene. I felt how we were all collectively holding our breath, willing Serena to be okay, knowing she wasn’t.
The minute the scene ended, the audience burst into applause, but I felt shaken. Gabe, Erik, Annabelle, me—we’d all read the play. How had we not realized how close this came to Eva’s life?
Beside me, I felt how still Annabelle was, and without wanting to, I was remembering how happy she’d been with Gabe at the gala the week before. Truth is always revealed in the body. I closed my eyes as if to unsee Annabelle’s flushed cheeks, everything about her animated. Could she still be in love with him? I stole a glance at her, and saw Gabe leaning against the side wall, arms crossed, and I understood how much effort Annabelle was putting into the act of staring at the stage when really, all her attention was pinned on Gabe.
At the end of the rehearsal, Kelly fielded questions from the audience. Someone asked why she’d chosen Quadrille as the play the fellows would perform. Another asked about her plans now that the final season of Widows had ended.
“Funny you should ask.” She paused, a mischievous look I’d seen a thousand times playing over her face. “Officially as of yesterday, I’m joining Mamma Mia! on Broadway. You guys are hearing it first.”
A few people cheered and others clapped. “Will you miss television?” a woman asked from a seat up front. Kelly repeated the question for the rest of us, then said, “Honestly, no. I need to be onstage. It’s where I’m my best self. Better than real life.” She laughed softly, and I remembered that guy who made fun of her laugh in high school and how hurt she’d been. “Think about what you just saw.” She swept her hand back toward the stage. “Gesture by gesture, we figured out exactly how Serena might feel upon learning of her husband’s betrayal. And what Eva ended up with felt so true, didn’t it?” People were nodding. Again, I felt how still Annabelle was. “That’s what I mean about being one’s best self. We have the chance to get it right on the stage. We can figure out how to be and how to react, and whatever we present—grief, anger, hurt, joy—it’s so real because we’ve drilled down past all the bullshit to what we really feel and what really matters.” Kelly shook her head, almost ruefully. “So many people think acting is pretending to be something you’re not, but it’s the opposite. I think most people pretend to be what they’re not just to get through the day.”
Driving back to her house, where we would congregate for our usual Saturday night, Annabelle was quiet, idly fingering her silver cross as she stared out the passenger window. The sun was hidden behind clouds now, bands of thunderstorms gathering in the distance. Leaves twirled on the ends of branches.
“Can I ask you something?” I said.
“You can.” She turned to me.
“Last week at the gala, with Gabe…” I glanced at her. “You looked so happy. It kind of scared me.”
“It kind of scared me too.” She clasped her hands in her lap. “I don’t want Gabe, Claire, if that’s the question. And whatever this…this energy is between us, I want it to go away.”
“That scene today, where Serena realizes her husband has cheated—”
“I know.” A few fat raindrops splatted on the windshield. “I don’t love him, Claire.” She looked miserable. “That’s not what this is.”
“Then what?”
“I don’t know.”
“Would it help to take a break from our Saturday nights?”
“Probably.” Her eyes filled. “It’s not what I want, though.”
“Me either, but maybe for a few weeks?” The rain was falling steadily, and I switched on the wipers. It was amazing how quickly the afternoon had turned, the skies an eerie green, cars with their headlights on.
“Remember when Lynn said the secret of her marriage to Alfred was that they got to be themselves during the day, but at night, they’d go to the theater and be two other people?”
I nodded.
“Well, Saturday nights are like that for me and Scott. Not that we’re different people, but it’s like we can just step away from the day-to-day, you know?”
“Can’t you do that the weeks we have the kids?”
“Of course, but…Don’t you feel it? That we bring out the best in each other?”
I did. I’d never been a part of a group of friends like this. We’d become each other’s de facto family. I thought of how we’d spend hours together and never stop talking, of how we had spare keys to each other’s homes, of how Eva and Gabe had just sauntered through our house and out to the deck last week to tell us Eva had gotten the role of Serena. I thought of how, when I had a show or Eva a play or Scott a gig, it was a given that we’d go together. I thought of Annabelle saying I didn’t need them—didn’t need her—and of how much I did, and of how much I liked that I did. It’s how friendship should be, I thought.
As it turned out, though, that Saturday night was our last.
We were tired after a long week, and because of that and the rain, we didn’t dress up. We ordered pizza and sat around the low circular coffee table in Annabelle and Scott’s great room, a bamboo tray filled with flickering votives in the table’s center. Spencer dragged his beanbag chair to the sliding doors, staring raptly as rain pelted the glass and lightning strobed the backyard. Echoing booms cracked open the sky and sent the girls shrieking downstairs. Phoebe snuggled with Eva on the leather recliner, Hazel curled against Annabelle, and for a while, we all just watched the storm as if it were a movie.
Once the storm passed and the kids retreated to their rooms, Annabelle, Eva, and Erik launched into Ten Chimneys gossip, and Gabe, Scott, and I had our own conversation. Scott was talking about opening for the Spin Doctors at the state fair two weeks before, and I told him what Kelly had said about being her best self on the stage. Was it like that for him with his music, I asked, was that his best self?
“You’d think so, wouldn’t you?” He was sitting on the carpet, leaning against a huge cushion propped against the stone hearth. “But believe it or not…” He set his pizza on the paper plate next to him. “If I have a best self, whatever the hell that means, it’s probably when I’m working.”
“You mean painting?” I said.
He smiled. “That is what I do.”
“I know, I just never imagined that…” Painting houses might be fulfilling? Jesus.
“How about a shovel for that hole you’re digging?” Gabe teased.
“That came out wrong,” I told Scott. “I’m just surprised it’s not music.”
“You and me both.” He shrugged. “But I’m totally Zen when I paint. I think about all kinds of cool shit, write my best lyrics in my head. Plus, when you paint someone’s house, they feel like you’ve transformed their life.”
“Let me get this straight,” Gabe said. “You’re telling us that being onstage…” He shook his head as if to clear it. “You had women screaming for you.”
“One woman. And that was my wife.”
“It was a throng of women,” I said.
“A throng of women?” Scott grinned. “Is that like a murder of crows? A conspiracy of ravens? Or is it an unkindness of ravens?” He hadn’t shaved, which on someone else might have looked scruffy but on Scott looked rugged. We teased him all the time about his looks. He’s downright beautiful. Blue-black hair, dark tan, and those pale green eyes. He really did have a group of women screaming for him at the state fair.
“Look, I love being onstage,” he said. “I love playing music. It’s the greatest ego trip in the world. But that ain’t me up there.”
“Even at Hattie’s?” I said. “You always look like you’re having so much fun!”
“I am, but the best part? It’s coming home.” He took a swallow of beer. “You guys, the kids, that woman right there…” He pointed his bottle at Annabelle, who was sitting on the other side of the coffee table. “That’s all I need. Right, love?” he called to her.
“Absolutely,” she said, eyes lighting on his. She’d changed into jeans and a white T-shirt that showed off her tan, and she seemed like herself again. No hint of our earlier conversation.
I pulled my feet up under me on the couch and turned to Gabe. “So, what about you?” Thunder rumbled in the distance.
“What about me?” He was sitting in the armchair next to the couch, and even in cargo shorts and flip-flops, he looked like a lawyer. Something imperious in the way he sat, legs crossed as he sipped his wine.
“Come on. Your best self.”
“Who says I have one?”
“I’ve seen glimpses.”
“Really? What does it look like?”
I sighed, wishing he didn’t always need to be the funny guy, though I understood. Maybe everyone who carried a big enough secret became a magician of sorts, always distracting the audience—look over here, look over here—so they wouldn’t notice they were being tricked.
“Okay, okay.” He uncrossed and then recrossed his legs. “I guess I’d have to define best self, but I’m probably most on my game in the courtroom.”
“But you don’t even like—” I stopped. I wasn’t supposed to know he hated his job.
“Shovel, madam?” he laughed.
“Hold on,” Scott said. “You don’t like being a lawyer?”
“Oh, I like it just fine.” He glanced at Eva. “And I’m good at it.” He took a sip of wine, then set it on the table next to him. “But I guess therein lies the question, or at least a question: Can one be one’s ‘best self’ ”—he put air quotes around the phrase—“doing something one isn’t passionate about?” He nodded at Scott. “I don’t know. Are you passionate about painting people’s houses? I suppose we’re back to defining best self.”
“For Kelly, it was when she felt most…real was the word she used. Honest, maybe.”
“Well, nix the courtroom, then.” Gabe said. “Actually, I don’t know why I said that. My best self is with Eva. Hands down.”
She and Annabelle both looked up. Eva was still sprawled in the recliner, her hair piled in a messy knot. “Did I hear my name?” she asked.
“You did.” Gabe smiled affectionately at her.
“Anyone need another beer?” Scott pushed himself up from the hearth.
Erik held up his empty.
“I was saying you bring out my best self,” Gabe said.
“And don’t you forget it, mister.” A blush colored Eva’s cheeks, something sweet passing between them before she turned back to Erik. “The schedule’s insane,” she said.
“Your turn, Claire.” Gabe touched his wineglass to my wrist. “Feet to the fire. What’s your best self?”
“Running,” I said without thinking.
“Really?” Gabe furrowed his brow. “Not your art?”
“I know. It should be, right? Or being with Erik or the kids. What does it mean that my best self is when I’m alone, doing something that benefits absolutely no one?”
“Yeah, but is our best self really something we choose?” Scott sat down with a fresh beer. “It’s like that question about what you’d wish for if you had one wish, and you know you’re supposed to say world peace, but what you really want is to get a date with the hot barista at your coffee shop. You want what you want, right?” He glanced at Annabelle. “Bet you she says it’s being a mom.”
Annabelle looked up. “What will I say about being a mom?”
“That it’s your best self.”
“Best self? How about only self?”
“Come on…” Scott said. “You know that’s not true.”
“Don’t think you’re off the hook,” Gabe whispered.
“What is it with you?” I whispered back. “Feet to the fire, off the hook. Why do you think I don’t want to talk about this?”
“Oh, maybe because you’re the only person who’s better than me at avoiding personal questions. Which…” He grinned. “You’re doing quite convincingly.”
“Didn’t I meet your best self on our third date?” Annabelle was asking Scott.
“Second date, baby. Believe me, it’s etched in my memory.”
“So why running?” Gabe persisted.
“Promise you won’t laugh?”
“I won’t even smile.” But of course he smiled as he said it.
“Liar.”
“Did you just call me a lawyer?” Before I could respond, he added, “Sorry. I really am listening.”
I eyed him warily. “Running kind of saved me once,” I said. “And now I guess it’s how I process things. If I’m upset, depressed—even when I’m happy, it’s like I need to run to be able to feel it.” Truth is always revealed in the body. After I lost Lucy, running was the only thing that made me believe I could be somebody again. And those first years in Wisconsin when I had no friends because I was terrified of getting close to anyone, running was what I carried inside me all day, that tiny accomplishment. The first time I ran ten miles, I called my mom, laughing and crying because my whole life felt possible again. I took a sip of my cosmo, aware of Gabe watching me. “Go ahead,” I said. “Make a joke.”
“Actually, I wish I had something like that.”
“Wish you had something like what?” Eva asked. “What are you two whispering about?”
“Claire’s running.”
“Ahhh. Your best self?” Erik said. “I should have known. Running’s like prayer for you.” He smiled and I smiled back. I’d never thought of running as prayer, but he was right and I loved that he understood this even when I didn’t.
“So is it acting?” Gabe was asking Eva. “Your best self?”
“That, or being with you.”
“Thank you,” Gabe said, “but you can say acting. I promise, my feelings won’t be hurt.” Feelweens, he said, and we laughed.
The room was mostly dark now, just the flickering votives and the lamp on the end table between me and Gabe. The storm had long since passed, only the plink of raindrops hitting the metal grill on the patio. Scott had turned off the AC and opened the windows, the air almost chilly. Looking at us, I was gripped with a feeling of such specific, pointed happiness. Maybe our tiredness had loosened something in us, or maybe it was the relief of it being just the six of us again after all the events of the last month, but I liked who we were that night, liked the affectionate looks that passed between couples, liked how well we knew each other and had opinions about each other’s best selves, how the answers mattered.
“So, what about you?” Eva asked Erik.
“My best self? Easy. Cooking with the kids.”
“My, my, aren’t you specific,” Annabelle teased. “Just cooking?”
“If we’re talking best, yeah. All of us in the kitchen, wearing our cooking hats.”
“I love the cooking hats,” Eva said. The last time she and Gabe had had dinner with us and the kids, she’d shown up wearing a Carmen Miranda turban piled with artificial fruit.
“Remind me again why you have cooking hats,” Gabe said.
“Why we have cooking hats?” Erik shot him a bemused look. “Pure desperation.” He shrugged. “Now it’s just our thing. I wish I could be that dad all the time.”
“Well, I wish I could say my best self was being a mom,” Annabelle said. “It should be, right? I mean, if you have kids, you damn well better say that’s your best self.”
“You don’t think being a mom is your best self?” I asked. “I do.”
“It’s my most important self, but you guys see how I am—total helicopter mom, like if I’m not vigilant every second, the world’s going to come crashing down.”
Erik flicked his eyes at me. Annabelle’s vigilance really was exhausting. The constant dropping off of the high-end organic food and soap she insisted we use; the nonstop weighing in on what TV shows the kids watched and what books they read. Just that morning, she and Erik had argued about the fact that the girls would be with us for their first day of third grade. “But I’m the one who always gets them ready!” she pleaded.
“So, this is it,” she said now, flinging out her arms. “My best self. With you guys on Saturday nights.” Her eyes met mine, and I knew we were both remembering our conversation in the car.
We stayed much later than usual that night. Typically we wound things up by ten, but for some reason, we just kept talking—about our parents, about the fact that we were all only children, except for Eva, who might as well have been, her brother nine years older, off to college before she was ten. We’d never talked about this before. “How is that possible?” Erik kept saying. We even talked about Kelly a little. I told them how she used to say if she ever had kids, she’d name them after Shakespeare characters, and my dad always teased her that she better have girls—Juliet, Ophelia, Violet—no problem, but the poor boys: Could you imagine being named Othello or Romeo or Hamlet?
“What about Prospero?” Scott was grinning.
“Troilus,” Gabe said.
Is that when Eva decided we should all go see Mamma Mia! on Broadway that fall? “We’ll have a field trip!”
Erik and I looked at each other. No way would Annabelle ever leave the kids that long. Still, it was fun to imagine, the six of us in “the Big Apple.” Scott actually called it that, and we made merciless fun of him for it.
Sometimes now I wonder if we stayed so late—it was nearly midnight when Erik pulled into our drive, the cement still damp with rain—because we somehow sensed that it would be our last time together.
I think too of how half of us would lose the very things that brought out our best selves.