She mumbled something and Mark cocked his ear toward her. “What?”
She swallowed and repeated, as evenly as she could, “I can’t lose this, too. I can’t.”
Mark sighed sadly, sweetly, softly. He stood and held out a wrinkled hand. “Come here, kid.”
She went right to his open arms, pressing her cheek into his narrow chest. He kissed her forehead, then rested his chin on top of her hair and said, “Everyone talks about coal miners, farmers, steel workers. The horror of automation and what we owe them. No one talks about artists.”
They stood quietly like that for a minute, the hush of the house beyond, the particular quiet of their particular work getting done around them. The stories being told, the entertainment being created, the humans making it happen. Mark lifted his head. “Do you know how much your mom’s condo on that cruise ship costs?”
Sewanee chuckled. “A lot.”
“1928 Spanish Revival in the Hollywood Hills a lot?”
“Possibly.”
“Doug Carrey a lot?”
“Probably.” She looked up at him, letting him see in her eye just how unpalatable she found this idea. “What a pissah.”
“What does that mean?”
“No idea.”
He squinted at her. “Didn’t you two . . . ?”
Sewanee groaned and stepped back.
Mark lifted an eyebrow. “Dare I ask?”
“Porny. He jackhammered me off the bed.” Mark belted a laugh as Sewanee turned for the door. “The bruise on my hip outlasted the relationship.”
“Well, maybe I’ll let you give him a private tour of the house. Show him where he can hang his Red Sox banner.” He quirked a brow. “Where he can put his lobstah roll.”
She chortled and emphatically shook her head. “Pass.” Then she took a breath. “I’m gonna go slip into studio 3, get some recording done.”
While she could.
From: Westholme, Sarah
To: Brock McNight
Date: March 5, 7:07 PM
Subject: RE: CASANOVA, LLC–and hello!
So, after reading your email, I decided to go for a run, and then I came back and took a glass of wine out to my porch and I read it again. Here’s what I think: You’re right.
From: Brock McNight
To: Westholme, Sarah
Date: March 5, 7:34 PM
Subject: RE: CASANOVA, LLC–and hello!
You should have taken a longer run.
HER PHONE VIBRATED, skittering across the nightstand. Sewanee lifted her bleary head and grabbed at it. There was only one number she’d programmed to be able to call during her pre-set Do Not Disturb hours. “Hello?” she croaked.
“Help me.”
She came awake instantly. “Are you okay?”
“No.” Blah’s voice was adamantly edgy. “Marv is late. I’ve been waiting for hours. He’s terribly late and I don’t know where he is! Where is he?”
Sewanee bolted upright, sheets twisted around her legs. “Okay, take a deep breath. I’ll find Marv. Everything’s fine.”
“Everything isn’t fine, Bitsy! Stop it, just stop it!”
“BlahBlah, it’s Sewanee. Listen to me, it’s–”
“No, you listen! Marv left me here and I have to be in Westwood and it’s already too late! Marilyn’s gonna kill me.” Each fragment of thought was another log hurled onto a fire.
Sewanee didn’t know what to do. She looked at her bedside clock. 2:14 A.M. “Blah–”
“You’re no good to me! You’re no fucking help, Bitsy! I’ll handle it!”
“I’ll come get you, stay there.”
“No!”
The line went dead.
Through the blood pounding in her ears, Sewanee called Seasons and spoke with the night nurse, asked him to please, immediately, check on Blah, and then waited while he did. Each second felt like an hour. She couldn’t sit still. She fought her way out of bed, started pulling clothes on, then stopped, not knowing what was coming next.
Five minutes later, the nurse’s voice was back, informing her Blah had been standing in front of the window in her room, holding the entire phone–cradle and all–no longer agitated, just confused. So he’d helped her back into bed. He said he’d check on her throughout the night. Sewanee thanked him profusely and hung up.
Shaken, she went to the kitchen and put the kettle on, pulled out her Tea-For-One set, and had a good two-minute cry. Then she sat, drank her chamomile, and thought. And thought. And thought.
The Tea-For-One usually grounded her. Reassured her she was fine alone. But tonight, in this living room that might soon no longer be hers, after talking to a grandmother who was slipping further away, this kind of alone was not fine.