As the applause faded, he spoke. “Apologies, apologies,” he murmured into the microphone, that all-too-familiar Irish lilt on full display. “My aunt would have appreciated my absolute mortification here.” He laughed, and the room laughed with him, and he cleared his throat. “First, I must thank you for honoring her . . .” He abruptly stopped . . . swallowed . . . took a breath. The audience surely thought it was owing to the emotions of the moment. They were more accurate than they knew.
“。 . . With this award. She would have so appreciated this night, being feted by those of you who brought such beautiful voice to her words.” He gazed down at the award. “She would have been well chuffed by this, I can tell you that. She loved audio. She loved the melding of writing and performance. And she was in awe of all of you. Especially those who brought her characters, their struggles, their well-earned happily ever afters to life. You have her eternal gratitude.” He assessed the crowd. “And mine as well. Cheers.”
He raised the award once more and grinned, that Harrison Ford grin, that battering ram grin. He turned to take Sewanee’s arm, as was customary, but she was already moving off, head down.
He trailed her into the wings as he’d trailed her through the suite and the MC brushed past them on his way back to the stage. A few people murmured their congratulations, their condolences, and Nick murmured his thanks. Mark was there, waiting to go on. He squeezed Sewanee’s arm and said, “Good save, Swan.” She smiled reflexively and kept walking and then felt a different hand on her arm and finally conceded there was no escaping this.
So she stopped, took a courageous breath, and turned to face him.
His bewildered eyes drank her in. He opened his mouth, repeatedly, a gaping fish on a dock.
She was aware of two things: they had about a million things to say to each other and they were in the wings of a theater. What to say? Where to start?
“Hi,” was all she came up with. But at least she said it quietly.
He barked a laugh. “Hi?!”
It was too loud for backstage. Someone shushed them.
She said, “How are you?” Utterly inane, but at least it, too, was quiet.
“How the hell–” Nick began, but the stage manager hissed at them. Nick rolled his eyes in frustration, took her arm again, and led her to the nearest exit. They burst, missile-like, into a hallway, and he steered her–as he’d once steered her outside into the falling snow–into the empty lobby. They stopped in front of the bar.
After a moment of nothing but staring, Sewanee had to say something. Anything. What came out was, “Surprise.” And then she laughed.
He laughed, too. “I missed that dry wit, Alice.”
A voice behind them: “Swan?” Her eye squeezed shut. “You okay?” Mark entered the lobby. She met his worried, harried eyes. He was supposed to be going onstage any second, but she had been bodily removed from the wings by a man Mark didn’t know.
“Yup!” she bleated. “Everything’s fine. Thank you. Get back in there before you miss your cue.” She sounded mostly normal, if perhaps overbright, so after one more wary stare at Nick, Mark retreated down the hallway.
“What’s with the Swan thing?” Nick asked, brow furrowing in a way Sewanee didn’t like. “Pet name?”
Sewanee swallowed. “No. That’s my name.”
“What is?”
“Swan.”
“Like . . . the bird?”
“Sewanee, actually.”
“Well, who’s Alice?”
“There is no Alice. Well, there is an Alice, but I’m Sewanee Chester.”
“Are you–but you’re a Romance editor?”
“No.”
“Is Alice the–wait. You don’t have an accent. Why don’t you have an accent?”
“Because I don’t have an accent.”
This was happening too fast. She didn’t know how else it could happen, but her mouth was answering before her ears were hearing and she was only just catching up with the conversation.
He stepped back and quirked his head at her. “Are you a sociopath?”
“No.”
“Pathological liar?”
“No!” Sewanee groaned. “I’m an actor.”
“Can’t say I see the difference.” He grinned indulgently, a bit pityingly, a touch ruefully.
Sewanee took a deep breath, trying to regroup. She was keenly aware of the bartenders packing up, pretending they weren’t riveted by this.