Нора Робертс - Hideaway

Pacing—the story, the meal—Lily set down her fork to take a tiny sip of wine. “Olivia Dunn was the love of his life. When we started realizing it wasn’t just sex, however fun, between us, I had to give that fact some hard thought. Could I stick with a man who had that kind of love, still had that kind of love, in him for another woman?”

She took another tiny sip from the single glass of wine she allowed herself on the night before a dress rehearsal. “You know what I figured? Any man who had that kind of love in him, well, I’d be a fool to walk away from what he’d have in him for me. And my mama, she didn’t raise a fool for a daughter.”

“All my life, it was seeing how you are, the two of you, that showed me what love is, or, I guess, could be.”

“Then we did something right.” She set the wine down. “That leads me comfortably into a subject I’d hoped you’d bring up with me. But since you haven’t, I’m just going to poke right in like the bear into the honeycomb. And hope I don’t get my nose stung. It’s charming, my sweets, that you and Noah think you’re keeping your relationship on the down low.”

“I…”

“I even understand why you’re trying to keep it quiet—though for heaven’s sake, Catey girl, it’s theater. We’re a gossipy bunch, and we dearly love sex and drama.”

Trepidation about what would come tangled with relief of letting go of a secret. “I didn’t know how you’d react.”

“Then somewhere along the line I did something wrong if you don’t know you can talk to me about anything.”

“I do know. I’m sorry. That’s not fair. Most of it’s me. It’s been so good, just so good not to have to worry about what people might read about me, or hear about me, or say. She’s so into her engagement, her big wedding plans, she doesn’t need me to get press right now, and I just don’t want to give anybody anything. I did tell Darlie, and Mallory knows. And Noah’s roommates. I started to tell you so many times, but … I didn’t really know how.”

“Let’s start with this, and hell, I’m breaking my rule and having a second glass of wine. You can have one with me. It’s an occasion.”

Before Lily could get up for the bottle, Cate jumped up, brought it and a second glass in from the kitchen. “Am I like driving you to drink now?”

Lily patted her hand. “You’re giving me an excuse to indulge myself. Did he give you that sweet necklace?”

“For my birthday.”

“He earns points there. It’s a thoughtful gift. I want to know if he’s sweet and thoughtful with you otherwise.”

“He is. He always walks me out to get a cab, waits until I’m driving away, and asks me to text him when I’m home safe. He listens to me, pays attention. He got me back into dance class, and I didn’t know how much I missed it until he did. He’s kept it quiet because I asked him to.”

“I’m going to tell you I asked around about him—that’s not only my privilege,” she continued, when Cate’s mouth opened, “it’s my duty. So I know he doesn’t drink or do drugs because he’s serious about his work. He comes from an interesting family—which we southern ladies appreciate and admire. He works hard, I see that for myself. And he’s good, he’s damn good. He can go places.”

It shined inside her, the approval she heard from the most important woman in her life. “He loves the theater.”

“It shows. Now, the big one. Are you being careful, both of you?”

“Yes. I promise you.”

“All right then, it’s time he started coming to the door instead of you meeting him outside, or wherever. I haven’t said anything to your father or to Hugh, and I won’t, as that’s for you. And I understand, I do, your need to keep it out of the press.” She leaned over to take Cate’s hand. “But it will get out, sooner or later. Both of you need to be ready for that.”

“I’ll talk to him about it.”

“Good. When are you seeing him again?”

“I was going to meet him after rehearsal tomorrow, and…” She caught the arched eyebrows. “I’ll have him come to the door.”

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

It delighted Cate how easily Lily and Noah hit it off. How could she not love listening to two of her favorite people sit and exchange theater stories?

When Lily insisted he come for dinner, he brought flowers for both of them. And that pretty much sealed it all around.

She missed them both, almost painfully, when the play had its out-of-town openings in San Francisco and Chicago.

But they both had to focus, as she saw it. And it gave her several days to find out how she handled living on her own.

For the first time in her life, she thought, standing on the terrace in balmy air, eating Chinese takeout from the carton. No anxiety, no nightmares, just her own routine.

Good long walks every day and daily yoga practice. Dance class, though it made her miss Noah all the more. Afternoon research on the courses she’d take in a few weeks.

Two abortive attempts at writing a screenplay, both so bad she trashed them. She’d still take the course, she decided, but had a feeling her area of talent didn’t extend to writing.

That was okay. Scooping up noodles, she walked to the polished concrete wall, looked down at the busy, busy world below. She’d find her place, eventually. In that busy, busy world or somewhere else. But now, right now, this quiet time, this interlude where she could stay anonymous, where she could walk by a newsstand and not see her own face, or some headline shouting her name, gave her all she needed.

Ireland had given her that as a child. She’d take it from New York now, and because she wasn’t a child any longer, she’d use the time, the interlude to explore her talents, or lack thereof, her abilities, or lack thereof.

Maybe she’d take a photography course, or art lessons, or, or, or.

“I’ll find out,” she murmured as she went back in, closed the glass doors on the rumble of the city.

She settled down with her tablet, did some searching on photography. She did like looking at people, listening to them. She might be good at capturing images.

Freezing a moment, an expression, a mood. She could practice with her phone camera, just play around. She’d walk around the neighborhood in the morning before she headed over to NYU to orient herself a little.

When her phone alarm sounded, she snatched it up.

“Curtain.”

She imagined the curtain rising on the stage in San Francisco, the lights, the set.

“Break a leg, everybody.”

She tried to occupy herself with more research, just couldn’t. She could hear the opening act, the notes, the beats, the dialogue, the voices.

Did the audience laugh here, applaud there? Were they charmed and engaged?

She imagined the whirl of backstage, the costume changes, the warm-ups, the rush to hit the cue.

Rising, she checked the locks, lowered the lights before going into her bedroom. To try to counteract the anxiety in her stomach, the not knowing, she rolled out her yoga mat, started a relaxation session.

She’d have relaxed more, she could admit, if she hadn’t kept checking the time, but she got in thirty minutes.

Trying to stretch out the time as she had her body, she changed into a tank and cotton sleeping shorts, did a long, involved skin care routine.

Made it to intermission.

She switched on the television, flipped through stations until she found a movie in progress. One with car chases and explosions to take her mind completely out of musical theater.

Apparently, the yoga worked better than she’d realized, as she dropped off as Matt Damon’s Jason Bourne disposed of bad guys.

The phone popped her awake. She scrambled for it, and the remote to turn off the TV. “Noah.”