“Not just mine”—she blushed—“the one I take with everybody else.”
“I’m teasing you.” He smiled and looked around, spotting a folding chair along the stage wall. He crossed the stage, picked it up, and walked back toward Mary. She took a good look at him in the light. He had thick eyebrows and a straight but prominent nose. He was smiling, and had a beautiful set of white teeth and a dimple in his right cheek. Mary began to sweat.
He placed the chair next to hers and sat down. His scent was delicious, a little cedar and pine. Of course a rugged man would smell like a tree or a forest in snow or Christmas.
“I’m Joe Tarantello.” He extended his hand.
Mary took his hand. It was like a paw. His touch thrilled her, but she pulled her hand away quickly so he wouldn’t notice. “I’m Mary Bennet.”
“I know. You won the playwriting prize. One of them, anyway.”
“How do you know?”
“Mrs. DeMatteo said to read the plays. She let me sit in. Iknow her husband and told her I was interested in plays, and she said, ‘Why don’t you audit?’?” He smiled. “Here I am.”
“So—you know people.”
“Isn’t that a requirement of show business?”
“I don’t consider the theater show business,” Mary said.
“Then what is it?”
“Literature with wings.”
He laughed. “You’re fancy.”
“Do you think so?” Mary patted her bangs to make sure they were flat. Sometimes her bangs flew up like cheap window shades. She hoped she looked good. She had put on mascara that day, and only because she had time. Her sisters were doing all her chores, including the laundry. When she left, Jane was washing the front windows with vinegar and newspapers. For once, she was glad to have arrived at a destination early. “No one has ever called me fancy.”
“You’re pretty. For a writer.”
“What does that mean?”
“I don’t know. The beauty in the theater seems to go to the actresses.”
“Because it doesn’t matter what a writer looks like,” Mary said defensively.
“God, you’re cute,” he said.
Mary blushed.
“That’s a line from your play,” Joe reminded her.
“Oh right.” Mary instantly felt foolish.
“But youarecute, whether you wrote the line or not.”
“Thank you.”
“You seem disappointed,” he said.
“I’m not disappointed; I thanked you for your compliment, didn’t I?”
“I don’t throw words around. Cute is step one on the way to pretty, which is one rung below beautiful.”
Is this guy serious? Mary looked at him. Who is he? she wondered. She checked the time on her phone.
“Class starts in ten minutes,” he said. “That’s what it says online, but it never starts on time.”
