“You dress like someone going to Broadway, not a playwright.”
Mrs. DeMatteo threw her head back and laughed. “Sometimes I have business before I teach.”
“What kind of business, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“I train women to communicate effectively in business. It’s a little like an acting class, without scenes by Tennessee Williams.”
“That’s so interesting,” Mary said, meaning it.
“A playwright can be a playwright as long as she has other jobs to support the habit.”
“I understand,” Mary said.
“Of all my writing students, I think you do. You get it, Mary Bennet.”
“Thank you. I guess.”
“I’d like to use your play in class today. You know, your Lady de Bourgh prizewinner. If you give me permission.”
“I’d be honored. But why?”
“I love plays about family life. You really crafted a beauty,” Mrs. DeMatteo said.
“I tried to write the truth.”
“The mother character has dementia. Are you dealing with that at home?”
“A little. But my sisters believe that it’s not technically dementia—it’s been our mother’s nature all along.”
“That’s why it feels so real.”
“Thank you.”
“And the loss of the home—when the girls are forced to sell. Is that true?”
“I hope not. But it may become real sooner than we hope.”
“I’m sorry.”
“There are remedies, Mrs. DeMatteo. And I’m hunting every single option down, and hoping for the best.”
“I’m rooting for you. But whatever you do, wherever you go, I hope you keep writing. I’ll see you inside.” Mrs. DeMatteo entered the studio.
Mary looked at the simple sign that meant the world to her. HB Studios. White letters on gray stucco. It was a cathedral to Mary, a place of creativity and bliss. Tears stung Mary’s eyes. She wiped them away quickly.
“Why you crying?” a voice said from behind her.
Mary turned. “Oh, hi, Joe.”
Joe Tarantello looked handsome. He had gotten a haircut. He wore a white button-down shirt and jeans.
“Did you iron that shirt?” Mary asked.
“Yeah.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“You shouldn’t. I send them out.”
