Bridget turned her head to him and searched his face for something. Lewis could not have said what it was or if Bridget found it, but at last, she offered him a small, shy smile. “I find it difficult to believe that you would want to reinvent yourself.”
“Why is that?”
“You seem so assured in who you are and so strict with yourself.”
“I must be,” Lewis said.
“Must be or want to be?”
He considered the question. “Maybe a little of both,” he said. “Some of it has been necessary to care for my grandmother, but I suppose some of it is by choice.”
The mention of his grandmother caused an uneasy silence to fall, and Lewis mentally winced, wondering if Bridget might be thinking once more about their argument.
“Well,” she said at last. “I am glad you brought me here. If you can develop a fondness for taking me to the theater more often, maybe that will be enough.”
The comment was weakly delivered, and a small, indignant part of Lewis thought that the goal was too achievable, too simple. Nevertheless, he was not too proud to ignore the olive branch that had been offered to him.
“We can come as much as you like,” Lewis said.
Bridget nodded. “I would like that very much.”
The play began, and Bridget’s eyes snapped to the stage. She watched the actors with rapt attention, and while she watched them, Lewis watched her. Bridget’s face was so open that every emotion was readily apparent. He could tell at even a fleeting glance when she was delighted or frustrated, and often, he caught sight of her lips silently repeating the lines alongside the actors.
Lewis had never been a man who enjoyed plays in silence. He preferred to whisper to his companions, offering commentary on the show, but he remained silent. Bridget looked like a woman caught in a beautiful enchantment, and he had no wish to break the spell that Shakespeare’s words had cast over her. Instead, he let himself settle in the companionable silence beside her.
At last, the play came to its happy ending, and Bridget applauded enthusiastically. “A brilliant performance,” she said.
“Yes,” Lewis replied. “I hope it was everything you hoped it would be, being your favorite play and all.”
“It was,” Bridget said, sighing dreamily. “The actress captured Rosalind’s free spirit so well! And the scene with the poems nailed to the trees!”
Lewis did not realize he was smiling until his jaw began to hurt. “I have never met anyone who is as enthusiastic about the Bard as you.”
“You don’t like Shakespeare’s plays?” Bridget asked, looking aghast.
“I like them well enough,” he said, “but…”
Lewis was at a loss to explain what he meant, that there was the most infectious light in Bridget’s love for Shakespeare. It was as though she was the sun, emerging after weeks of dreary and rainy days, and Lewis wanted nothing more than to bask in her light.
She turned in her chair and folded her hands in her lap. “Which play is your favorite?”
“Hamlet.”
Bridget nodded. “You look like the sort of man who favorsHamlet.”
Lewis laughed. “How can you determine something like that just by looking at me?”
“It is a gift,” she said, waving a dismissive hand. “Shall I show you?”
He shook his head. “I do not believe you, but proceed.”
Bridget frowned and looked as though she was concentrating very hard on the crowd around them. “Do you see the gentleman wearing that poorly tailored blue jacket? With the white hair?”
Lewis nodded.
“A Midsummer Night’s Dream,” Bridget said with such conviction that Lewis laughed.
“You cannot possibly know that is his preference. Anyone can point at someone and name a Shakespeare play. Look!” He gestured to Lady Everleigh. “Macbeth.”
