“Of course not,” I assure her. “How did Nick end up meeting her, anyway?”
“Through the same friend Marcus did. Someone they know in the city.”
“Well, I feel confident you have nothing to worry about,” I tell her, and I do. She and Marcus clearly have a strong bond.
The sun has now sunk low enough in the sky that it’s cast a shadow across most of the water in the pool, and though Gabe and Henry are still happily splashing around, I take it as my cue to freshen up before dinner. I tell Keira I’ll see her shortly and walk around to the western side of the house,then make my way down a long path to the stone guest cottage, which sits nestled against the edge of a wooded area.
Because Gabe and I often come out here on weekends, Claire offered us first dibs on the refurbished carriage house, but the little cottage will always be my first choice. In our early days of dating, it gave me a needed sense of privacy, as comfortable as I felt with Gabe’s parents right from the start.
The cottage is actually an old springhouse, dating back at least a hundred years. It’s where food used to be stored before refrigeration because the spring below cooled the building. The lower level features a cozy sitting room with a fireplace and a small kitchen; upstairs are two bedrooms and a bath.
After unpacking my duffel bag—and discovering that Gabe, in his typical thoughtful way, has already hung my dresses—I brew myself a cup of tea, then carry it out to the small patio in the rear. It’s rimmed by a gorgeous border garden bursting with reds, blues, and purples. After settling at the table, I sweep my gaze over the Monet-like setting.
I wish I could really savor the scene, but my anxiety about the morning’s recording session has somehow crept back in. I have to do better at not letting stuff like that eat at me. Besides, I shouldn’t let a setback in this arena bug me. Though I enjoy voice-over work and appreciate how well it pays, the jobs are only a means to an end. If I had to spend my life recording prompts like “Please listen carefully because our menu options have changed” while people I knew were acting in movies and series or scoring lead roles off Broadway, I’d shoot myself.
What I ultimately want, and have wanted ever since my mother took me to see a touring company performTheFantastickswhen I was twelve, is to engage fully in theater and film, both as an actor and writer. This fall, a short play I wrote is going to be staged as part of a small theater festival just north of the city, and I’m hoping that will help me make more inroads in the theater world at least. Plus, playwriting and possibly screenwriting, too, will be a way to stay involved in my career when Gabe and I have a baby—which we hope to do next year.
As I finish my tea, I discover to my shock that it’s closing in on six thirty. I run upstairs and quickly wash my face, dab on fresh makeup, and grab a cotton sweater. I’m halfway up the path to the house when Henry comes tearing toward me, dressed now in khaki pants and a white polo shirt.
“I’m on a mission to find you,” he calls out as he approaches.
“Mission accomplished. And my, don’tyoulook smashing,” I say, wrapping an arm around his shoulder.
“Gee bought the shirt for me,” he says, wrinkling his nose.
“Don’t you like it?”
“The little polo player looks stupid.”
“Well, wear it just tonight,” I say as we resume walking. “It’ll make your grandmother happy.”
“Yeah, okay. Guess what?” He flashes his dimpled smile, and his blue eyes twinkle.
“What?”
“The mystery date is here!”
This kid doesn’t miss a thing. “Ah, so what do you think? Does she meet with your approval?”
“The jury’s still out.”
I laugh out loud at his choice of words. “I’m sure she’s perfectly nice.”
“And guess what else?”
“What?”
“She’s an actress, too.”
Ohfabulous. I have plenty of friends from my college acting program and years in the business, but meeting other actors is rarely fun—because an ugly compare-a-thon is almost always unavoidable. As Billy Dean, a pal from college, says, “Two actors at a dinner table is, at the very least, one actor too many.”
“What’s her name?”
“She told us it’s Hannah, but do you think that’s her real name?”
“Why do you ask?”
“Well, your name isn’t really Summer. My mom said it’s Sara.”
