“Ah, a lady of secrets, are we?”
“Oh yes,” I answer dramatically. “A lady of many secrets and a play that I need to finish in seventeen days if I’m going to make a contest deadline.”
“Really? I take it that you’re a playwright as well, then?”
“Afraid so.”
“In that case, as you have a very good reason to stay at home rather than crossing the Atlantic, I won’t try to sway you any further...but know that I do so very reluctantly.”
“I appreciate that.”
Juliette sashays back into the room then, the watering can forgotten as she plops down onto the couch with one of her many notebooks. I’ll have to see to the rest of the plants later. She props her feet up on the coffee table and begins to write as I make my way towards her.
“Alright, well, your aunt is now back, so I’ll get going.”
“It was very nice meeting you, Winnie.”
“We didn’t actually meet,” I say, correcting him.
“But it sort of feels like we did.”
I find myself grinning once more and shift away so Juliette won’t notice. “I guess it does,” I admit. “Bye, Liam.”
“Goodbye, Winnie.” I pivot back around and hand the phone over. Juliette looks at me with a mischievous sort of smirk as I shake my head and step away to hang my bag in the entryway closet.
“Hello again. Did you enjoy your chat with Winnie?” She raises her voice just enough so I continue to hear her. “Yes, she’s exceedingly bright and even more so when you see her in person. Everyone adores her. She has a level of relatability that I wasn’t born with.”
I roll my eyes and close the closet door with a loud thud.
“Okay, I’ll see you tomorrow. And let me give you Winnie’s number in case you can’t reach me.” I immediately power walk back into the living room and gestureno. I don’t just give out my phone number, even to a charming British guy with a seemingly good sense of humor.
“You know what, I’ll text it to you. It’ll be easier. Yes. No, I know she says she’s not coming, but she’s probably coming.” She pauses then, begrudgingly listening. “I’m not bullying her, Liam. I’m trying to steer her in the right direction.” She withstands another unhappy pause. “Okay, well, you’re breaking up, so I can’t quite hear you. I’ll see you tomorrow. Bye, darling!”
She hangs up the phone and quickly rolls into a text, deftly moving her fingers across the touch screen.
“You really don’t need to give him my number,” I say, not even trying to disguise the underlying frustration in my voice.
“It’s fine. If you come on the trip, he’ll need it. If you don’t, he won’t use it. I’m texting you his number, too.”
I step over to the side table once again, this time picking up Juliette’s Earl Grey tea with milk. I sit down next to her on the couch and hand it over.
“I got an email from your contractor last night. He says if you still want to make those bathroom renovations, he can give you an updated estimate. Also, I heard from Cindy at the Women in Theater Foundation, and they want to know if you’ll host another webinar. If you’re open to it, they’d love for your talks to become a monthly or bimonthly thing.”
Juliette takes a sip of her tea before placing the cup onto the coffee table. “No to the renovations, yes to the webinar or webinars. I’ll do it as soon as I get back.”
“Sounds good.” I pull my phone out of my back pocket and program a reminder into my ever-growing to-do list. “They said they want you to focus more on the process of getting a play produced this time. Like a how-to type of thing rather than the basics of playwriting.”
“Fantastic,” she says in an ironic kind of way. “Maybe I can dig up a memory from one of my past lives where I was actually successful.”
“Youaresuccessful, Juliette. You’re arguably the most successful female playwright of your generation.”
“Right,” she says, smiling as she seems to remember better days and then frowning when she realizes she’s not still living in them.
Juliette hasn’t written a new piece in eight years but keeps herself busy with speaking engagements and guest lectures. She shines in them, too, until someone asks what she’s currently working on, and then she deflates. It only lasts a moment, but it’s always there. After that, she throws them off with a witty comment that garners a laugh and makes her escape, leaving people thinking that she justhasto be working on her next masterpiece, because how can someone as brilliant and charming as her not be? I often wonder the same thing.
I look over at her now and see that flash of vulnerability. That split second when her formidable exterior fades enough to reveal the insecure writer who isn’t so very different from me. She slumps deeper into the couch and leans her head back against the cushions, looking up at the ceiling before turning to catch my gaze.
“I need you to come on this trip with me, kid.” Her doe eyes dig into mine, even through the thick lenses of her glasses. “I haven’t restaged a play of mine in forever, and I need you there to support me.”
