Chapter 5
Monty
Monty woke up from his nap feeling better than he had that morning. He glanced at the clock on his bedside table and was relieved to note that it was still early afternoon. He got out of bed and went back downstairs. He stared at the script on the coffee table for a long moment.
Then, he moved it from one side of the table to another and began collecting the empty glasses. He brought them to the kitchen and went about cleaning everything he and Hilliard had used the night before: glasses, frying pan, plates, forks, a cheese grater—he stared at that one before setting it on the drying rack. When had he bought a cheese grater? And when had he bought the cheese Hilliard had used it on?
With that in mind, Monty pulled the cheese back out of the refrigerator, sliced a sizable chunk off the end, and put a piece of bread in the toaster. Toast and cheese wasn’t exactly the square meal Hilliard had suggested, but it was close enough. He munched on his snack as he leaned against the kitchen counter, pleased that he could check off the three things that had been asked of him.
After the toast and cheese were eaten, he continued with his task, drying everything and putting it away before wiping down the table and the counters.
When he went back out to the living room and began putting all of the bottles away and wiping surfaces there too, he realized that he was decidedly procrastinating. The heavy feeling of guilt settled in his gut. It was evident that Hilliard’s real request had been that he read the damn script. But…he just couldn’t bring himself to do it. As he continued his journey of cleaning up his house, he carefully prodded at his aversion to doing such a seemingly simple thing. By the time he’d fluffed every single pillow in the living room, he realized that there was a small, silly part of him that hoped he’d get the musical after all. That if he held out long enough, Ezra would change their mind. He knew it was an absurd thing to hope for, but that didn’t stop his stomach from clenching at the thought of giving in and reading the script.
When the phone rang, he hurried to answer it. But it wasn’t Ezra proclaiming they had seen the error of their ways; it was Hilliard inviting him to dinner.
Monty stifled the feeling of disappointment that welled up inside him and accepted the invitation. Being out of the house would give him an excuse to not read the script, at least. Besides, Hilliard was an excellent cook and always good company. Determined to not disappoint his friend any more than he already had, Monty didn’t drink a single drop of liquor as he got ready to go.
When he showed up at Hilliard’s house in his roadster, the sight of the lit windows soothed some of the ache that he’d been trying to ignore. He sat in the car and gripped the steering wheel. He was going to be in a movie with Hilliard. It was going to be all right. He’d prove that he had the chops to do what was asked of him, and then he’d get put on another musical. Maybe he’d even get put in Jesse Morgan’s next film. It wouldn’t be as noteworthy as being in his first film, of course, but he could still benefit from the discovery if he was clever about it.
Thus cheered, he got out of the car and let himself into the house. Henrietta greeted him at the door, hopping and barking around his feet. He laughed and scooped her up, planting a kiss on the top of her head and holding her a safe distance away so she couldn’t return the favor by licking his face.
Hilliard entered the room, wearing an apron with yellow and white stripes over his peach shirt. “How are you feeling?”
“Better, thank you.”
Hilliard gave him an assessing once-over. “Yes, you seem better. You took my advice?”
“Mostly,” Monty hedged.
Hilliard nodded in satisfaction and led the way into the kitchen. Monty’s own kitchen was the most comfortable room in his house, or at least, the least lonely. But Hilliard’s kitchen was the heart of the place. He had plants on the windowsill, needlepoint on the walls, and a small bed for Henrietta beside the refrigerator. The kitchen was always warm and comforting, and Monty let the familiarity of it wash over him as he placed Henrietta in her little bed.
“Anything I can do to help?”
“Sure. Care to zest a lemon for me?”
Monty took the proffered zester and lemon and got to work. Hilliard turned the radio up a notch and they listened to the classical music station that Hilliard preferred as they worked in companionable silence. Not as adroit around the kitchen, Monty zested the lemon carefully, anxious about getting his fingers caught in the tiny blades. Hilliard didn’t seem to mind his slow pace. He puttered around the kitchen, stirring things on the stove, checking inside the oven, and occasionally glancing over Monty’s shoulder to say, “you’re doing fine, doll.”
Once the lemon was fully zested, Hilliard whisked the bowl away and poured oil, vinegar, and spices into it, dipping the tip of his pinky finger into the mixture to taste test as he went. Monty leaned against the counter and watched. When they’d first become friends, Monty had wondered if Hilliard’s magic lay in his talent in the kitchen; watching him cook was like watching a dancer on stage as he glided seamlessly from one task to the next.
Finally, Hilliard pronounced himself satisfied and handed Monty plates to carry out to the dining room. A vase of fresh flowers adorned the center of the table.
Monty took his usual seat and looked around at the array of food: a salad with the lemon vinaigrette he’d helped to make, roasted chicken and potatoes, and a creamy sauce filled with herbs that Monty could only guess at. His mouth watered as he took it all in.
“Some wine, darlin’?”
“Ye—that is, no, thank you. I’d better not.”
Hilliard’s smile was full of understanding. “Some iced tea then?”
“Sure. Thanks.”
Hilliard returned with two tall glasses, frosty from ice. Then he took his seat opposite Monty and began serving them both. Henrietta moved to Monty’s shoes as her choice of napping location, although Monty suspected the placement was out of hope that he’d drop something for her to nibble.
The music from the radio was still drifting from the kitchen, filling the silence as they ate. When he was finally full, Monty leaned back in his seat and took a long sip of his drink.
“Did you read the script?”
Monty gulped his swallow of tea down audibly, caught with no choice but to be honest. “No, I didn’t. I’m sorry.”
