“These are lovely,” she said, flicking a petal as she walked by. Scarlett watched with revulsion as Spencer’s gaze followed her along.
There was a palpable tension around the dining room table, not entirely caused by the blackened pizza. Lola was still miffed over some imagined offense. Marlene was annoyed in general because of Chip. Scarlett was sick for several different reasons. Mrs. Amberson was fidgeting in her seat.
“You know,” she said, “I would just kill for a drink. I’m not sure if that’s possible, but…”
“We don’t have a bar license,” Scarlett’s dad said. “But you’re our family guest for dinner. I’ll just make you whatever you’d like.”
“A double whiskey would be lovely,” she said with her most toothpastey smile. “It’s a bit heavy for summer, but it’s made with whole grains, and that’s what counts. It’s a celebration today, after all. The show is about to open! Just two more days!”
“Is the show going well?” her mom asked, chopping ineffectually at the pizza with a butcher’s knife. “Can we expect some tickets?”
“Of course!” Mrs. Amberson said. “Of course! Best seats in the house for all of you! Spencer does a wonderful job. He’s absolutely a star.”
Scarlett’s father returned from the kitchen with a bottle of whiskey and a glass of ice. Mrs. Amberson dumped the ice into her water and poured herself what looked like a serious amount of straight alcohol, which she downed with alarming speed.
Spencer kicked Scarlett under the table, but she couldn’t watch. This didn’t bode well.
“You must have been thirsty,” her dad said, trying not to look at the empty glass.
“Oh, just one of those days!” she said. “But, yes. Spencer is quite a performer. How do you feel about it, Spencer?”
“Like I’m on top of the world,” he said, watching her closely. “Like that guy from Titanic. But less dead.”
She laughed a truly silverware-rumbling laugh that made all six Martins lean back in their chairs.
“Mind if I have another?” she asked, plucking the rejected ice cubes back out of the water. “Just a small one. Little chaser.”
Another whiskey slid to its death. Scarlett was officially terrified. The Donna news had evidently sunk in.
“I knew a wonderful young actor once,” Mrs. Amberson said, setting down the glass. “God, it was a while ago. He was a musical-theater performer. His family was Italian. They run a restaurant in Queens, as a matter of fact. That’s where I learned about good pizza.”
She smiled at the untouched slab of carbonized dairy and wheat product on her plate.
“He could dance,” she went on, “but he was really a singer. You could feel that when he was performing—he didn’t just want other people to see him and clap for him, he really wanted people to be entertained. And they were. That’s what the best actors are like. I think you’ve got that, Spencer. Cheers to good actors.”
She raised her half-empty glass.
“Does your friend still perform?” Scarlett’s mom asked.
“Oh, yes,” Mrs. Amberson said. “He’s quite successful. Haven’t seen him in years, though. He lives in Hollywood.”
“That sounds promising.”
Mrs. Amberson stood, slightly unsteadily.
“If you’ll excuse me,” she said. “Thank you for the lovely meal, but I have to be off. Spencer…no late night tonight! We head out at eight in the morning, on the dot!”
Mrs. Amberson’s behavior shortened the dinner a bit. As everyone scattered and Spencer and Scarlett gathered the dishes, she took his arm.
“I’m coming with you tomorrow,” she said.
“Scarlett,” he said. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”
Whatever had happened with Eric, whatever she felt…something much bigger was going on now. Something he didn’t know about. Something he wouldn’t have even wanted to know about.
“I am coming with you,” she repeated.
SOMETHING IS ROTTEN IN DENMARK
The parking garage was a multistoried one, a winding concrete mess, overlooking an East Village street. The stage was being set up on the second level for the first part of the show, then the audience would be moved up to the open air on the third level for the big final act. Every part of the garage was being used, so there was commotion and equipment everywhere. The whole cast had been hard at work for hours.
Scarlett made it a point to stick close to Spencer, or it could have been Spencer making a point to stick by her. It was difficult to tell. There was a magnetic connection going on no matter what, probably in their mutual interest to avoid more heartbreak and scenes of violence. At the moment, all she could see of him were his feet. The rest of him was underneath the half-assembled stage with a drill, tightening a support. She sat next to him, supporting a light so he could see what he was doing. From here, she had a perfect view of Eric across the way. He was lifting lights out of the back of a van. He was wearing one of his tighter T-shirts.
She dug her fingers into her leg as hard as she could.