Secrets of the Morning (Cutler 2)

My eyes drifted to our little Christmas tree. All decorated and lit up, it looked beautiful, warm, and very precious, but with Michael passed out on the couch, it looked as sad and as alone and disappointed as I was. Michael hadn't even noticed it. He had hardly even noticed me!

I rose slowly and turned the lights off on the tree. I took one more look at Michael. He was snoring. I put out the lights in the living room and then retreated to Michael's bedroom to fall asleep alone.

Michael was up before I was. I felt him sit on the bed and I fluttered my eyelids open just as he touched my face.

"Michael. What time is it?"

He was still wearing the clothes he had worn the night before. His shirt was open and his hair was wild, the strands going every which way. He yawned and shook his head.

"It's early. I'm sorry, Dawn," he said. "I'm sure I must have been some mess last night. I don't even remember falling asleep on the couch, or your getting me a blanket. I was what they call . . . blotto drunk."

I ground the sleep out of my eyes and sat up quickly.

"Where were you? What happened? Why did you get so drunk?"

"It was a celebration of sorts. I tried to leave them, but everyone insisted I go along. I was the life of the party, you see, the center of attraction. We had to wine and dine these investors, who paid for everything. The champagne flowed all night." He stretched and yawned again.

"But where were you?"

"Where was I? Let's see," he said, thinking as if it were a major question on a math exam or something. "Where was I? Well, first we were at this producer's office. Then we all went to dinner at Sardi's. After that, we started to hit nigh

tclub row. I should recall one or two places, but they all seem to run together in my mind now."

He sighed and bowed his head into his cradling hands.

"Who was with you?"

"Who was with me?" He looked up, thought and then shrugged. "Some of the production people and the investors."

"Was that red-haired woman there too?" I asked.

"Red-haired woman? Oh, no, no," he said. "There was no red-haired woman. Well, I'd better get into the shower. I feel like last week's pot roast. I'm sorry," he repeated and leaned over to drop a quick kiss on my cheek. "Thank you for looking after me."

He rose like a cat, undulating and stretching. I lay back on my pillow and watched him undress and go to take a shower. Was he lying to me, I wondered, or were those red hairs on his jacket there from some previous time, maybe one of the times he had to escort the wife of his friend? I just couldn't believe he would lie to me. He loved me too much to hurt me.

I got up and went to the kitchen to put up our coffee and prepare some breakfast. When Michael appeared, he was bright and fresh, his hair neatly brushed. He wore a light blue, silk robe.

"Um, that smells good," he said, coming up behind me to embrace me. "I'm really sorry about last night," he repeated. "Everyone was so excited about the new show, it was hard not to celebrate." He kissed me on the back of the neck.

"Then it all went well?"

"Yes. You will soon hear and read about Michael Sutton opening on Broadway," he said proudly. I spun around in his arms.

"Oh Michael, how wonderful for you. You're right: that is very exciting. I only wish I could have been with you to celebrate last night."

"We'll celebrate tonight," he said. "We will take a cab to a small, out-of-the-way Italian restaurant I know in Brooklyn. No one will notice us there, but the food is great."

"But Michael, do you think we should? If someone should see us . . ."

"No one will. How sweet of you to be so concerned for me," he said. "Now, let me go look at the Christmas tree." He took my hand and we went into the living room. I turned on the tree lights. "Magnificent," Michael said. "On Christmas Eve you and I will roast chestnuts in the fireplace and drink eggnog and make love right beside the little tree. Our tree," he added, putting his arm around my shoulders and drawing me to him. "My little diva," he said again and kissed me gently on the lips.

"But for now," he said, snapping back, "I'm starving. Let's have breakfast."

The rest of the day went by quickly. Michael left to do some shopping. The telephone rang twice, but I didn't answer it. When I had first arrived, Michael had pointed out that if I did, someone would know I was at the apartment and that would lead to questions.

"And questions," he had said with raised eyebrows, "lead to answers we're not ready to give just yet."

When he returned in the afternoon, he had an armful of packages wrapped in holiday paper.