Play On (Play On 1)

“Begin!” our director demanded.

Derek, who was playing Clown, strode onstage with Olivia and Malvolio.

“‘Wit, and’t be they will …’”

I let them drift off in the background, trying to read my notes again when Quentin pulled me out of my concentration. “It’s your debut line, Malvolio.”

“I can’t remember it,” Terence said, giving him a boyish smile. His eyes flew past his boyfriend to me. “Perhaps Nora knows it.”

“How can you not remember your first line?” Quentin asked.

He did remember it. He was just being annoying. “C’mon, Nora. Show off. I bet you know every line in this play.”

“As impressive as that would be,” Quentin said, “we do not have time for this. Line!”

But Terence smirked at me, taunting me. I huffed, sure I could see smoke billowing out of Quentin’s ears. “‘Yes; and shall do, till the pangs of death shake him.’”

“Ah there, see!” Terence clapped and then gestured at me to continue. “Go on.”

I made a face. “Learn your own lines.”

“You’re all amateurs,” Quentin growled.

Jane made a face. “Well … yeah.”

“It’s kind of in the company name, darling.” Terence continued to grin unapologetically.

Our director muttered something but he was too far away for me to hear.

“Is it just me,” I lurched forward at the sound of Jack’s voice right behind me, “or are they all particularly annoying tonight?”

“I would include you in that,” I huffed, gesturing to his seat and then the stage. “When did you get there from up there?”

“While ye were staring at yer laptop pretending to work but secretly daydreaming about me.”

I sighed and turned back around. “I’m not going out with you, Jack.”

“I wasn’t going to ask again. At least not tonight.”

“You don’t want to date me. You’re… confused. No woman has ever said no before.”

“True, but it’s not just that. Ye’er a mystery, Nora O’Brien. I haven’t met a lot of those lately.”

“Too bad for you I don’t want to be solved.”

Quentin frowned over at us.

Jack leaned in closer so his mouth was near my ear. “What is it, then? Tragic past? Heartbroken one too many times?”

I pretended to look around. “What is that incessant buzzing noise?”

He chuckled. “Or maybe heartbroken the one time but it was enough to make ye gun shy.”

“I certainly won’t be handling your gun anytime soon.”

“Or maybe it’s daddy issues. I’ve dated women with those before. Is it? Is it daddy issues?”

I tensed, glaring sullenly at my screen. “My dad is dead.”

* * *

“I got all your letters,” Mom said the next morning. We sat at the breakfast counter in her beautiful New England-style kitchen. “I just didn’t feel like I deserved to read them, to be a part of your life, after the way I’d treated you. Back then I thought you deserved to be free of me.”

That wasn’t something I’d ever expected my mother to say.

But nothing about this trip home was going as expected.

After the news of my father’s death, we didn’t do much talking. At first, I cried and then I grew cold and words failed me as I processed the fact that my dad had been gone from this world for nearly a year and I’d had no idea.

Rather than continue the conversation about my letters, I let my anger lead me. “Is that why you didn’t contact me to tell me he’d died?”

“No, I wrote you about your dad. Sent it to the last address you wrote from but the letter came back unopened.”

Shit. “I moved.”

She nodded. “I thought so. I tried social media but I couldn’t find you.”

Because I’d deleted my Facebook account after Jim died.

Shit.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered, my anger dissipating.

“I figured I’d hear from you eventually.” She studied my naked ring finger. “Divorced?”

I flinched. “He died. Early last year.”

Horror filled my mother’s expression. “Nora … I am so sorry.”

Exhaling shakily, I said, “It’s been a crappy few years.” Then I caught sight of the photo of us I’d liked best—the one of my mom cuddling into Dad’s side and Dad holding me tight. I was about eight or nine in the picture. Mom had hung it near the kitchen door. “Did he hate me?”

“No,” she said instantly. “He blustered about it but I knew your father better than he thought I did and he was mad at himself. He blamed himself for driving you away. Didn’t make him any less mean. In fact, he only got worse.” She sighed. “I’m afraid to say that hardship did not bring out the best in your father.”

“I’m sorry for the way I left,” I said, looking her directly in the eye. “That’s what I came here to say. And to see if I’m forgiven for running away when you needed me.”

Mom’s brows pinched together. “There’s nothing to forgive. We were the ones who needed to be forgiven, Nora. I understand why you left. You were a smart, great kid and I made you think that you didn’t deserve to reach for something outside of this town. I was bitter. And I’d been bitter a long time and it wasn’t until you left us that I woke the hell up. Too little, too late.”

“You’re so different,” I mused, studying her, gratified to see her eyes were no longer dull and tired. “And this house …?”

Smirking at my unfinished question, she replied, “This was all your dad’s. The son of a bitch was sitting on money, Nora. Inheritance from his uncle who’d passed it to him ’cause he had no kids of his own. It was the money your dad used to set up his construction company. Money the sneaky bastard kept from his wife and invested well. Not to mention the fact that I found out from Kyle Trent at your dad’s goddamn funeral that he paid decent money for your dad’s company and the house but your dad asked him to keep it quiet from me.”

Shocked, I couldn’t quite comprehend what she was saying. “But why would he lie about it?”

And then realization hit me.

I could have gone to college.

“School,” I whispered.

Guilt filled my mother’s eyes. “I really thought we couldn’t afford it. If I’d known that we could send you to school and then some, I swear …” She shook her head. “I had a lot of anger toward your dad after he died and I came into all this money. He and I never had the greatest relationship and I knew the only way it would survive is if I worked all the damn time. I liked working. I liked being social. But I was bitter over losing our nice house and that my kid, who listened to her daddy fill her head with big dreams of an Ivy League education, was going to end up working jobs she hated. To realize he kept you from school, kept us all from comfort and security … I wanted to resurrect him just so I could kill him.”

I felt my own anger burning in my gut, along with incredible amounts of hurt. “I thought he loved me. Why would he lie?”

“He did love you. I think he was scared you’d go off to college and leave him alone with me. Irony was you ran off anyway.”

We sat in silence for a minute and then I looked around at the pretty kitchen. “So, you spent the money?”

“Building this was therapy. It helped me get over what he’d done.”

“It’s beautiful.”

“Thank you.” She sat back on her high-backed stool and said, “And you are welcome to stay here as long as you want. But you should know that I put money in an account for you, in case you came back.”

“Mom, you don’t have to give me money. I didn’t come here for that.”

“Of course you didn’t. But the money is yours.” She cocked her head to the side. “Did you ever make it to college?”

I shook my head.

She grinned. “Well, if you still want to, there’s enough money in that account to get you where you want to go and keep you there for four years.”