Premiere: A Love Story (28 page)

April Everoad looked up. One soiled garden glove raised to shade her eyes as she looked toward the patio. Even from a distance she looked different. Mrs. Everoad was the epitome of class and elegance; at least she had been before her husband passed away. Even on her off days, and there had been many over the years, she was stunning. Honey-blonde hair, always in a bob right below her ears, and green-blue hazel eyes. She was a “head turner” as Peter’s father would always brag when they were kids and the parents were going out for the evening. “I’ll have to fight them off,” he’d say with a thundering laugh, and he was right. April Everode was a beautiful woman, but as she approached in her hot pink gardening clogs and rolled chambray pants Sam had never seen her more lovely.

Sam met her at the top of the stairs. April reached out to pat her on the shoulder. Sam looked at her slightly older face, void of all makeup, and she grabbed her. Consumed with emotion, Sam did what she thought she should have done, what they all should have done, years ago. She hugged her. It was sudden and pretty tight. April began to laugh.

“My goodness, dear. It hasn’t been that long.”

She held Sam’s shoulders and gently pushed her back. Sam smiled.

“Samantha, now cut that out. What the Dickens has gotten in to you? Just because I’m sober, don’t start thinking we’re friends.”

After a minute where Sam was stunned by her candor, they both laughed.

“I’m sure my busybody housekeeper told you that I’ve stopped drinking.”

Sam nodded and let her continue.

“Well, it’s true. Peter checked me into a great place. I became incredibly tired of feeling sorry for myself, so . . .”

“Mrs. Everoad, you don’t . . .”

“No, dear. I do. I wanted to apologize for, well for everything that’s happened since, since my husband decided to leave us. It’s part of my steps, you see. I need to own my mistakes. I sort of like that idea, so I’ve been moving down my list. So, Samantha dear, I’ve made more than a few parties uncomfortable for you and Peter’s friends. I’m sure there were plenty of times I wasn’t nice to you. I can’t promise I’ll always be nice going forward, but at least you’ll know it’s me and not the booze.”

They both laughed.

“Really, you don’t need to apologize to me.”

April Everoad’s face grew serious.

“Oh, but I do. I’m sorry Samantha, I truly am. I’m afraid I haven’t been much use to anyone for the past few years, and I’m afraid my son . . .”

“Mom? Vivvie, where is she?”

Sam froze as the French doors rattled and Peter’s voice got louder. Then like a child playing a game, Sam ducked down.

“Mrs. Everoad, please, I’m so glad you are well, but I do not want to be here if Peter . . .”

Sam looked toward the doors and back at April.

“Sam, it’s only Peter . . .”

“No!”

She couldn’t be polite about this. Her heart was pounding; she could not be there. April must have seen it all over Sam’s face because she took her arm and walked her toward the doors as Peter came out to the patio. He froze at the sight of Sam. He hadn’t seen her in weeks, and she hadn’t called. He threw himself into work, told himself he was doing fine, and then he looked at her, and the air crackled. Peter tried to steady himself, be casual, anything other than pathetically heartbroken, but nothing worked. He wanted her more than his next breath.

“Peter, I didn’t expect you, thought you were at rehearsals. I’m showing Sam out. There’s tea if you want some. I’ll only be a minute.”

Peter said nothing as April rushed past with Sam. Sam’s eyes betrayed her and she glanced at him. She looked away quickly and headed straight for the front door.

“Poor thing, looked struck dumb,” April said with a little chuckle.

Sam tried to smile politely, but found nothing funny about the look on Peter’s face. April kissed her on her cheek and took her hands.

“I’m not sure what happened, the two of you seemed like things were finally working out. A touch stupid that you broke his heart right when he was getting his act together, but I know that boy can be a handful,” she said on a sigh.

Again, Sam was struck by the new and improved Mrs. Everoad. She liked the direct, cold water on the situation. Maybe she was right. Seeing Peter now, Sam felt pretty stupid, but what was done was done.

“I’ll let you go, dear. Thank you so much for coming by, and I’m sorry our visit was cut short.”

“That’s fine. I’m sorry, I can’t stay,” Sam replied, fighting back the lump in her throat.

This was so ridiculous, she thought, running from Peter. How sad things had become. Sam turned to leave, but April held her arm.

“I’m sorry too, Sam.”

With those words, April gave her one last squeeze and turned into the house. The apology was layered with years of regret. Sam felt nothing but pain as she walked out and closed the door.

April walked out to the patio, found her son sitting at the round teak table. She sat next to him and watched as he tried to pretend away all of his feelings for Sam.

“Mom, what the hell is . . . wow, you look great,” he said, finally making eye contact.

He laughed.

“Nice hat.”

“Don’t make fun of your mother. I was on a gardening roll before you showed up. I’ve fertilized the rose bushes and the lilies are trimmed. I’m thinking of putting in a succulent garden, what are your thoughts on succulents?”

She took her hat off, set it on the table, and fluffed her hair.

“I can’t say that I have any thoughts on succulents, Mom,” Peter said looking out over the grounds.

“Don’t you have gardeners for this?”

“I do, Mr. Smarty Pants, but I want to get my hands dirty. I want to, I want to do this myself,” she said, taking the tea Peter finished pouring.

“I’m having fun. I haven’t had fun in an eternity. You’re supposed to be at the theater. Why are you here?”

“I was in town for lunch and I ran into two of the little hens you used to hang out with, Sissy and Mrs. Fleming. They said you all played bridge yesterday and you looked, and I quote, ‘super fantabulous.’”

His mimicking and sarcasm were thick. There were reasons Peter was in the theater.

“Okay, so you came home to tell me . . .”

“Is it true? Were you honestly in the hen house with . . .”

“My friends? Are you asking me if I played bridge with my old friends? Yes, the answer is yes, and we had the most . . .”

“Mom, don’t you think it’s a little soon to be back in the swing of things? Don’t they drink mimosas when you play bridge? Why would you, Christ, Mom, you’ve only been home a week. You’re starting to feel better and you . . .”

“I’ll ask you not to use that tone of voice with me, young man. Please remember who you are talking to.”

April threw her small yellow napkin on the table. Peter was well aware that gesture meant his mother was pissed. He braced himself as his five-foot-two mother in pink garden clogs rose from the table.

“Mom, you can’t possibly blame me for worrying about this, you need to start fresh and get . . .”

“Is that what I need, Peter?”

She put her hands on her hips.

“Oh honey, you don’t even know what you need. You’re going to tell me what I need too? I will have you know that my friends no longer drink mimosas when we play bridge, at least not for now. They care about me, so we drink tea.”

Peter raked his hands through his hair.

“I only want you to be careful. It’s a long road and some of these people are the problem, Mom.”

April leaned toward her son and prepared for battle.
When did my son become such an elitist,
she thought.

“Some of these people? All of these people are my friends. They made me casseroles and checked in on us when your father, your wonderful, fabulous, could-do-no-wrong father upped and killed himself.”

Her face was red now.

“These people made sure your sister got to ballet when I was too drunk to take her. All of these people will be filling that theater this weekend to support your play.”

Peter sat back in the cushioned chair and shook his head.

“Mom, please, you know what I mean. Remember what the counselor said, it’s easy to fall into old habits, you’re a product of your . . .”

“Peter Alexander, for a smart boy, you are so, so oblivious. Was I really too drunk to see how self-righteous you’ve become? They teach you that in New York?”

She had never been this honest with him.

“All these people, Mr. Perfect, they love you. When are you going to stop this? It’s my fault that I’ve been drunk for the last . . . Christ, eight years!”

Her voice was raised and Peter started to play with his spoon.

“It’s not their fault. For God’s sake, now that I can see things through clearer eyes, Peter, stop running.”

At that, Peter looked up at her, and she took his hand. The jolt of warmth hit something inside of him, it felt like a craving he’d had for years. His mother’s affection, acknowledgement, anything, that’s what he needed when his father died, and she never delivered. Looking at her now, he felt certain that she simply hadn’t known how.

“You know Pete, your father loved you so much, and I adored him, but he left us. He made that choice. This neighborhood, our circle, is not responsible. I’m not to blame and neither are you. He loved it here and wanted to make a life for us. We lost him somewhere along the way but stop trying to undo everything we’ve built here.”

“Mom,” he took her hands, and she sat down, “I’m not trying to undo anything. I live in New York now. I was asked to come home and put on this play. I’m helping, I just have a hard time being here. I don’t understand why he left, so maybe in the past I’ve blamed you or this place.”

“I’m not perfect, and I’ve stumbled more times than I can count, but I lost the only man I’ve ever loved. The sunlight is a little dimmer now, and nothing will ever be the same. Cut me a break. I’m trying to piece myself back together. I know I’ve hurt you, embarrassed you, but there’s no handbook on this stuff. Things turned ugly, but I,” she touched his face and continued, “I love you and your sister so much. There are no words. Love’s that way. A person can get sick with love. Your father, oh, I was so weak for that man, and then he was gone. Maybe I pulled back from you and your sister because my heart couldn’t take it, but, I’m here, I’m repairing myself, and we’ll be fine.”

Peter pushed away from the table, stood, and looked out over the yard. April could see the pain in his eyes and she knew so much of it was hers to heal. She had struck a chord, but Peter was not about reality since his father left. He needed someone to be the bad guy. He needed a villain. If there was no evildoer, well, that simply meant things were unfair or his father gave up. So Peter dealt in the abstract, kept it loose. That way he never had to really put himself out there.

“You need to stop judging everyone and assuming they’re judging you. This is your home, these are your roots.”

Peter stared straight ahead, cursing himself for stopping by. He saw this going differently in his mind when he had stormed in to talk with his mother.

“So how are you going to get her back?”

Peter’s head snapped to look at her.
Shit,
he thought,
things just got worse.

“I mean I hope you’ve got a plan because she seems pretty content to leave your ass in the dirt. I can’t say that I blame her, you’re a slippery one. You really need to work on that.”

Peter laughed, he couldn’t help it. His mother was giving him advice, putting him in his place.
Well, this was rich.

“Mom, I’m not slippery. I was working on a plan. Christ, I came back for her, and things were fine, but then she can’t get over what happened. She thinks I’m self-centered, that I’ll leave.”

“And what exactly have you done to show her she’s wrong?”

Peter fumbled, it was a simple question, but he didn’t have one answer. What had he done to prove her wrong? Well, he flew to New York without talking to her first. That was a brilliant move.

“I’m not sure.”

“You’re not sure. That’s a ridiculous answer. You know what your father would say, don’t you?”

Peter was pretty sure this was the first time his mother had ever casually mentioned his father since he died. He was really going to have to get used to this new April Everoad.

“He’d tell you exactly what he used to tell you before all those talent shows you put on. He’d sit you down and say, ‘Sure, this is going to be a challenge, but everything can be accomplished with a plan. You need to know your end game, son.’”

April laughed, “Oh, remember that. He was like some coach in a movie, and you would sit on that couch and look at him like he had all the answers.”

She was lost in her memory, and when she turned to Peter he was silent, looking out over the garden, and tears were streaming down his face.

She turned and wrapped her arms around him. It was like a dam broke somewhere. His mother held such sadness and love for him at the same time. Peter sobbed, and they both stood holding on to each other. The ache in Peter’s heart was soothed by her honesty and the memory of his father. He hugged her tightly and felt like he was giving her something back too. How long had she gone without feeling, without really noticing, her children’s hugs?

Peter sighed and quickly wiped his tears. He still had one arm around her as they walked into the house.

“It’s good to have you back, Mom.”

“Yeah, well you better fix this thing with Samantha and give me grandchildren. All this drama may drive me back to the bottle.”

Peter laughed and heard his father’s voice, “What’s your end game, son?”

Chapter Thirty-Two

S
am got out of the shower and dried off. She felt beaten up. She had decided last week after leaving the Everoad house that even if it was too late for her and Peter, Peter’s mom was sober, his sister was happily married, and somehow Sam knew Peter would be all right. He would go back to New York and find some lesser-than version of happiness, and she would find the same. She was resolved, but she was still crying.

Last night had been difficult because Sam and Henry had been dining at the Raymond when Peter walked in with Spencer and Julie. He’d acknowledged them and shaken Henry’s hand. Julie and Spencer even made small talk with Sam. They asked how she was feeling since the accident, told her they were excited and ready for the premiere, and that they both missed her. They finally took a table, Peter looked up at her a couple of times while they were eating, and when she couldn’t take it any more, Sam pleaded with Henry to take her home. It was all perfectly civil, perfectly distant, and completely awful. Sam fell asleep on the couch watching
Some Kind of Wonderful.
It was in her Netflix queue; she couldn’t resist torturing herself a bit further.