what most people would consider luxury.
Yet here she stood, ready to go inside this palatial building that Dennis Hamilton had purchased and apply for a no doubt poorly paying job. Her resume, such as it was, was tucked inside a three hundred dollar leather portfolio, as were recommendations from the presidents of the charities and hospitals for which she had done volunteer work for the past two decades.
Ironically, she had Terri to thank for showing her the advertisement. It had been in Backstage, and read:
WANTED: Clerical production assistant for New American Musical Theatre Project. Secretarial skills required. Apply Venetian Theatre, Kirkland Community Building, Kirkland, PA 17571.
'A little something to do in your copious free time,' Terri had said offhandedly. 'If you think you can keep from attacking the mogul who runs the joint.'
Ann had ignored the sarcasm, and had tossed the Backstage onto the coffee table of the den, trying to forget both the ad and Dennis Hamilton. But the sparse words in the tabloid haunted her for the rest of the day, and the following morning she called her colleagues in philanthropy and asked for references, which they were happy to provide, for Ann was unlike most of the society women who offered one or two hours a week to the local hospital or library or children's home. Her interest was heartfelt, and she gave not only of her money but her time. She had never worked less than twenty hours a week at her different charities, and her involvement was deep and often emotionally searing.
For three years she had been a lay counselor at a juvenile hospice, working with dying children for several hours three days a week, playing with them, listening to their fears and concerns, and comforting them as best she could. It was harrowing and rewarding work, and in no time she had earned the respect of both administrators and nurses by not only her emotional involvement, but by her willingness to do even such menial chores as cleaning up the younger children's toilet mishaps.
Besides the hospice, Ann had also volunteered her time to the YWCA, the local Blind Association, and several retirement communities, and had done secretarial work for a farmland conversation group, an act that did nothing to endear her to several of her friends, some of whose husbands happened to be developers.
When she asked herself why, after so many years of volunteer work, she should be considering taking a paying job, she told herself that it was not because the New American Musical Theatre Project had anything to do with Dennis Hamilton. Rather it was because she believed that the goals of the project were worthy. She and Eddie had made innumerable trips into Manhattan to see shows (she preferred plays, while Eddie had liked musicals), and she knew full well that American musical theatre was in the doldrums, if not in its death throes. The good musicals all seemed to be British, and although Ann thought most of the classic American works such as Rodgers and Hammerstein and Lerner and Loewe were often sloppily sentimental, she knew too that they had produced great songs and lasting stories, and she was damned if she could think of a single tune from, say, Sundays in the Park With George, as innovative as it was.
Too, Ann was interested in theatre from backstage. She had worked with her local little theatre group as assistant stage manager, props person, and costume assistant over the years, and had even directed a production of The Importance of Being Earnest in 1982, which was well reviewed in the local paper. The experience, however, had left her shaken, and she had never wanted to direct again. The clash of personalities, as well as the backbiting and pettiness that seemed to be part and parcel of even an amateur group, strengthened her resolve to remain backstage rather than onstage, as far away from the actors as possible.
So, she felt, with her own interest and involvement in theatre and the worthiness of Dennis Hamilton's project, it made sense for her to pursue this new possibility. After all, Kirkland was only forty miles away – an hour's drive at most.
Ann looked at the building again, at the classical fa c ade of light gray limestone. Higher, beneath the roof lines, were ornate moldings of grapevines from which peered faces of mythological deities, and above, the red Roman tiles of the multi-leveled roof on whose corners perched occasional gargoyles, carved in unexpectedly benign and reflective poses. There was money, she thought, and there was money. She had the former, while Dennis Hamilton had the latter. Not for a minute did she begrudge it of him. He had worked hard – that much she had known years before when they had first met – and over those years he had entertained millions, brought a story of love and fidelity and honor into lives that often knew those things in no other way.
No, she thought, Dennis Hamilton deserved his money, his theatre, deserved everything he had. And Ann Deems would have felt that way even if she had not still loved him.
She had taken a deep breath then and started across the parking lot, and now here she was, sitting in the office of John Steinberg, the same man she had seen on Entertainment Tonight only a few weeks before. Donna Franklin had excused herself and left. Steinberg had been, for the last five minutes, looking over her file of papers. At last he glanced up, and Ann was relieved to see that he was smiling.
'This looks very good,' he told her, aligning the papers in the same way that Donna Franklin had done before. 'Your secretarial skills are certainly up to what we'd need – at least for this job. And you do have some experience in theatre.'
' Little theatre,' Ann reminded him.
Steinberg waved a hand airily. 'The only difference is that the egos are larger here.'
Heaven help you, Ann thought.
'Why do you want a job like this, though? You certainly don't need it, do you? I don't mean to pry, but I consider myself an excellent judge of wardrobe and jewelry, as well as character, and you don't appear to me to be a woman used to working for five dollars an hour.'
'As I told Miss Franklin, the money's of little consequence. I'm recently widowed, and I'd simply like a full time job to help fill the days.'
'Why not do what other bored, wealthy women, widowed or not, do? Open a shop and sell something that interests you.'
'Selling things doesn't interest me at all.'
'But filling out pension and welfare forms does?'
'I believe it might. I won't know unless I try.'
'And if it doesn't, then you leave us in the lurch.'
'No, Mr. Steinberg. I finish what I start. This job is scheduled to last through next summer. If you hire me, I promise you I'll be here until the end.”
“Barring acts of God and, the same gentleman forbid, death.'
Ann smiled. 'Of course.'
Steinberg leaned back and crossed his arms. He sat that way for a moment, and then, in a movement whose quickness startled Ann, he leaned forward across his desk, his arm out, hand extended toward her. 'We'll take a chance on you,' he said.
She nodded, took the offered hand, and shook it. 'Thank you.'
'And now,' said Steinberg, standing up, 'let's go meet Dennis.'
'Meet… Dennis Hamilton?' The muscles in Ann's legs tingled, but she made herself stand on them nonetheless.
'Yes. He's been damned gloomy lately, and I think meeting an attractive new production assistant would do him a world of good. Besides, far better this way than to have him stumble over you in the balcony, yes?' Steinberg opened the door to the outer office. 'Donna,' he said, 'tell Dennis I'm bringing someone up to meet him.' He turned back to Ann. 'Have you seen the theatre?'
'Just the lobby on my way in. I came to a lot of movies here when I was in school, though. It was quite beautiful.'
'It still is. Donna can give you the grand tour later. Now, onward and upward.' They walked down the hall side by side. Halfway up the staircase to the third floor, Ann cleared her throat. 'I've, uh, met Mr. Hamilton before.'
There was, she was afraid, something in her voice that implied secrets, and Steinberg slowed, then stopped and leaned against the railing. 'Really. And where was this?'
'Oh, it was a long time ago. Back when his first show played here. I was working in the hotel that housed the cast. In the restaurant.'
'I see. Well, in that case, you've known Dennis longer than I have. What am I introducing you for?'
