Samantha Cathner liked understated. She appreciated it.
Certainly she believed it was better to be a quiet
surprise than a loud letdown. For this reason, and many
others, the Norton Simon Museum spoke to her. She arrived
early to double-check everything for the fundraiser. The
Norton Simon was a special venue, part of the
neighborhood. The famous umber-tiled exterior walls and
the beautiful grounds blended well with the rest of
Pasadena. It was simple and yet able to hold its own
among the most sophisticated houses of art, even stacking
up to The Getty.
Streamlined but welcoming, that’s what she had pitched to
the board, and as Sam approached the main exhibit hall,
she was confident they had achieved just that. The
charcoal table linens worked to bring weight and warmth
to the room. Deception, a magnificent bronze statue of an
actor holding a mask, sat center stage in the cocktail
area. Servers were filling simple hand-blown champagne
flutes and placing them on muted pewter serving trays.
The museum did not normally host private functions, but
they tried to accommodate at least one fundraiser a year
for the Pasadena Playhouse. Pasadena had a very tight-
knit arts community. Everyone worked to hold each other
up during lean years. It was almost seven o’clock. A
large crowd was expected.
Sam spotted her parents near the bar as the guests
arrived and began mingling. Jack Cathner cut a large,
engaging figure with his salt-and-pepper hair, a nose
that sort of bulbed up more on one side than the other,
and booming voice. He had recently put on some weight.
Sam thought it looked good on him–and so did her mother–
but his incessant tugging at the front of his jacket was
obviously driving Susan Cathner crazy because she swatted
at him again.
“Stop pulling at it.”
“I feel like I’m going to bust out of this damn thing.
Maybe if I unbutton the top one.” His wife’s look was
enough to stop Jack. Her kiss on his cheek brought a
smile to his face.
“You look wonderful. Stop and enjoy the evening.”
“What do you make of that statue we passed on the way in?
Male? Female? Unless I’m slipping, those are breasts,
right?”
“It’s bronze, I think it’s the material that makes the
chest look larger. That’s a male,” Susan said, looking
again at the sculpture.
Sam stood quietly next to her father, enjoying their
conversation.
“Sam, do I look like I’m busting out of this tux?”
“No, you look great, and the statue is neither male nor
female. It’s abstract, asexual. It represents humans,
male and female.”
Her parents looked at her and then back at the statue.
Jack rolled his eyes. He understood creativity, but he
would never understand eccentricity.
“Beautiful dress, honey. This whole event is stunning.
Margaret and the rest of the bridge club are setting up
the silent auction. Do you need help explaining the
auction as people arrive?”
Sam looked toward the front of the museum. “No, the
volunteers are here, and they’ll cover that. Mom, you’re
here to enjoy.”
“So what does that make the statue, I mean if someone
asks, what do I say?” her father asked.
“I doubt anyone’s going to ask you, Dad, but stick with
abstract, okay?” Sam patted her father on the shoulder
and turned to order a drink.
Her skin knew he was there before her mind had a chance
to catch up. Even after all this time, all these years,
he could still change the air she lived in.
“Well, look who’s here. Peter, my boy, how are you?” her
father boomed, extending his hand.
“I’m good, Mr. C. It’s good to see you both.” Peter shook
hands and kissed Susan Cathner on the cheek. “Mrs. C, you
look fantastic.”
“Thank you, Peter. Are they taking care of you in the big
city? We can’t thank you enough for bringing your new
play here. Your mother is so proud.” Peter’s mind tripped
for a moment at the thought of his mother and her pride,
but he moved on.
“Oh, no thanks are needed. It’s the perfect venue for
this particular play. New York is great, but it’s nice to
be home, at least for a little while.”
“Well, we hear you’re quite the success,” Jack said,
patting him on the back.
“I’m making my way, thank you, sir.”
Sam’s back was still to all of them while she pretended
to be incredibly interested in the bartender revealing
what made his Manhattan so special. She tried to steady
her breath, but it was really no use. She likened the
moment to that time in Phys Ed when she saw the softball
coming toward her but froze and was unable to stop the
impact. Sam took another large sip of wine, and a shallow
breath, before turning slowly with her father’s drink in
hand. Her hair tousled over one bare shoulder, Sam looked
right at her father’s face.
“Dad, your drink.” She smiled, hoping she appeared
casual. She was grasping for casual.
“Thank you, Button. Look who . . .”
Their eyes met, and Sam’s knees softened. She gently took
her father’s arm for balance and willed herself to stop
being obvious.
They stared at each other for seconds that seemed longer.
Neither of them heard Jack and Susan discussing the last
time Peter was in town.
Sam let out a slow breath and allowed herself to look at
him. His hair had grown out; it curled slightly around
his ears. And facial hair, more than a shadow, but not
quite a full beard. Eyes that were still that
indescribable green hooded by dark lashes. She remembered
them, those eyes. One minute bright and sparkling; the
next, a dark forest of hidden secrets. Sam had never met
another pair of eyes like Peter’s. After he left, she
spent a good year looking for eyes to replace his, before
she learned to settle for men with different eyes.
Sam was taken aback, she would admit it: looking at him
was much more than she imagined it would be. She tried to
see Peter as her friend, tried to conjure it up. The
little girl buried inside her desperately wanted go back
to being best friends. Her pulse was pounding now with
the realization that nothing could be done; with one look
she knew Peter would never be only her best friend again.
She had to get out of the room.
“Peter, welcome home. Good of you to, well, it’s great.
Thank you so much for what you’re doing to help the
theater. Speaking of which, I really should check on the
auction.” Peter’s mouth opened as Sam nodded to her
mother, turned with her very best professional purpose,
and walked away. The casual observer would see it as an
employee diligently attending to an important event
detail.
Peter smiled at Mr. and Mrs. Cathner, took a sip of his
drink, and saw it for what it was. While he hadn’t
expected her to turn and bolt, he had known for months
this wasn’t going to be easy. Her rejection tonight felt
like a punch. He was sorry their first new meeting made
her uncomfortable, but after what he’d done to her, Peter
was relieved to see a reaction at all.
She was more beautiful than he remembered–and his memory
was perfect when it came to Samantha Cathner. She was
older now, more fluid and polished. Sam had always had
that scrubbed, girl-next-door look, but she had never
been ordinary. Her lips had a perfect bow, like in a
painting, and her eyes were so open and vulnerable. She
had always hated that Peter could tell what she was
really thinking. It was the eyes. They often betrayed
her, even when her tongue was wicked.
Her hair was shorter, but still that ink-dark brown. He
wondered if summer still kissed her hair with gold and
brought freckles to her nose and shoulders. Back in New
York, when he allowed himself to remember Sam, he had
always pictured her in jeans. This Sam was in all that
black silk. He let out a deep breath he hadn’t realized
he was holding. She was different.
She had never been more grateful for something to do in
her entire life. The caterers were two people short; six
invited guests had shown up with an extra person,
throwing off the food count; and they were dangerously
low on champagne. Candice, the creative director of the
Playhouse and Sam’s boss, had arrived thirty minutes ago
and asked for help. Sam was secretly thrilled. Details,
she loved the details, the problems to solve. Right now,
calling the local liquor stores to see how many bottles
of Krug Clos d’Ambonnay she could scrounge up was a
welcome distraction. There were answers to these
problems, solutions. By the time Sam sent someone to pick
up two more cases of champagne she was halfway to normal.
Walking out of the kitchen, she told herself she was
Samantha Cathner, assistant creative director for the
Pasadena Playhouse. She did not cower or hide, and apart
from her quick exit from Peter, she never ran. That was
Peter’s game, but Sam was a sticker. Was one, always had
been, always would be a sticker. This was her home.
She was no longer the overly confident woman whose first
step into the “real world”–as her brother put it–had been
full of bluster. Sam knew it. She had recognized long ago
that she had moved on from the disappointment and become
a new, more humble person. It had taken her a while, but
she had discovered what she was good at and what
mattered. She could not let anyone, especially not Peter
Everoad, drag her into a past she had worked so hard to
forget.
Sam went to let the bartender know he would not have to
explain any champagne shortage. He was grateful and
offered her another glass of wine. She turned to rest her
elbows on the rich, polished wood bar. Grady’s father,
Senator Malendar, had made his entrance and was working
the room. Grady, her other best friend growing up, was
now officially late. Sam watched as the senator glad-
handed through the crowd. He exuded confidence. She
wondered if he’d felt that self-assured all his life or
if a solid sense of self was something to look forward to
with age. The jazz band glided in to play behind a
soulful singer Candice had chosen for the evening, and
with that, the mood was complete.
“Would you like to dance, gorgeous?” Her heart skipped a
beat. But it was only her older brother, Henry.
“Where did you come from?” Sam attempted a smile.
“Were you expecting someone else?” Henry asked, brushing
his naturally curly hair off his face. He was dashing in
his tux.
“No, you’ll do just fine.” She kissed him and smoothed
the shoulders of his jacket. “Very nice tux, black on
black, I approve. I’d love to dance.”
Henry put his hand out as Sam joined him on the dance
floor. He stood a full head above her, even when she was
in heels. Sam could feel the other women in the room
looking at him as she rested her head on his shoulder.
She was used to the looks, her brother was a handsome
man. Henry had recently broken up with his long-term
girlfriend. Sam could only assume there were women at the
fundraiser hoping to take her place.
As his sister, Sam didn’t care what Henry looked like,
all she knew was that he was her rock. He protected her,
always had. No strings attached. He had been her fortress
when she was younger and life was not so kind. Sam had
slept on Henry’s couch in Los Angeles when she couldn’t
yet bear to return home a failure, and he met her in
Paris for a week when she went off to “find herself.” She
was her own woman now, but spinning in Henry’s arms was a
nice break. She felt safe.
Across the room, with his hands in his pockets, Peter had
just finished listening to Mr. Callaway, his former high
school principal, talk about “the fly fishing trip of a
lifetime.” Mr. Callaway swiped another canapé off a
passing tray and asked Peter what he thought about the
future of Broadway.
“I mean with the commercialism and the melding of theater
and movies, especially Disney. What do you think the
future holds?” Mr. Callaway inquired.
Peter found it strange that people he had known all his
life now regarded him as an adult with knowledge and
valuable insight. The power of a little recognition, he
thought to himself as he answered in the most
authoritative tone he could muster. They had no idea he
was still the same messed-up kid they’d watched leave for
New York, all of them secretly anticipating his failure.
Now older and more removed from all he had grown up with
in Pasadena, Peter wondered if these people had actually
expected his failure or if he had imagined it all because
distain was easier to deal with than pity. Above all, he
hated pity and the holier-than-thou bullshit that came
with it.
Peter pulled at his collar, amazed at how quickly the
past could seep into his consciousness. Clamping down on
his thoughts, he tried to–as his father used
say–”Remember who you are, son.” Right as he was
preparing to suck up to another set of deep pockets in
the hopes they would help the Playhouse, he turned and
his eyes fell onto swirling melting movements of his
past. Christ, she still undoes me every time, Peter
admitted to himself, watching Sam dance with her brother.
The moneymen would have to wait. Peter took a deep breath
and made his way to the dance floor. It was time to talk.
If that meant getting past Henry, then so be it.
“Hey, may I?” Peter asked, tapping Henry on the shoulder.
“Well, Mr. Big Shot. Long time no see.” Henry pulled Sam
around to get a better look at Peter.
“Hair’s longer,” he observed.
Peter ran his fingers through his hair and looked away.
Henry was confident, always had been. He was older than
Peter by two years and enjoyed giving him a protective
brother’s once-over.
“You want to dance with my baby sister? I don’t know. She
was pretty messed up when . . .“
“Henry!” Sam interrupted. “I’ll be fine. Go find your
rebound girlfriend.”
“All right, but you keep your hands where I can see
them.” Henry passed Sam’s hand to Peter while she rolled
her eyes.