In Harmony(101)

“Hello, sweetheart,” he said. Out of professional courtesy, he only called me sweetheart when we were alone. I didn’t mind the fatherly endearment. Martin had been a better dad to me than my own.

And to Isaac.

“Hey, Marty. What’s the news?”

“Nothing good, I’m afraid,” he said. “The city council wants to move forward with the proposal to consolidate the entire block, including the theater. It’ll attract investors for restoration.”

“You don’t think you’d get lucky with some benevolent investor who’d let you run the HCT like you want to?”

“I should be so lucky,” he said. “I’m more concerned we’ll get a callous corporation that doesn’t care or understand what I’m trying to do here. It sucks, as you young people like to say. Especially since we just got back on track, thanks to Isaac.” He glanced at me. “I’m sorry, does it bother you if I mention him?”

“You ask me every time and the answer is always the same,” I said. “No.”

Hearing his name hurt like hell, like pressing a bruise that would never heal. At the same time, I loved hearing how Isaac was taking care of the HCT from afar.

As predicted, after Hamlet, Isaac was snatched up by the casting agent and immediately went to California. He got a small role in a big movie, and his pay got HCT caught up on its back taxes and current with its rent.

I picked up a few bills to file, kept my gaze down and my words casual as I asked, “How is he? Still nothing?”

“Not a word,” Marty said. “I guess we could open an entertainment magazine. That’s the only way I get the news about him.”

“His last movie did well. Rave reviews.”

“Did you see it?”

Long Way Down had been playing at the Guild Movie House for weeks, but I could never muster the courage to buy a ticket.

“No,” I said. “I’m not ready. Did you?”

He smiled sadly. “Six times.” He reached over and patted my hand. “He went quiet on all of us, sweetheart. You, me, Brenda and Benny. I can’t even thank him for the money. An LLC wires it every month and all the correspondence I’ve tried to send…” He shrugged. “Nothing.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I knew he’d be…upset with me, but I never expected him to cut you off too.”

“It’s not your fault, honey,” Marty said. “It’s what he does. How he copes with loss. He locks himself in his own mind and only lets the emotions out on the stage. Or the movie set, these days.”

He watched the pain flit over my face. “I know it hurts. You did what you thought you had to do to protect Isaac. And now he has a brilliant career ahead of him, and he’s making plenty of money doing what he set out to do. And you, my dear, have a brilliant career head of you. Your Nora is sheer brilliance.”

“No.”

“Don’t take my word for it.” He tossed today’s copy of Harmony Tribune on my lap. “Vera Redding says you’re a tour de force, and that woman hates everything.”

I smiled and put the newspaper aside. “It’s a good play for me. It’s just what I needed.”

The play, and the theater, and Marty Ford, were exactly what I needed; more steps in my healing process. The fear of potentially losing him or the HCT to the city council’s renovation plans shook me to the bone.

“We have to fix this city council situation, Marty.” I cleared my throat. “Can Isaac help?”

“The council says the project can cost millions. I don’t know that he has that.” He smiled sadly and held up his hands. “And even if I wanted to, I have no way of asking him.”





As I biked home after work, my throat ached with tears. The pain of missing Isaac was slugging me in the chest with every heartbeat. I didn’t have an appointment with Bonnie that afternoon, but I wished I did.

Back home, Greta and I sat on my little porch. We shared a pitcher of homemade lemonade and ate peas straight out of the pod. The sun was setting in Harmony, the lightning bugs flaring as they flitted among the juniper bushes that separated Greta’s and my house. The cicadas were deafening—waves of buzzing that came and went like a tide. Children played in their yards. Neighborhood cats slunk here and there or dozed in the last of the sun’s rays. Greta and I didn’t talk much. We didn’t need to. The evening was quiet. Warm. Peaceful. It was everything I needed.

Almost.

When the sun had set, Greta packed up her baskets and said goodnight. Inside my place, my phone lay on the kitchen counter, a notification flashing on the display: I had a missed call and a voicemail from Dad. After the stint in Texas, Ross Wilkinson had moved them back to Manhattan. They’d come full circle and arrived back where they started, this time without a daughter.

“Hello, Willow.” Dad’s voice always sounded strained on voicemails. As if he were forcing it over a boulder of guilt. “Mom and I wanted to see how you’re doing. She told me about your work with the theater, trying to restore it and…such. A worthwhile endeavor.” He coughed. “We’re looking forward to flying in for the last performance of your show. And I hope this isn’t too presumptuous, but we planned a little party afterward for you, your cast mates and director at the Renaissance Hotel in Braxton.” A pause. “I hope you consider attending. Please let me know. All right, then. Goodbye.”