Proposing to Preston (The Winslow Brothers, #2)(2)

“Pres?” nudged Beth, her hand falling lightly over his and squeezing. “Ready to go?”

“Uh…yeah,” he murmured, finally pulling his gaze away from the stage and looking at his date. “Why didn’t they bow?”

“Huh?”

“Don’t actors and actresses usually take a bow after the play’s over?” he asked, gesturing at the stage with annoyance.

Beth raised an eyebrow, then made a big show of looking around the almost-empty off-off-Broadway theater, before catching Preston’s eyes again. “Umm….not if there’s no one to applaud.”

Giving one last troubled glance to the curtain, Preston stood up, pursing his lips. “Well, it doesn’t feel like the show’s over without that part.”

“I doubt it’ll be around for much longer anyway,” she said dismissively, taking her bag from the floor by her seat and rising to her feet. “Really awful stuff.”

“Not really awful,” said Preston thoughtfully.

The material was admittedly bad, but Elise Klassan had done her best and given a performance that was sticking with him, almost like it had hitched a ride on his back and was following him up the aisle and out of the theater. There was something about her. Something…well, he didn’t know. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but suddenly he couldn’t stop thinking about her.

As they neared the exit, Preston was surprised to find one last audience member still sitting in his seat, his expression a mirror of the way Preston felt, staring at the stage thoughtfully, as though waiting for more, and Preston paused beside him in the aisle.

“I’m going to freshen up. Meet you in the lobby?” asked Beth. She kissed his cheek and made her way out the theater door.

The man in the last row looked up at Preston. “Is she dead?”

“Excuse me?”

“Matilda. Is she dead?”

Preston chuckled, but the man didn’t.

“I don’t know,” he replied softly, feeling his smile fade.

“What did you think?” asked the man.

“Not good.”

“Hmm. And yet you were the last to leave,” observed the man.

“Actually,” said Preston, looking down at him, “you’re the only one still sitting.”

“What was ‘not good’? The play itself?”

Preston nodded.

“What about the actors?” The man opened his program. “Mark, uh, Smithson. He played Cyril.”

Preston shrugged. He didn’t have a good opinion about Mark Smithson’s performance and he wasn’t going to make one up for the sake of conversation.

“Paige Rafferty?” He glanced down at the program again. “She played Constance.”

Preston looked out the small window in the door to the lobby, but Beth hadn’t come out of the bathroom yet. Again, he really didn’t have an opinion of Paige Rafferty’s performance other than that was sure he wouldn’t remember it by tomorrow. “She was fine, I guess.”

“But unremarkable.”

Exactly. Preston nodded.

Up until now, the man’s tone had been convivial, almost playful. But now, he fixed his dark eyes on Preston’s, hawk-like and narrowed, and Preston wondered for the first time who he was. A reviewer? The director? Someone else associated with the play?

“And what about…Elise Klassan?”

Preston flinched. He didn’t feel it coming, but he felt it happen. Then he licked his lips, which made his cheeks flush with heat, and he dropped the man’s eyes in embarrassment.

“Mm-hm,” rumbled the man, his voice smooth as warm honey. “Me too.”

“She was good. She was…” Preston’s voice trailed off, and he looked back at the stage for a moment, disappointed that the curtain was still closed and no longer rippled. The theater was so quiet and empty, it almost felt surreal, like there hadn’t been a play at all.

What was it about it her that was affecting him so deeply?

He suspected that she was pretty under all that stage make-up, bouffant 1890s hairdo and neck to ankle dress, and, as duly noted, her high, pert chest was undoubtedly a thing of beauty. But his feelings really weren’t about beauty or attraction. They were about something else far less quantifiable or easily explained. The only words that came to mind? Under his skin. Her performance had gotten under his skin. The way her face had crumpled, the way her voice had broken when she whispered “Cyril,” the profound sorrow on her face, and how terribly discomfited he felt at not seeing her alive and smiling one last time.

There was something about Elise Klassan that was special. Compelling. And she shone more brightly than hammy lines and mediocre co-stars. He was affected. He was moved. He was touched. And though he knew this was the point of theater, he found he didn’t like it.

When Preston turned around, the man stood, his lips spreading into a wide, satisfied smile. “You’ve helped immensely.”

“Have I? With what?”

The man nodded, reaching down for his umbrella and chuckling softly to himself before looking back up at Preston. “I wasn’t sure if I was right. But now…seeing you….well, I know I am.”

He nodded once more, as if in thanks, then he sidestepped out of his row, winked at Preston and exited the theater.