Lola Romance in the City Chick Lit

Chapter One

Lola Goldman scribbled feverishly on the script in her lap, stuck the blue pencil in her messy bun and drew a finger across her throat.

Stop the rehearsal! she blurted.

Lola! retorted Jimmy O’Connell, the director. This is the end of week one of rehearsal. You have constantly interrupted us. Why?

I feel the meaning and intent of this scene has been misinterpreted by the actors. Can we talk privately?

Jimmy stiffened.

The leads broke character. Colette, the female lead, frowned, posing her hands on slender hips, while Ben just looked mildly puzzled.

Jimmy folded his arms. Take fifteen, people, he called out. The playwright delays us. Again. The cast meandered backstage for coffee and snacks, except for Ben, who sat on the edge of the white wrought-iron bed at center stage. He winked at Colette as she passed him on her way to get coffee. She rolled her eyes in Lola’s direction and kept going.

Lola turned to the producer, seated in the center seat, last row of the theater. Miss Morton, may we have a word with you, too?

Natalie Morton nodded patiently, and Lola strode up the aisle of the vintage but still-elegant theater, the director in tow.

Natalie patted the velvet-cushioned theater seat next to her. Lola sat down, while the director stood stiffly nearby, his lips pressed tightly together.

Mr. O’Connell, with that expression on your face, you’re going to get a reputation as a difficult director, Natalie said.

The director flushed a deep shade of crimson. Me? Natalie, why are you letting her do this?

Lola has the contractual right of consultation. She has a legitimate voice in this theater, which, may I remind you, her father owns.

Excuse me, Natalie, Lola interjected. I’m a professional in my own right. My father’s success and the fact that he owns this theater have nothing to do with my playwright career.

Natalie smiled indulgently. Of course not, dear.

You’re thirty-three years old, Jimmy offered. "This is your first play, and you’re on Broadway. Let’s be honest. How did you really get your play produced?"

Lola seethed. Yes, my dad owns the theater. Point taken.

You could learn a lot by keeping your mouth shut and your eyes and ears open, he added.

That’s enough, you two, Natalie said.

Lola said, I’m sorry if we’re off on the wrong foot. I just want to get important details clarified. Like the tone and intent of my play.

Jimmy said, Fine idea. We don’t have time to waste. This entire production has to be perfect in two weeks.

Natalie turned to Lola. Dear, please explain to the director how you would have him direct this scene differently. Then, if he agrees, you will explain to the players how you would have them act this scene.

Now it was Lola’s turn to blush, and she chewed on her pencil eraser. "Here’s my major concern, Natalie... and Jimmy. There’s a certain slyness to the way the actors are portraying the characters, as if they are making fun of the play. It’s subtle, but it’s there. As the playwright, I feel that I’m being mocked. They’re playing the lines like this is a comedy instead of a drama."

Thank Pete! The secret’s out, Jimmy said. It’s a farce!

Hey, Lola said. Anger burned in her empty stomach.

You two stop it, Natalie said. I mean it now.

Out of the corner of her eye, Lola saw Colette slink downstage to a red silk fainting couch left and sit, first crossing her legs and then, swinging one provocatively at Ben. He ignored her leg pendulum, intent on the conversation at the back of the theater.

Lola smiled at Ben and he smiled back, all the way across the theater. He was looking right at her like she was a chocolate cupcake.

Natalie said, "Lola, would you go downstage center and tell everyone, better yet show them, just how you want it done?"

Lola gave Natalie what she hoped was a brave smile, though when she turned to walk to the stage, her lower lip trembled as she realized how cleverly Natalie had put her on the spot.

Lola took a deep breath and rose to the challenge, as she ascended the steps to the thrust-style stage and walked to the masking tape that marked the downstage center. She put on her glasses again, looking at the script while she gathered her thoughts.

How large Daddy’s theater seemed from up here, especially when every eye was upon her.

Well? Natalie’s voice bellowed from the back of the theater. We’re waiting, Miss Goldman.

Okay, this is supposed to be a very tender romantic scene.

"I can’t hear you," Jimmy chimed, pointing to a six-foot banner on the wall, which proclaimed SPIT and SWEAT.

"Project, Miss Goldman, or the director will reduce you to tears," whispered a silky Southern male voice in her ear. She quivered involuntarily, realizing that Ben, the leading man, had sidled up next to her to lend his support.

Thanks, Ben, she whispered, wishing he didn’t smell so damn sexy. What cologne was he wearing? He smelled spicy and enticing—it was distracting as hell.

Okay, Lola said louder, remembering to assume a stage presence, as her college drama professor had taught her.

She cleared her throat and spoke loudly. This scene is very tender and moving. Daisy Shiloh has gotten a job at Prissy’s bordello, and Ben, uh, I mean Wesley, is her first customer. He’s just found out she’s a virgin.

That’s what we were getting to before you so rudely interrupted us, right at the first kiss, Colette, the leading lady, broke in.

Colette! Lola countered. I could hear your lips smacking him from the fifteenth row.

By then the rest of the cast had gathered and a few guffawed or tittered while Colette fumed and shook her head. Ben hid a smile behind his hand and coughed to hide a laugh. He shook his head slightly at Lola not to continue in that vein.

She went easier on Colette. I’m just saying... no innocent girl would kiss like that. Daisy doesn’t have experience with men. Wesley is her first. He’s tender and compassionate. She’s shy and ashamed of what she is about to become, a fallen woman.

Colette’s a terrible kisser, Ben whispered in her ear, and she fought the urge to laugh. She looked at Colette, whose hands were now clenched together, her knuckles white.

Stop that, Lola hissed at Ben.

What was that, Miss Goldman? Jimmy called. I can’t hear you up there. Why don’t you show us now?

Very well. Miss Goldman and I will attempt to play this scene the way it was intended, Ben offered in a stage voice.

Slowly, Lola turned toward Ben, looking into the deepest brown eyes she had ever seen, so dark that they were almost black. She could see her astonished reflection in his pupils.

Jimmy waved his hand. Actors, continue.

Daisy, why do you wear your hair like that? Ben drawled as Wesley.

Ladies do wear their hair up, sir, Lola replied in what she hoped was a decent Southern accent, as Daisy Shiloh.

"But, you are not a lady. Are you not a woman possessed of a certain worldly knowledge?"

Before Lola knew what was happening, he had removed the blue pencil from her hair and slowly pulled the bobby pins from her bun, one by one, until her long, thick blonde hair cascaded down her back to her waist.

Lola willed tears to form in her eyes and was surprised when they came, and streaked down her cheeks, unchecked. She was already upset over the criticism of her play, so it wasn’t a stretch for her to work up some tears. She was halfway on her way to them anyway.

Gently, he touched away her tears with his fingertips, his eyes misting almost in wonder. He lifted tendrils of her hair. His nearness was all-encompassing as he stroked her cheek. She trembled, for real.

"I am a lady," she insisted, putting a hand to his chest, as if to ward him off.

But you work at Prissy’s.

She grasped his big, warm hand, raising it to her tear-streaked cheek. She spoke in a trembling voice. Sir. Until last week, I was a fine Southern belle. Until, that is, the Yankees burned our house and took away our horses. They killed my daddy, and my momma sent me to the home of her childhood friend here in Richmond. She had no way of knowing what kind of a house this was.

Are you being held here against your will?

"No, sir, but I have nowhere else to go. I’ve never done this before. Not once. Prissy will put me out of the house if I do not earn my keep. You seem very kind. All I ask is for you to be gentle with me. She whispered, Please."

She turned away, putting her face in her hands, as if in shame.

Is this really your first time? He spun her around to face him again.

Yes, Wesley. However, you won’t be the last. It would strike Mama dead if she found out what I have to do to survive this war. She said the word war like wah, trying to really get into the Southern dialect.

Ben’s Southern accent, however, was completely real. I declare, Miz Daisy. You’re a sweet innocent in this sordid place, displaced by the terrible war. Can it be true, that you are pure?

You will be the first to touch my lips, Wesley.

Would that I were the last, he said tenderly. But my regiment is pulling out tomorrow. I will likely never see you again.

I know you are but a customer in a house of ill repute, but you seem the kind of fine gentleman who could put a lady’s heart above the untoward callings of the War of Northern Aggression.

If I could, Daisy, and under different circumstances, I would probably love you with every breath.

But because it is a war, you can only promise me this night? she asked.

It’s all I have to give. I may be dead tomorrow. It isn’t a secret that a great battle is about to take place outside Richmond. Even now, the lines are forming.

Then take this body, this flesh, these lips. Take the remembrance of my touch into the war. Let those memories keep you warm, to know that you took the only thing of my own that I still possessed, something the Yankees did not burn through and never will—I would rather put a bullet in my own head than allow them to take me.

I am a Southern gentleman, Daisy. I do not take from ladies. I give. You are an innocent, but do you understand the difference between giving and taking?

Lola let a sob escape. No.

Wesley took the phony Confederate prop money out of his pocket. He put the fake coin on the table next to the dresser.

This is a twenty-dollar Confederate gold coin, all that I have that is of true value, except for my watch, which I need for military life.

"I don’t understand the gold coin. That’s not what I... cost."

The money is for your passage north.

North? You mean... leave the South?

It’s not safe here. You could go to New York, or Boston, perhaps find work in a hat shop or a girls’ school. No, wait, I know of a better place, a place that will still be standing, no matter what the war brings. Where the Liberty Bell is kept in Philadelphia, Independence Hall. Go to the city of brotherly love. You may find genteel work.

My only talent is playing the piano. But who would pay me for that?

Perhaps a church needs a pianist.

She smiled through her tears. That would be wonderful. I never thought of that.

Philadelphia is the only place you will be safe. You cannot live in a brothel. You don’t belong here.

I don’t know Philadelphia.

I know it well.

How do you know it so well, sir?

I am not at liberty to say.

Her mouth dropped open. You are a spy?

Don’t speak that word. It could mean my death.

She took several deep breaths and nodded. What must I do for this gold coin, kind sir from Philadelphia?

Do you promise to go north as soon as you can?

Yes, I promise.

Then your safety shall be my reward. He picked up his sword. I shall take my leave.

Don’t go!

What would you have me do, Daisy?

Give me a child.

What?

Yes, please. A child.

Why?

If I am to go North, perhaps terrible things will befall me on the journey. I may not be able to stop them from happening. She sighed, hard. I’m afraid I would arrive in the North with a babe in my arms. I don’t know how else to say it, sir, but if I am to have a child, I would want to know who its father was, and that it was not forced on me by a terrible stranger.

So, instead, you want my child?

I would love it, truly, and I would always remember you, every time I looked at my child, and how a gentleman of great kindness gave me all that he had to try to ensure my safety.

Ben crossed the stage. I will try to give you a child, but on two conditions.

What are they? Lola said and let him draw her close by her hand.

After the war is over, I will search for you, if I still live. Every day after the war, for one year, if necessary, go to Independence Hall, to the bell, rain or shine, and look for me. If my heart beats, I will come for you.

Lola nodded. I will look for you there, with our child, if one comes of this night. After the war, every day for a year, I will go and wait for you, at the bell. And what is the other condition?

That we kiss. Do not think of me as a business transaction. I have been at war for long months. My wife died of pneumonia while I have been gone. We had no children because she could not carry one to term. I only came to Prissy’s because I wanted and have missed the tendrils of warmth in my life and because I may die tomorrow.

Oh, sir!

Please. This is my first time at such a place. To meet you here, on your first time, seems to be a gift from above. I would treat it as such.

We will kiss then, Wesley. Let this not be a transaction, but a grace.

Ben unbuttoned the top two buttons of her blue chambray work shirt, and for a moment, Lola almost broke character.

Don’t worry, Ben whispered and she relaxed, as his lips brushed her collarbone, causing her to shudder.

Your skin is like the petals of a magnolia. Your fragrance like the morning dew, he said in his stage voice with the deep Southern accent of a Northern spy who knew his accents.

Oh, Wesley, she cried after their lips met and parted, and she slid into a mock swoon.

He caught her gently and carried her to the red satin-covered bed as if she weighed almost nothing. Tenderly, he laid her down, and opened her shirt one more button.

She gasped, then clutched him close to her.

Will you allow me make love to you, Daisy?

Yes. Wesley. Please! she cried, per the script.

He poised on top of her, resting his weight on his strong tanned arms, their eyes holding each other’s attention, until Lola felt the incredible heat from the length of his body against her.

They held a long kiss as the stage lights went down and the house lights came up.

The polite applause from the other cast members brought her back to reality, and the scene was over.

She cleared her throat, breaking character, and sat up to button her cleavage back into her blouse, where it belonged. She hoped no one had gotten a good view, although she saw by the look in Ben’s eyes that he surely had. She pushed Ben off her reluctantly, hoping no one could see how embarrassed she was.

You were so good in that scene, she whispered.

He grinned like a naughty schoolboy, breaking character.

Did you like that, Miss Playwright?

"Of course, I liked it. Holy shit, it felt authentic. She paused. It’s the perfect role for you because it is not far off from who you are, inside, she whispered. Is it?"

He grinned and blushed. No. I would totally save an innocent girl from a fate like that. At all costs.

Then we’ll have to keep you off of 42nd Street. Lola walked downstage, away from that satin-covered bed where she had almost been carried away by his feigned passion.

Ben joined her and grasped her hand. She looked at him in surprise.

Take a bow, Miss Goldman, he said in a soft voice, and as they bent together at the waist, the cast and crew cheered, whistled and hooted. The director and the producer hugged each other.

Thank you, Miss Goldman. That was good. Very good, in fact, Jimmy called to her.

You’re welcome, my director. And please, call me Lola.

Jimmy grinned at her, and then made some notes on his script.

Colette, do you think you could do the scene like Lola did? Jimmy asked.

Colette walked up to the stage and looked up at Ben and Lola. I hate you. Both of you. But especially you, she cried, looking at Ben.

Ben held out his hands in supplication. "I was acting. You know that. Lola, tell her there is nothing between us."

Lola shrugged. She wasn’t about to get in the middle of a squabble between the leads in her play.

Colette narrowed her eyes at Lola. You have a lot of—

Oh, for Pete’s sake, Jimmy said. Not this petty crap. Just calm down, Colette. It’s one scene. Lola was just showing you how to play it.

She’s obviously never had an acting lesson. Colette sniffled, bringing out a ragged tissue.

Lola’s face flamed with embarrassment.

What does that have to do with anything? Ben asked Colette.

She’s acting like this know-it-all diva of the theater!

She’s has every right to get up on stage and explain a scene to the players. She’s the playwright.

Ben, does this mean we’re not going out to dinner? Colette whined.

I think that would be best, Ben said evenly.

Screw you, Ben Colton. Just screw you all the way back to Atlanta.

Unperturbed, Ben kept his silky voice even. That’s Athens, Georgia, not Atlanta. My Southern accent is pure Athens. Big difference in dialect.

Colette walked off the stage, kicking her foot against the white bedframe and stubbing her toe. She yelped.

The director said, On that shrill note, that’s all for today, people. Good work. Let’s keep up the energy. See you Monday morning. Everyone, be ready to work hard! Next week, we do it without books!

The cast clapped and began to gather their things to leave.

Jimmy walked up closer, and Lola and Ben walked down the stairs to talk to him.

My apologies, Lola. I hope you didn’t take any offense at our little spat earlier.

Of course not, Jimmy, Lola replied. You’re a fine director. I just know sometimes it’s hard to tell without showing.

Jimmy laughed. Good showing. Ever thought about playing the lead yourself? Colette doesn’t seem too thrilled about your play. She’s giving off those quitting-the-play vibes.

Oh, don’t say that. We need her, Lola said. And she is right about one thing. I’m no actress. I’m a writer.

You should think about taking a role in the play, if not the lead, a minor part, perhaps?

Lola felt Ben’s hot hand lightly balanced on her waist and wished he would move it away.

No chance of that. Writing the play was hard enough, but that last ten minutes of acting was a lot harder than banging out the pages. I’ll leave the acting to the pros.

I’m glad you appreciate how hard acting is, Ben commented.

She smiled and moved away from Ben. His hand slid away and she breathed a sigh of relief.

I’m sure that Colette will get over whatever it is that’s bothering her, Lola explained. After all, she does have a contract.

Jimmy shrugged. We’ll see what she does. Just between us, she’s pretty high-strung.

Ben said, I haven’t seen Colette’s understudy. Who is she again?

Jimmy smiled in the direction of Natalie, who was gathering up her purse and script and walking toward them.

Here comes the boss lady. The understudy is actually some friend of Colette’s. No one has yet seen her, not since we hired her last week.

Crap. Does Natalie know Colette’s understudy has been a no-show?

Probably. We’ll officially tell her on Monday, if the understudy doesn’t show up. At that point, we’ll have to replace the understudy.

Lola nodded. She’d known Natalie for years, but had never heard what the producer would do if there was no understudy for a