Acts of Love by Judith Michael

describing her courses, her part-time jobs and her acting. By her third year she was regularly starring in the Yale Repertory Theater, one of the most prestigious in the country, and halfway through her senior year her letters reflected this: they grew more assured with every part she played, never casual but often casually confident. She was no longer a wide-eyed ingenue, but a professional who approached each play as a set of problems to be solved, a challenge to be confronted, a joyous time of discoveries about herself and the world.
    He looked up as his butler appeared in the doorway. “Still awake? Martin, it’s almost one o’clock.”
    â€œMr. Cameron, I just discovered a message the housekeeper took this afternoon when I was out. Mr. Kent Home says he’s worried about Monte’s pushing to make Lena older—those are his exact words—and he wants to talk to you, whatever time you arrive home.”
    â€œThank you, Martin.”
    â€œHis voice sounded urgent, the housekeeper said.”
    â€œHis voice always sounds urgent. If he calls again, tell him we’ll talk in the morning. Better yet, turn off the main phone and go to bed.”
    Martin’s face grew stern. “I could never do that. Emergencies occur, tragedies happen. One cannot cut oneself off, ever, from the tumult of the world, however much it may, momentarily, seem desirable.”
    Amused, Luke shook his head when Martin left. I’m surrounded by drama. Probably I create the atmosphere and everyone else jumps in. He glanced at the last paragraph of the letter in his hand. Including Jessica.
    I know you’re thinking of my happiness when you keep asking if I’m dating, but dear, dear Constance, I’ve told you so many times that I’m not and I don’t want to. Maybe someday that will change, but, believe me, I don’t feel deprived by not dating and jouncing around in bed the way almost everybody else does. It’s just too far from anything I really care about. I suppose if I met someone really special . . . but I haven’t, so it’s foolish to speculate. I’d rather think about the chance that you’ll come to New Haven for graduation in two weeks. That would be so splendid! Please let me know the very second you decide; I’ve already reserved a room for you, just in case, and the best table in the best restaurant for dinner. Now, THE BIGGEST NEWS OF ALL. (I’ve been saving it for last, hugging it, you know, like a precious secret that I’m sharing for now just with you.) Two days after graduation I’m going to Chicago to read for John Malkovich at Steppenwolf! The theater manager called and invited me! The play is something I don’t know, by Sam Shepherd—they’re sending it to me and I should have it in a day or two—but I don’t care what it is; you of all people know that this is a dream come true—the chance to work with Malkovich and Gary Sinise and Joan Allen and Glenne Headley . . . oh, Constance, I’m sending prayers to all the theater gods that they ask me to join them. Please come to see me graduate; I want to see you, the real you, not the picture of you in my head when I write or read your letters. I can’t wait. Much love, Jessica.
    Luke read the long paragraph again, sharing Jessica’s excitement, the exhilaration that comes with that first opening of a door to the future. He had felt it when he got his first job as assistant to one of the greatest directors on Broadway; he had known then that he was on his way and nothing would stop him. And Jessica, too, he thought. I wonder if Constance went to her graduation.
    He wanted to read more, to be with her for a while longer and find out what happened next, but it was late and he had an early meeting. Reluctantly he closed the box and switched off the desk lamp. Tomorrow night, he thought. I’ll come back to her then. But at least I know this