Acts of Love by Judith Michael Page A

much. She’s on her way.

CHAPTER 4
    Kent called early the next morning. Luke was at breakfast in a shaded corner of his terrace where two wicker armchairs flanked a low brass chest that held the telephone, a stack of newspapers and his breakfast tray. The terrace was deep and long, paved with brick and wrapping around the corner of the building. Roses climbed its low brick wall, crabapple and plum trees grew in deep wooden tubs, dappling the light that fell on cushioned wrought-iron furniture, and gaillardia, cosmos, campanula and dahlias were massed in terra-cotta pots and planters. The air was still; the city brooded, somnolent in the heat, its skyscraper windows reflecting the sun like sheets of foil flinging back the white light. In the distance, the George Washington Bridge hung in the heavy air beneath wisps of clouds barely visible against the pale sky. Without looking up from his newspaper, Luke reached for the telephone when it rang.
    â€œLuke, the thing is, I don’t trust Monte.” Kent’s deep voice came in a barrage of syllables. “I have to see you, I mean we have to talk about this and get it settled before Monte gets set in stone, I mean, before he gets used to the idea of changing things or trying them out on us or whatever the hell he was doing with all that shit about making Lena younger. He can’t do that every time he gets a bright idea, you know, he can’t—”
    â€œHe can do it whenever he wants,” Luke said. “We’ll all have ideas about the play and we’ll talk them out and you’ll have to get used to that.”
    â€œâ€Šâ€˜All’? Who’s all?”
    â€œMainly Monte and me and the cast. But you’ll find that Fritz has—”
    â€œFritz?”
    â€œThe stage manager. Fritz will have suggestions and so will the props manager and the set designer and just about everyone else who gets a look at rehearsals. Most of them are pretty casual and don’t take up much time, but when cast members have ideas about their lines or the ways their characters are shaping up, we take them seriously.”
    â€œDamn it, Luke, plays aren’t written by committee! They don’t come out of happy little meetings where everybody says, ‘Oh, listen, I’ve got the best idea . . .’ and they go off spinning some crap from some childhood trauma or something. Plays are written by playwrights working alone. You don’t understand that, because you aren’t one, but—”
    â€œI’ve done some writing,” Luke said coldly, “and I work with writers. I know it’s tough. But you chose it.”
    â€œOver pumping gas, right. It’s what I do, and I’m good at it, but it’s my whole life, it’s me, and if you think I’m going to change one scene —what the hell, one word —because some half-assed actor thinks he knows better—”
    â€œWe’ll talk about it at lunch,” Luke said. “Right now I have some calls to make. I’ll see you at Monte’s office.”
    â€œYou’re not hanging up on me!”
    â€œI’m going to hang up because I have work to do before we begin casting your play. I said we’d talk about this at lunch; I assume you heard me say that.”
    â€œYeah, well—”
    â€œYou can tell me all your problems then. I’ll see you in a little while.” He hung up, and began to pace on the terrace, stretching his muscles. God save us from geniuses who somehow, miraculously, write a brilliant play but still have a lot of growing up to do, so that on top of everything else, we have to educate them.
    The telephone rang and he ignored it, sure that Kent was calling back. But in a moment Martin came to tell him that Monte Gerhart was calling. Luke picked it up, sitting on the edge of his chair. “Luke, it’s Monte. I just wanted you to know I’ve got the perfect Lena; I’m bringing her