Nora Goes Off Script

by Annabel Monaghan

“Aw, come on,”

“I’m not going to help you. I will not lead you down the path to being an actor,” he says to Arthur. “It’s empty.” Arthur smiles. “Do you seriously think I could become an actor with this woman as my mother. I’m half her!”

We all laugh, and time stops for a moment where I feel the warmth of this laughter and watch the dimming light leave these three faces in shadow—my children and the most famous actor in America.

“If I agree to read lines with you, just tonight, will you promise me you will never become a professional actor?”

“I won’t promise that. But I do need help.”

“Looks like you got a full set of dimples with that one,”

I go into the kitchen to wash the dishes. I am trying to remember the last time an adult took over one of my responsibilities. Ben would sometimes run out for toilet paper or pick up the kids from school. It occurs to me now how long I’ve been doing this all on my own.

“Don’t tell him, but he’s kind of a natural.” “I wouldn’t dare.”

“Gonna try. What are you going to do?” “I was thinking about going into town.” Which is how I end up not writing and taking Leo Vance on a walking tour of Laurel Ridge proper.

“What do you sleep in? A king?” “Queen,” I say in a small voice because (1) it seems like a personal question, and (2) it’s possible I was harboring a fantasy that these women thought he’d seen my bed. He picks up a set of queen-size sheets and hands them to the lady. “I bet your sheets are crap,” he says to me. When I start to object, he puts up his hand to silence me. “Just let me.” He stares me down until I nod in agreement. “What else? Do you like your coffee mugs?” “I do.” “I do too.” He wanders around collecting small items until he finds the towels. “We need new towels. Don’t even start to argue.” Which, okay. He chooses four sets of the most luxurious towels I’ve ever felt. They’re a light aqua, a perfect match to the fading tile in the kids’ bathroom. He hands them to the slightly panting lady. By the time he’s convinced me that my wine opener is “trash,” he’s got more stuff than we can carry. The ladies happily agree to deliver it all to my house. “Well, my house feels like it’s had it’s Pretty Woman moment,” I say as we head to the bookstore. “I don’t get to shop. There’s a woman Weezie hired who chooses my clothes. Someone else picked out everything in my apartment. Same for the other houses.” “That’s weird.” “It is. Like, it feels good to choose a towel color, decide which bananas look good.” “Is that what’s at the heart of this suburban crisis you’re having? You want to make choices?” Leo doesn’t answer, and I’m afraid I’ve pried. I also haven’t said “thank y...

(he doesn’t cook)

I think I’m the only single woman in town.

We stop at the hardware store to check in on Mr. Mapleton, and Leo buys a spray nozzle for my hose because he thinks they’re fun. I argue that I use my thumb and get the same effect, and now Leo and Mr. Mapleton have ganged up on me. “This woman lives like the Unabomber,” Leo says. “Have you been to her house?” “That’s her, just the basics. And she’ll use and reuse something until it crumbles in her hands,” Mr. Mapleton tells Leo. “You should see her bath towels,” Leo says and laughs. “I can only imagine,” says Mr. Mapleton. “But not the husband. That guy was in here all the time, buying a slightly newer version of something he already had. I used to tell my wife, ‘That Ben’s got everything but a job.’ ” I’ve heard this a thousand times, but I laugh because it’s true and also because I like how he’s always been on my side. “And he took it all with him,” I say. “I like to think of Ben wandering around the globe with six sets of torque wrenches.” Leo adds the spray nozzle to his bag with the cheese, and we say good-bye. “Enjoy your stay,” Mr. Mapleton says. “I’ll have my eye on you.”

“What happens now?” I don’t even know how many times he’s asked me this today. Last time the answer was: I put the kids to bed. Before that it was: We watch Wheel of Fortune. Preceded by: We have dinner. Between school and dinner was two hours of Fagin training. I’m not entirely sure if Arthur did his homework. I pour a glass of wine and head toward the sunroom. “Can I come?” I also don’t know how many times he’s asked that today. I grab a second glass.

“Will you write tomorrow?” he asks. “I think so; I need to start something new.” I take a sip of my wine. “Let’s hope it’s not a musical.” He smiles an ironic smile. I’ve seen this smile before. “African Rose,” I say. “Stop it,” he says. “So, what’s the inspiration for the next script?” “It’s not inspiration, it’s more like math.” He sips his wine and leans back into the sofa cushions. “Explain.” “I write movies for The Romance Channel.” “No.” “Yes.” “Those two-hour movies that are mostly commercials?” “Well, I’ve written a lot of them. That’s what I do.” “Hilarious.” He pours us each a little more wine, killing the bottle. “So why is it math?” “Maybe not math. Did you ever play Mad Libs as a kid? Where you have to fill in the nouns, adjectives, and verbs, and then there’s a story?” “Yes.” “That’s what I do.” “I don’t understand.” “Give me a gender, a location, and a career.” “Okay . . . female, Chicago, real estate developer.” “Okay, easy. Stephanie, a young urban real estate developer, takes a trip to rural Illinois to look into buying a dairy farm and turning it into a corporate retreat center. The young handsome owner of the farm doesn’t want to sell, and they butt heads. But as she spends more time on the farm, she sees how important it is to the community and they fall in love. In fact, she’s helping him organize the annual Founders’ Day festival later next week. They kiss. The night before Founders’ Day, she gets a call that she needs to shut down the farm immediate...

Leo isn’t up for the sunrise. I should be glad to have the swing all to myself, but I’m not. This alarms me on the deepest level. I’m getting used to him and how he follows me around. I like how he listens to me when I talk. I like how he looks at me.

I figured he was too excited about his day to ask about mine.

By the time we married at twenty-six, the glow had worn off. Ben was still railing against the injustice of having no passive income, an injustice that fueled his rage against the simplemindedness of the investors who weren’t interested in his schemes. The part of me that knows who I am and knew I shouldn’t marry Ben had become hard to hear over the din of wedding plans. Newton must have been thinking of twentysomethings in long-term relationships with hard-to-secure wedding venues when he decided that objects in motion tend to stay in motion. When I was two kids and one broken house into the marriage, I had to face the fact that Ben didn’t really like much about me at all. He didn’t like my worldview, my hair, my house. He was blind to my best qualities, and eventually I was too. I think our whole marriage was about me trying to make him glad he picked me. I humored him about his poorly thought-out projects. I made the money but did it quietly so he could feel like his work was what mattered, like I was waiting tables while he finished medical school. I even started using his words to describe my work, “another dumb romance.” I cooked the food and tried to be upbeat for the kids. I remembered his mother’s birthday and sent her gifts. It wasn’t enough. In my mind, I was holding Ben up; in his, I was holding him back. He had a way of making me feel like every time another project fell apart, it was my fault. And there was no reason there, no logical connection, but the not-...

Arthur started to cry instantly, having the wisdom to know where this was headed. “Where are you going?” he asked. “Asia,” Ben said. As if that explained everything. “I’ll come with you,” said Arthur. “I can help you there, and we’ll learn Chinese.” He spoke through tears and this is when my heart broke a little. I was better off without Ben, and my kids were too, but seeing the desperation behind Arthur’s eyes killed me. “Sorry, buddy, but I’ll be back.” “When?” asked Bernadette. “Soon.” He gave them each a hug. “You guys be good for your mom, okay?” They didn’t reply, just looked at him in what I assume was disbelief.

I felt like the house could finally breathe. I started running before I wrote, and I swear my writing got better. I hoped my kids could feel how much stronger I was without Ben dragging me down. Without Ben, I had the energy to be mother and father and provider and playmate. People usually talk about their new normal as some sort of difficult adjustment, but mine left me lighter. I was released from worrying about what Ben would spend. I no longer needed to deflect his criticisms of the kids or myself. I was free.

But Leo in my house is fun. I like the space he takes up. It’s light and exciting, and I am slipping into a daydream that this is my new reality. I have a handsome playmate who listens to me when I speak. He asks follow-up questions because he wants to hear more. I cannot shake the feeling that Leo likes talking to me. Like, he likes the actual me. He’s not in it for the free meal or anything I can do to improve his situation. Leo Vance is just fine without me, yet he still follows me around with rapt attention.

“Want me to get you some coffee?” I ask, because I’d never do this without coffee. “No. Stay till it’s over.” So I do and we sit there and stare in silence until the sky is bright. “What were you thinking about?” he asks. “You were all furrowed when I came out.” “Nothing.” Talking about Ben is going to make me feel like a loser, so I’m quiet. Leo turns his head to me and gives me a look like he’s not buying it. I say, “How nice it is that Ben’s gone.” “Where is he now?” “Who knows. He said Asia.” “So, you don’t hear from him? He doesn’t see the kids?” “Nope. Well, he calls sometimes and makes plans but doesn’t show.” “Wow. Where do the checks come from?”

“Sorry,” I say, gathering myself. “That was a totally legitimate question. This part wasn’t in the script. He doesn’t send checks. Our deal was pretty cut and dried—I get the house, the mortgage, the credit card debt, and the pleasure of supporting the kids and myself. And he gets to walk away. I didn’t argue because I didn’t want to have to sell the house. And I actually might have ended up paying him alimony for the rest of his life. And then I’d probably have to kill him. So. This was for the best.” “I’m starting to see why Ruth was so nonplussed when Trevor left. So just like in the movie, he’s sort of too good to work?” “ ‘Hamiltons don’t work for other people.’ That’s sort of their thing. His great-grandfather actually worked hard and made a fortune in cattle. Ben grew up with that wealth but didn’t really internalize the ‘work hard’ part of the story. It’s like he missed the part where his great-grandfather shoveled cow shit for years before he made it. So he dabbles. He tries lots of stuff that doesn’t work out, mainly because other people are incompetent.” I hold his gaze to show him that I really am okay with it. Which I am. Not the part that he’s made no effort to see or contact the kids in nearly a year, that part lives in my chest in the form of an easily triggered rage. But the part where Ben is who he is and it’s not my problem anymore, that’s fine with me.

“What happened to the see-through nightgown?” “I learned my lesson,” I say with a sisterly nudge.

The bed is unmade, and I imagine I can see the outline of him sleeping there. He’d be on his side with the line of his bare back mimicking the curve of the headboard. Oh my God, Nora, stop it.

“Pumpkin farm? Is that even a thing?” “Oh, you’re going to have to come back here in October.” “Okay,” he says, and I start typing again.

There’s a case of French wine on the counter and a box of cupcakes from Cupcake Castle in SoHo. I get the chills just thinking about how excited my kids are going to be. When I get back from picking up the kids, Leo is up and unpacking the case of wine. “We can’t keep drinking that awful chardonnay. I hear this pairs perfectly with . . . What do we eat on Tuesdays?” “Tacos,” my kids say together. “Ah, of course.” He’s laid out the cupcakes on a platter I didn’t know I had and watches them disappear with satisfaction. I am aware that this sparkly scene is a fantasy, but I let myself enjoy it. Smiling children and the promise of fine wine with a terrifyingly attractive man. Thursday’s going to be brutal.

“Forbidden,” says Leo. “You’re not getting anywhere near that script.” “Duh,” says Arthur. “I’ll just stay here and work with Leo.” He remembers himself and turns to Leo. “I mean, if you’re not busy.” “Dude, if there’s one thing I’m not, it’s busy. There isn’t even Wi-Fi back there.”

I’m horrified by how I lie in bed at night and wait for the sound of his feet walking up the stairs to the bathroom. I’m ashamed of how my whole system is on overdrive the second I wake up, how I’ve taken to washing my hair every day.

“Let’s watch Valentine Reunion.” “Let me guess. High-powered female executive returns to her hometown and runs into her high school boyfriend.” “She’s a professional pastry chef. But yes.” We’re all laughing, and Leo’s handing me a glass of the most delicious wine ever.

“So, this is your last Laurel Ridge sunrise.” “No. This is day six, which includes night six, which includes the sunrise tomorrow. What time’s checkout?” “We’re pretty relaxed about that here.” He looks at me with something that resembles gratitude, and I wonder if this time has done him any good. “Are you glad you stayed? I mean, do you feel any better?” “I feel pretty good. I was just thinking how much I miss being a part of a family. Like when I was growing up, we were this unit, and there was so much give-and-take. My brother, Luke, and I had to share food and space and attention. Now I barely see him, and my life’s all about me. It’s exhausting.” “Must be nice,” I say out loud by mistake. He gives me a nudge. “I know I sound like an asshole, but look at your life. You live for your kids, and they live for you. There’s something almost sacred about what you have. In my life, I live for my career, and all the people around me are paid to live for my career. I swear last Thanksgiving I looked around my table and realized everyone there was on my payroll.” “Come on. You must have had some kind of normal relationship. Like with a woman who liked you and laughed at your lame jokes.” “Sure, tons. But the thing is they all liked me before they met me, like they fell in love with something they saw in People magazine. When my mom died, I thought: I just lost the last woman in the world who knew me. Of course, I don’t bother getting to know them either.” “I met Ben so young tha...

I want to tell him he’s welcome to stay, that maybe another week or two of this is just what he needs. But I know I’m on a slippery slope, because he’s brought something with him, and he’s going to take it when he leaves.

“Oh shit. Sorry. This is your bed. What time is it?” “It’s two-thirty. I came out to bring you some tea and you were passed out. I guess I was too late.” He’s really close to me. And I’m lying down. I don’t know how I can sit up without getting even closer to him, so I just stay lying down. “I was writing a lot of really terrible scenes. Bad writing wears me out.” I’m still not entirely awake. “What have you been doing?” “Pacing. Waiting for you to finish writing.” My stomach drops. “Oh?” is all I can muster. “Yeah.” He gets up and starts pacing the short length of the room. “I’m not sure about Arthur. I mean we were ready last night, but today, after a full day of school, he could have forgotten all of it. I mean, what if it’s a disaster?” Oh, sweet reality. Thank you. I sit up, scoot back, and comb my hair with my fingers. I am a person and a mother again. “Leo, he’s ten. This is an elementary school play. Half the kids will throw up or start crying during the rehearsal. Arthur’ll be fine.” “What time do we pick him up?” “Oh my God. Okay.” I stand up and take a deep breath. “I’m really off my game. I’m in charge of the kids during rehearsal, like the ones waiting backstage.” I check my phone. “I’ve got to go.” Leo follows me out. “I’m coming. You can’t make me wait here.” “Fine. We’ll leave in ten. I need to organize dinner.” “I’ll do that. What do we eat on Wednesdays again?” “Surprise me,” I say.

“Legs!” Leo said as I came back down the stairs. On my advice, he changed from jeans into linen pants. Leo is absolutely focused, moving like we should have been there hours ago. We pass through security (“he’s my houseguest”), and we have to show our drivers’ licenses. The security guard looks at Leo’s and says, “For real?” Leo replies, “ ’Fraid so.”

“Stop it.” “What?” “The smoldering.” He stops walking. “I don’t smolder you.” I turn to face him, and I just ask it. “Why not?” Leo holds my gaze. “I wish I knew.” Now, there’s only so long you can stand that close to Leo Vance and look into his eyes without melting into molten lava, so I say, “Well, stop smoldering the other unsuspecting middle-aged ladies around here. Come on.”

There’s a large metal box waiting for us on the porch, warming three brick oven pizzas from Mario’s in the city. On top is a bag with a huge chopped salad and four cannoli. Apparently, Leo has taken care of dinner.

Arthur sits a little taller than usual, his quiet uncertainty morphing into quiet confidence. It hasn’t been the role in the play, I realize, it’s been the attention and interest Leo’s shown him. I think Arthur feels supported.

“So, tonight’s your last night?” Leo looks at me, and I look at my wineglass. I don’t know what my face is doing but he doesn’t need to see it. Arthur is silent. “Well, this is awkward,” he says. “I’ve been offered a job in town, co-director of Oliver Twist. I sort of promised Brenda I’d stay until opening night.” Bernadette squeals, and Arthur is still. “That’s three weeks away,” he says. “It is.” Leo fills both of our glasses. “Well, that’s nice of you,” I start. “I mean, you want to do that? Of course, you can stay.” I cannot be casual. I cannot find my normal voice. “Thank you. Now, what’s it time for? Homework?”

I putter around the kitchen, setting up the coffee maker for what will now not be Leo’s last morning here. My relief is profound, but I’m clued in enough to know that it’ll only be worse in three weeks when he leaves. And my kids, they adore him. I can’t decide if it’s healthy for my kids to know what it’s like to have a man around who is interested in their lives, or if it’s just going to make the pain they feel about Ben worse when Leo leaves. At least he’s leaving us with something—a successful school-play memory. He’s here for the play, and the duration of that play is finite. No one’s going to be surprised when he goes.

“Join me?” he asks. I grab another glass. Bernadette’s art project is on the armchair so I sit on the couch by his socked feet. “Thanks for letting me stay,” he starts. “Thanks for helping my kid.” He raises his glass in a toast, and I raise mine back and wait for him to speak. He puts it down. “I think toasting is really pretentious.” “Same.” “Do you think I should quit acting?” I turn my whole body to him, pulling my legs onto the couch. “No. No one does. What are you talking about?” “I don’t know. I’ve made a lot of movies, and I’m only forty. I could have a whole second life, not being famous. Using the self-checkout gun.” “You’re just burned out. You’ve made three movies in two years. This is a reset, and honestly, I’m really glad you’re here. But you’ll get excited about the next role, and you’ll be back at it.” “I just sort of like doing this.” “You’d get sick of it.” “Are you?” “Not at all.” He smiles. “Can I tell you a secret?” I try to hide the excitement in my voice. “Sure.” “I’ve watched the Christmas movies on TRC. I love them.” “You do not.” I try to contain the smile that is overtaking my face. “I do. When I’m home for the holidays, my mom and I stay up late and watch two or three in a row. Or we did. She liked the young people falling in love; I like the overly wreathed houses and the moms cooking things. And everyone stressing about how the lights are hung.” He takes a sip of his wine. “It’s a guilty pleasure.” “What’s your favorite?” Pick one of mine! Pic...

On Saturday, Leo wants to come to Bernadette’s soccer game. He can’t believe how many trees line the field and how comfortable my stadium chairs are. He thinks Bernadette is unusually aggressive for a girl her age and should have a private trainer before middle school. I roll my eyes a lot and try not to look at his feet. He’s wearing flip-flops for the first time, I guess on account of the warmer weather. His feet are like his hands, strikingly beautiful but strong. I think of those feet walking up and down my stairs in the middle of the night. I try to never think about his hands.

“So what happens here on Saturday nights?” he asks us on the way home from Arthur’s extra-innings disastrous Little League game. “I have a sleepover at Sasha’s,” says Bernadette. “I have a birthday party,” says Arthur. “Oh, looks like we’re out of luck. Can I take you out to dinner?” Giggles from the back seat and now I might be blushing. I crack the window. “Sure.” “Someplace decent?” “We have a bistro in town that’s very good. Don’t be a snob.” Leo rolls his eyes in the rearview mirror to more giggles.

I think I’m wearing too much makeup, but I have no one to ask. I’m not comfortable with black stuff on my eyes, and I feel mildly like an assault victim. But it seems rude not to make a little effort on a Saturday night, so I pick my navy blue silk dress, the one with no sleeves in case I sweat. My hair is right today, thank God for small favors. “You’re a grown-up person,” I tell my reflection. “Don’t act like a teenager.” “Damn,” he says as I walk into the kitchen. He’s in a crisp white shirt and a navy blazer. He’s shaved and smiling, and well, he looks like a movie star. “Too much?” I really just need someone to be honest with me. “Just right.”

faints. “I don’t want to be a pain, but would it be possible to seat us at that table over there?” He motions to a table nestled in front of a banquette. After one glass of wine, I forget that my entire community is staring at us. We’re laughing about how he charmed those poor women into working on the play. We talk about the kids, like they’re a shared interest of ours. He wants to know about my brief career in publishing, and his responses make me realize I learned more than I thought. “Do you date?” he wants to know. “No.” “Never?” “Never.” “Why not?” “These are some pretty rural suburbs. Singles don’t exactly congregate here. Plus, I get up early, as you know.” “Are you ever lonely?” “Not as lonely as I was when I was married to Ben.”

When our desserts come, he wants to play his new favorite game, Romance Movie. “Okay, here’s one. Male talk-show host from Akron, Ohio.” I stab a bite of chocolate cake as I think. “He goes out to the country to interview a reclusive movie star and falls for her caregiver, who probably dreams of opening a cupcake shop.” “They all do.” “An inordinate number of bakers in these movies,” I agree. “And no one’s overweight.” “Community activity at the end?” “Hmm.” I take a bite and think it over. “Oh. He’s going to MC the auction for the county fair.” “Where she’ll be selling cupcakes.” “Naturally.” “And he has to leave before the event, breaks her heart but then comes back and there’s a big kiss,” he says. “The kiss is never really that big, actually.” He’s finished his wine, so I pour him half of mine. “So that’s it?” he asks. “Well, there’s small stuff. If either of them has parents, they’re always exceptionally loving and self-sufficient. No one’s parents are a pain.” I take another bite of cake. “And the woman usually has a quirk that would be annoying to most men, but that this particular guy finds irresistible.” “Seriously?” “It’s part of the fantasy. Like the woman who’s really uptight and makes tons of lists appeals to the musician who needs to get his act together.” “This is diabolical. What about the lunatic woman who schedules her life to run like a Swiss watch?” “Well,” I say, draining my glass and placing my napkin on the table, “she gets a lot of shit done. But, i...

“Want to get that light?” I say. “No,” he says and steps right behind me. “Oh,” I say, turning around. He moves a loose tendril of hair from my eyes and rests his hand on the side of my neck. I can’t remember his having touched me before, and from the tingly heat spreading through my body, I think I would have remembered. I cannot look him in the eye, but I can feel him studying me in the dark. He leans in, and his face is so close that our noses brush against each other. His breath is on my lips. The space between us is electric with want, mostly mine probably, and I’m afraid to meet his eyes because he’ll see all that want, laid bare. For some reason I want to stay in this moment, ride this line, so I can both know and not know what’s about to happen. It will be the Schrödinger’s cat of kisses. He whispers my name and moments pass. I finally raise my eyes to his, and Leo kisses me. First a small, testing kiss and then an endless kiss that dissolves me. He is kissing me with such urgency that I want to believe he’s been imagining this as often as I have. There is nothing in the world more natural or inevitable than his hands on my hips, my hands in his hair. I don’t know where I am when headlights are pulling into my driveway. A car door opens and closes, and Leo mutters, “Arthur.”

“Good night, sweetie. I’ll be right up to tuck you in.” I say this because it’s what I say. Every single night. There is no part of me that wants to leave this kitchen.

“I’ll see you for sunrise,”

“Is there any way to get Bernadette a ride to Yardsmouth?” “Why?” I’m still not looking at him. “Because if we did, we could be alone here from eleven-thirty to two.” He’s looking at me now. I flush, like actually flush. “Oh,” I say. “Can we?” “I’ll call Jenna,” I say. I still haven’t looked at him, but he reaches for my hand under the blanket. Like that’s the most normal thing in the world.

“Do you have something today?” I stop on the stairs. I look at him and then, finally, at Leo. “Why?” “That dress. Do you have a party?” I look down at my yellow sundress, and I don’t really have an explanation. My regular T-shirt and jeans uniform didn’t seem good enough today. Maybe on some unconscious level I think jeans are hard to get off and leave seam lines on your skin? I silently curse myself for showing my hand. “Oh, I’m a little behind on laundry. Why don’t you grab Howie’s gift and I’ll drop you at the movie theater.” “Mom. It’s only ten-thirty.” “Right.” Leo’s at the kitchen counter pretending to read something on his phone, but I catch him stifling a laugh.