Page 73 of If Not for My Baby
But this festival’s audience was as joyous as we were—Conor ripped an incredible solo mere inches from the VIP section and Tom and I jumped around to the rising bridge of “If Not for My Baby” with more playful energy than we’ve shared in our duet yet.
As we weave through the park toward our army of Escalades, overzealous fans in floral festival wear descend on Tom like ants on syrup. The security keeps them mostly at bay, but we are still ushered along as if they might fail in holding the herd back any minute now. Hell hath no fury like a teenage girl in a flower crown who doesn’t get a selfie with Tom Halloran.
To his credit, Tom smiles graciously at every single face. He accepts every friendship bracelet and piece of handmade art. Jokes with the nervous fans until they’re comfortable. Presses his hands to his heart in genuine appreciation for those who can’t help but weep. The love these people have for him…it’s powerful. His music has affected each of them in ways that might last a lifetime. His poignant love songs, somebody’s first dance at their wedding. His ruthless ballads, the therapy to someone’s suffering. I scan the teary faces, the handcrafted signs, the camera flashes—and my heart swells.
“Clementine,” Indy calls to me over the ruckus. “I want you to meet someone.”
My eyes follow Tom as he slides his baseball cap over his head and waves once more to the fans before climbing into his car. Indy and I traverse the park and the sound of wailing fans dissipates. The sun hangs low in the sky, tuckered out and ready for sleep. That gentle summer breeze hasn’t left the trees, and the memory of our sunny, private morning shines over me. The memory of how good it felt to gorge myself on more than just a meager slice of him.
“Jacob!” Indy speed-walks toward a Black man with a dimpled smile and thin-rimmed glasses. He stands tall in a loosely buttoned shirt and blue jeans near the back entrance of SummerStage. He’s got a VIP festival badge around his neck and is texting someone feverishly when we reach him.
“Sorry, one sec,” he says,lip held between his teeth in stress. “Putting out six different fires today.”
So this is the famous ex-boyfriend. He kind of reminds me of Jen, but in a less Machiavellian way.
Indy taps her foot until Jacob puts his phone away with a sigh and scoops her into a warm hug. “All done. Nice work, you guys. He’s something else. Best set I saw today.”
“Clementine, meet Jacob,” Indy says. “He’s an old friend of mine from NYU who produces shows here in the city.”
My eyes bulge. “Shows likeBroadwayshows?”
“Yeah. You were something else, too,” Jacob says. “I listen to sopranos try to hit the notes you nailed all day long.Trybeing the operative word.”
“Thank you so much.”
“You act, too, don’t you?”
A light turns on behind Indy’s eyes and she shines it at me until I say, “I used to. What gave me away?”
“You and Halloran seemed seriously in love up there. That’s a smart way to sell albums.”
Any blood that had been circulating through my face has drained into my shoes. I’m sure I look morbidly pale.
“Clementine is a musical theater nerd. She can sing, dance, act. She was Annie inFunny Girlback in high school.”
I cringe at the same time Jacob kindly corrects her. “You mean Fanny.”
“Fanny Girl?”
Jacob just looks at her like she is the cutest thing he’s ever seen.
“The role inFunny Girlis Fanny Brice,” I explain.
“You wereAnnie, too, though, right? Like the orphan?”
“Yeah. And inAnnie Get Your Gun.”
Jacob studies me. “That’s a lot of leading roles, and not an insignificant range. Were these touring shows?”
“Oh, no.” There’s something soul-sucking about correcting him. “This was back in my high school theater program. Amateur stuff.”
Indy isn’t a fan of sarcasm, but she still tries. “Clementine is excellent at selling herself.”
“Evidently.” Jacob half grins and Indy bats her big lashes in his direction. I’m debating slinking into the bushes to give them some privacy, when he says to me, “Well, you’d have to be a decent dancer, too, to perform nightly at the Richard Rodgers.”
The Richard Rodgers—the 1920s theater you picture when you imagine an awning dotted in little yellow lights, red velvet chairs, and decadent, gothic architecture. The birthplace of bothIn the HeightsandHamilton. I can’t even formulate a suitable response.
“She is,” Indy says definitively. “She’s phenomenally talented.”
