A Different Kind of Forever - By Dee Ernst Page 0,26

tone.”

Marie fished out a tape measure from a pile of tools and brushes in the middle of the floor, and Diane measured and explained to Angela and her sisters. Michael leaned against the doorjamb and watched her happily. She was beautiful, he decided. She had changed with surprising speed from her overalls to faded jeans and a blue-and-white striped tee shirt, and had brushed the dust from her glossy dark hair. Her face looked warm and flushed without make-up. Her eyes flashed as she pointed and explained. He felt the stirrings of desire, faint, familiar.

“Can I go now?” he called.

Marie, Angela and Denise all turned at the same time and said “No.” Diane giggled.

“Come on,” he pleaded. “There’s a million dollars worth of higher education in this room. Can’t you figure it out?”

“No, we can’t,” Angela said shortly. “We need the Princeton touch.”

Diane’s eyes popped open. “You went to Princeton?”

Michael was shaking his head. “No, I was accepted, but I never went. I wanted Julliard.” He shrugged. “I can’t see myself as a mathematician at this point, can you?”

“Math? Good Lord.” Diane was dumbfounded. “Well, do you think you can figure out what the perimeter of this room is, and how many sixteen inch stripes we can get in here?”

“Sure.” He reached for the pencil, and soon scrawled some numbers on the back of the paint sample. “Can I go play with the boys now?” he asked Angela.

His sister rolled her eyes and pushed him out of the room. Diane organized the women, and they were soon measuring and taping off their stripes, Angela carefully checking with the level. The women worked quickly, Diane mixing the glaze and paint, showing them how to work the dry brush. They all chatted non-stop. The sisters were all within ten years of Diane’s age, and they found plenty to talk about. At one point, Neil Bellini slipped away from the back yard to check on the women, and returned smiling.

“They’re all singing,” he reported happily.

Michael was holding a cedar post as Steve was pouring cement around the base. “That’s a good sign,” he said.

“Yeah. Crosby, Stills and Nash. Apparently Diane is an alto, and they finally have somebody willing to do harmony.”

Michael grinned. “Really? Very cool.”

Steve Tishman worked his shovel into the cement, then leveled it quickly. “I’m supposed to be pumping you for information,” he said to Michael. “You know your sisters. They want all the details.” Steve was very fond of his brother-in-law. He and Neil both were. Michael was one of them, despite the fame and money. He attended birthdays, helped clean up after holidays, or, like today, helped put together swing sets. He bought lavish gifts for the families, but always asked before bestowing anything on one of the kids. Steve had been married to Marie for over nineteen years, and had helped the family raise Michael.

Michael looked up. “She’s different from anyone I’ve ever met. Tell them that. It’ll keep them buzzing for weeks.”

“She’s nice,” Steve declared. “She was real friendly last night, and it was a zoo back there after the show. And her daughters were very polite. You can tell a lot about a person from their kids, you know.”

Nick Bellini looked interested. “And she works at Dickerson? Watch out, Mike. Smart women are killers. Just ask us. We’re married to your sisters. We know.”

Michael started laughing as Dave Adamson walked into the back yard.

“Mike, got a minute?” he called.

Nick looked over. “Go on, Michael. We’ve got this.” Michael went back into the house and sat at the kitchen table.

Dave was not as good-looking as his brother Joey, but he was still handsome. He sat down across from Michael, holding a large brown envelope.

“I’ve got everything here for Toronto,” he said to Michael. “This looks like it could be very good for us.” By ‘us’, Dave meant the band. “This director is top-notch. I don’t know shit about film, but people who do know are impressed. Sammy did good.”

“Sammy is a pain in my ass,” Michael grumbled, taking the envelope from David and spilling the contents onto the coffee table. There was a fat script, tickets, and stray sheets covered with notes.

Sammy was Sam Adamson, Dave and Joey’s younger brother. Sam wanted to put together a deal with Gordon Prescott, a brilliant theatrical director who occasionally turned out independent films. Sam had pitched Michael to score Prescott’s next film, wrapping in Toronto, and Prescott had taken the bait. It was now up to Michael to visit