A Different Kind of Forever(3)
When Diane decided to take Sam French’s playwriting class a few years later, she wrote about the four women coming together: but in addition to those four characters, the four different mothers and all those ex-lovers became part of the story, stepping in and out of conversations, and having discussions of their own that ran counterpoint to what the women had to say. Only in theater could the line between fantasy and reality be so easily crossed. Diane wrote steadily, her fingers tripping over each other in her eagerness to get the words down, and Sam French loved the result, doing the piece the following year as a read-through in a Master’s workshop. Then he asked if he could direct it in full as part of the winter schedule. Franklin-Merriweather had never done an original work before. This would be a first.
It would be a busy summer for her. In addition to the play, she would be teaching a graduate level class the following year, beginning in January. Normally, she would spend at least part of the summer traveling, but this year she would be home with her daughters for the whole three months, working.
She was lucky when she got to work. She slipped into her office unnoticed and began to read through the notes Sam French had left for her. Act 1’s second and fifth scenes were dragging. She made the changes, working on the hard copy before putting changes into the computer. She lived in terror of the computer losing everything, and would print out any and all changes in addition to saving them onto a disk.
Marianne Thomas poked her head in a few minutes before class. She was 50, almost six feet tall, and the most beautiful woman Diane had ever known. Part Chinese, part African-American, Marianne was brilliant, a lesbian, and had been Diane’s good friend for years, besides being her boss.
“Can I have a minute?” she asked.
Diane nodded, hit the save button, and turned to her friend. “Ten minutes. What’s up?”
“I’m thinking of using Torino’s for the picnic. You’ve had their food, what do you think?”
Diane pursed her lips. Every year, at the end of spring term, Marianne invited all Dickerson’s faculty to a picnic at her old farmhouse. It had become something of a tradition, and Marianne took it very seriously.
“They’re good, but they’re kind of a small operation. Can they handle that many people?”
Marianne looked thoughtful. “Good point. I’ll have to think. I may get a country western band to play instead of a DJ. I think it would be a hoot. Can you imagine Peter Ferrell trying to line dance? It might be worth the thousand dollars for that alone.”
Diane grinned. “You’re awful. He is a perfectly nice man, why do you pick on him so much?”
“Because he honestly believes the spaceship is due back any day now. Isn’t that why you stopped dating him?”
“No. Well, maybe. He was a little too cerebral for me.”
Marianne snorted delicately. “And this from a woman who reads Tibetan poetry for fun. How about a movie this weekend? Something in English, please?”
Diane nodded. “Sure. Saturday night. But we’ll have to make it late. Megan’s car-wash fundraiser is Saturday, and I’ve got the afternoon shift.”
“You’ll be washing cars? In public? Lord, Diane, surely you could just write a check?”
Diane began to gather up her books. “I’m a single parent, remember, trying to live on a professor’s salary. I don’t have the disposable income of certain, unencumbered people. Besides, it’ll be fun, out in the sunshine, playing with hoses and soapy water.”
“Playing with hoses? God, I could never be a parent.”
Diane smiled. “Maybe not. Can you walk with me? I have an issue, I think, with my class.”
They walked across campus, Diane explaining her problem with trying to get an outline together. Marianne agreed to get a meeting together next week, they picked a movie for Saturday, and parted. Diane had two classes, both senior seminars. They were her favorite classes, and they sped by. Afterwards, she ran into the grocery store and then hurried home to her daughters.
The week went by quickly. On Friday morning, Emily mentioned that her father would be picking the girls up early. Diane looked at her suspiciously.
“What? What are you cooking up now?”
Emily rolled her eyes. “He just needs to talk to you, okay? It’s not such a big deal.”
Diane looked at Megan, who lifted her shoulders and shook her head. “Sorry Mom, not a clue.”
Emily huffed and ran back upstairs. Diane looked back at Megan, who was putting her cereal bowl in the sink.