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Peter, eventually.”
    Sam stared back out to the stage and Peter said nothing. So, he asked if she wanted to hand it off, he had wanted her to step aside to make things more comfortable. He had pranced back into her life without an explanation other than that he was there to save the theater, and now, now after four years, he wanted to talk? You want to talk? Let ’ s talk. Sam let the anger course through her, it was good to feel something other than pain.
    “Are you happy, Peter?”
    He didn’t know what to say. There was no right answer. He went with a gentle dodge.
    “I, I’m happy that I’m able to help out the theater. Yes, I’m happy.”
    Sam, recognizing a classic Peter maneuver, shook her head.
    “Is that easier? Walking away, skirting around things?”
    “Sam.”
    He went to touch her arm, turn her to face him.
    “No, don’t,” she held up her hand, still looking at the stage. “You know, you write plays, ‘words to paper’ as Mr. Keeley used to say.”
    Peter noticed the reference, Keeley had been his favorite English teacher in junior high school, but the memory faded as Sam continued.
    “Do you ever get onstage and read your words? Step out into the light and live in the world you create, or are you always on the sidelines? Observing, sitting in the dark theater? Critiquing. Like when we were kids, always watching me onstage, watching Grady get the dates. Ever get out there?”
    Sam could feel her breath quicken, but there was no turning back.
    “Oh wait, you did make a move, on me, right? Confused the hell out of me and then ran back to the sidelines. That’s right. Is that what you want to talk about, Peter?”
    Peter instantly felt like he did as a child when his father took him out too far in the ocean. Shit , he thought.
    “Are you ever on the stage for the whole damn thing, Peter? The good parts and the ugly parts?”
    Sam turned to face him fully now. Peter decided it was best to treat this like a bear attack, so he locked onto her eyes and spoke softly.
    “Sam, I was there with you, but I needed . . .”
    “You, you needed. Oh wow, yes let’s talk about what you needed.” Her anger became too much and she actually let out an odd laugh.
    “Peter, it’s always been about you, hasn’t it? You’re a character of your own design. How can a person be so there with me one minute and then coldly walk away. That person . . . Christ! Do you have anything to say?”
    Sam laughed again, it was all she could muster.
    The cleaning crew rolled in with their equipment, Peter said nothing, and Sam decided she had had enough.
    “Have a good night, Peter. Good talk.”
    Sam turned and left through the double lobby doors. Her heart was beating out of her chest. He wanted to talk, and then he stood there, and she did all the work.
    “Typical bullshit,” she hissed as she stormed to the parking lot. By the time she closed herself into her car, she had pushed the pain back where it belonged.

Chapter Six
    S unday morning breakfast at the Cathner house was a tradition. Henry, the oldest, lived in Los Angeles but drove over on most Sundays. He worked as film producer for a large production company. He handled mostly art films and documentaries, carrying himself with an air of casual cool that covered his ridiculous mind for business. Henry had been recently dumped by his girlfriend Britney. This thrilled Sam because last year for Christmas she gave Sam a gift certificate to the spa for what Brit called, “seriously needed maintenance.” At Christmas, in front of her whole family. Bitch!
    Sam’s parents were, simply put, great people. Like everyone else, they had their flaws and just enough dysfunction to foster a dry sense of humor and material for great stories. Sam not only loved her parents, she liked being around them. Jack, her dad, came from money, but he worked at being so much more. When someone asked him what he did for a living, he said, “I run the family business.” When asked what