Page 9 of Truly, Madly, Deeply

“Do mine ears deceive me or am I hearing laymen speak in the Sondheim room?” Dad’s voice came booming down the hall. He paused in the doorway of the sunroom, a spritz in one hand and a tray in the other. “Tut, tut. You know the rule, Truly Scrumptious Livingston—”

“Not my middle name,” she grumbled.

Dad managed to look astounded. “Diane, dear, what is this nonsense I hear?”

“Impossible!” Mom gasped, playing along, pressing the back of her hand against her forehead and swooning against the arm of the sofa. “Oh, Stanley, it can’t be! The Poor Thing must be mistaken.”

“You both know it’s Stella.” After Stella Adler, famed actress and acting teacher. There was a signed picture of her hanging in the upstairs hall, for Christ’s sake.

Dad ignored her. “Diane, did you hear something?”

Mom cupped one hand around her ear. “Perhaps...”

“You can’t be serious.”

Mom tutted. “Must’ve just been the Rain on the Roof.”

Truly buried her face in her hands, muffling a groan.

One rule was enforced in the Livingston household, and one rule only. Every room on the lower level of the house—save for the foyer and halls—was named after a composer of musical theater. There was the Sondheim sunroom, the Andrew Lloyd Webber living room, the Irving Berlin half bath, and last, but not least, the Gershwin garage, where Truly’s father spent the bulk of his free time tinkering around on his precious vintage cars, clothed in custom-made coveralls splattered with grease, humming showtunes.

If you wanted to carry on a conversation within the confines of one of these spaces? You’d better know a song or twelve. Titles and lyrics were fair game; Truly relied heavily on the former, refusing to sing.

If history had taught her anything, it was easier to just give in. “I said, it’s Stella. Remember?”

“Ah, Stella!” Dad took a step over the threshold and thus began his inclusion in the awful, awful tradition. “Glad T’ See Ya, Truly m’dear.”

Truly took the Aperol Spritz from him. “Sometimes when I’m around you two I feel like I’m Losing My Mind.”

“Well, sure you are.” Dad slid the bridge of his thick black-framed glasses up his nose and grinned. “Home is the Place you can be yourself, after all.”

Truly choked, sputtering out an indignant laugh. Prosecco dripped off her chin, one drop soaking into the wool of her skirt. “Did you just call me crazy?” Um... “Overture?”

She tended to abuse those when playing Mom and Dad’s silly little showtunes game; overtures, preludes, and finales were free spaces as far as she was concerned.

Dad snorted. “Truly—”

“For Once in Your Life, give the girl a break. This is brunch, not one of your guest lectures.”

Dad heaved a hearty sigh. “I can see I’ve been ganged up on.” He brandished the tray balanced on his right hand. “These might not be The Worst Pies in London, but I did manage to whip up a quick brunch torte and of course your favorite, Truly.”

“Nonna Luzzatto’s bouche de dame?”

“The one and only, All For You, Buttercup.” Dad set the white cake adorned with almonds down on the coffee table and razzle-dazzled his fingers. “Ta-da!”

The scent of sugared almonds hit her nose, nutty and sweet, and her mouth watered.

She snatched a plate off the table and thrust it at Dad. “I Love You Et Cetera. Cut me a slice, please.”

Dad took the plate from her with a warm smile. “Catch me up. What were you Lovely Ladies discussing while I was playing bartender? Any good Gossip? Share, share.”

“Men,” Mom supplied, digging her fork into her breakfast torte. “We were discussing men.”

“Men?” He sounded intrigued. “Oh, do tell, Buttercup. Was Justin The Reason Why you stomped in here today in such a mood?”

“I wasn’t in a mood, and no, we weren’t talking about Justin. But now that we are, I might as well let you know that Justin and I are no longer together. I’m, um... back to looking for my Happily Ever After.”

“Oh, sweetie.” Mom rubbed Truly’s arm. “What happened?”

---