The Ruby Tear by Suzy McKee Charnas

of course not—Marie was right. The man was a talented performer and he seemed to like Jess in a collegial way. But if he could lay hands on such a lovely object as this, he’d probably use it woo his wife back again.
    The Sinclairs were famous for their long-lasting but wildly stormy marriage. At the moment they were in the fourth month of another separation. Sinclair had always taken back his beautiful Sally when she could be persuaded to return. He would undoubtedly do so again.
    Jess wondered if she would ever find such a devoted life partner for herself (not Nick, of course; she must give up that idea once and for all). Suddenly she couldn’t wait to leave the cramped dressing room.
    She rode uptown with Sinclair, preparing mentally to dazzle the subscribers and maybe help squeeze a little more out of them in contributions to the theater’s expenses. The party was on the penthouse floor of an apartment building on Central Park West. All the way there Sinclair told her theatrical stories of disasters and saves, ruins and triumphs. He complimented her on what she had done so far with the character of Eva.
    “Thanks for the encouragement,” she said. “I don’t feel that I’m really up to speed yet. I’m blowing lines that are right there on paper in front of me, for God’s sake—”
    “That’s only to be expected, Jessamyn,” Sinclair said. His voice, a deep baritone that could effortlessly reach the back of the largest theater in Manhattan, lowered even more with disapproval. “Though I don’t think Walter’s constant carping helps.”
    “No, he is being helpful,” Jess said. “Everybody is.”
    “Everyone except our author,” Sinclair said. “My bet is that he won’t even show up on opening night.”
    Jess sighed. “Don’t blame him. The accident hurt him a lot more than it hurt me.”
    “Well, he doesn’t deserve to have you sticking up for him,” the actor said warmly. “I know you and Griffin were an item, but I have to say it anyway and hope you’ll forgive me: maybe he just doesn’t have the nerve for the opening of his first stage play.”
    “Anthony, don’t be unfair,” she responded. “It took nerve for Nick to sneak medical supplies through the lines at Sarajevo. And then to come back and write about it all so vividly—not just to live through the bombardments and the sniper fire and the deaths of people around him, but to relive it all for the script—”
    “But who’s taking the risks now, may I ask? Who’s actually preparing to go onstage in front of everyone, armed with nothing but someone else’s words and her own native wit and talent, to be cheered or jeered when the curtain comes down? You, my dear; you, and me.”
    “And Billy Calthorpe, and Anita MacNeil, among others,” Jess reminded him, amused to see Sinclair’s actorly egotism obliterating the lesser members of the cast.
    “Jessamyn Croft,” he said with a sigh, “I wonder how you’ve come this far in the theater—and believe me, you have come far—without losing your sweetness and generosity.”
    She blushed and began to deny any special virtue, but Sinclair touched her lips with his forefinger to stop her protestations. “As one who long ago lost his own best qualities, I know whereof I speak; and I know how important it is to be reminded that one can be both a fine performer and a decent human being.”
    She was suddenly very aware of his physical presence beside her on the bench seat, the deep and supple voice flowed, the barest pressure of his thigh against her own.
    Good grief, this was all she needed: advances from an attractive man, an accomplished man—a married man, no matter how rockily. She had to work with him, closely, for an unspecified length of time. Besides that, she liked him. What could she say to preserve the necessary distance between them without ruffling his feathers?
    There was a considerable gap in their ages, and if she felt it he certainly must. Actors are sensitive