Remembrance
by Katy Campbell (katy@gate.net)

Summary: On a late night in London Jeff Singer deals with some
thoughts of his leading lady.

Disclaimer: Jeff Singer and Hilary Booth will always belong to
Hugh O'Gorman, Melinda Mullins, and Rupert Holmes. They
also belong to AMC, and The Entertainment Group/Howard
Meltzer Productions. "I'll Remember You" belongs to Sophie
Zelmani.

Author's Note: This is my first RW fic, so please don't be too
harsh. All comments can be sent to katy@gate.net

Special Thanks to Beth for putting up with my (very often) WENN-
focused thoughts and for telling me that this story was "wow."
And thanks to MB for the title. :-)

~ ~ ~

"She's returned all my letters unopened. She won't take my calls."
Jeff Singer, "Happy Homecomings"

I'll remember you
You will be there in my heart
I'll remember you
And that is all that I can do
But I'll remember

It's back. My nightmare, that is. The same nightmare that has
haunted me for months. The one, real reminder I have from my
first visit to London. The one which caused Hilary Booth to hold
me every night for months. The one only she could chase away.

I sit up quickly, damning the dream as I have every night since I
arrived in London. I crawl from the warmth of my worn comforter
and pad quickly to the tiny kitchenette to fix myself a cup of tea.
As I pour the tea into a mug I remember, not for the first time, a
conversation with Hilary. I was right Mittens, the coffee in England
is terrible.

As quietly as possible I pull a chair away from the dining table
and sit down, staring beyond the confines of my apartment, out a
window at the war-torn city of London. Sipping at my tea, I then
glance around the room, and notice the day's mail neatly stacked
by my landlady on a corner of the table I reach over, grab the mail,
and sort through it quickly. There isn't much, a bill from a shop that
I frequent, a local magazine to which I have just subscribed, a flyer
offering free ale at a pub on the corner, and then I see it. A white
envelope letter with words "Return to Sender" scrawled across the front.
Below the hastily written message is the address of the adressee,
Miss Hilary Booth.

I pick the letter off the table and finger it gently. Oh, Hilary, why
won't you read what I have to say? Would it hurt that much?

It's a stupid question, I know. Hilary has endured a lot of pain over
the years, but I know that little could hurt as much as what I have done.
I wish though that she would let me explain. I wish that I could say "I
only did it to protect you Mittens," because I did. And I wish, no I
need, her to forgive me. Because once she does I can start to have her
back, and that, that is everything.

Great...I'm starting to sound like one of the characters from the soaps
on WENN, but I can't help saying what's true. It's funny really, that two
people, as strong as Hilary and I are, could be so helpless without each other,
but that's the way it is for us.

We didn't know that at first, of course. The first time I saw Hilary I was an
unknown actor who spent summers working in the mills, and Hilary...Hilary
was still a shining star on Broadway. I've never told her, but I saw her in
"The Rivals," her "Rivals." She was brilliant of course, and I wondered, for
weeks after what it would be like to work with Miss Hilary Booth, but I never
thought then that I would actually find out.

When, to my great surprise, I saw her again, it was to star
in Razzle Dazzle. Things had changed drastically though,
since I'd last seen her. Hilary Booth was no longer the toast
of Broadway, and behind her airs and high strung attitude, I
saw then, what I still see today. A very real, and often hurt
person. There was no doubt that she could could still act, and still
scare everyone from producers to busboys, but I saw something.
Something besides the hardened person that everyone else saw.
Something that, to my astonishment, I felt I needed to bring out.

It didn't take long to get into Hilary's good graces, a compliment
here and there does wonders. By the end of our first week on
tour we dining at a little place just outside Mexico and I, high on
the good company and wine, proposed. By nine the next evening
we were honeymooning in Matamoros.

Honeymooning...Matamoros...I look intently at a framed
photograph on the counter and sigh. I brought very little on this
trip, but one thing I could not leave was a photo of Hilary on our
honeymoon. It's something about the way she looks that makes
this photo so special. She is sitting on the balcony of our suite,
wearing a simple sundress and smiling in a way I've only seen
twice. On our honeymoon, and on the day I returned from London
Both times she was looking straight at me, and both times I knew
I was seeing a piece of her soul. And that, her soul, was what I
felt I needed to draw from Hilary Booth.

It was never easy, but I knew that from the start. Hilary is
one of the most complex people I've ever met, but that complexity
makes her fascinating. And I spent several years trying to open the
book that is Hilary Booth, but I didn't succeed till the night I came
home from London.

When I walked in the door to WENN that day the first thing
I saw was Hilary's face, and it was one emotion, pure joy. And it
hit me then, that despite our arguments, my flirting, and her stage
airs, that she loved me. Hilary Booth, once Broadway's Queen,
was in love with me. It wasn't that I hadn't thought she loved me
before, but this time it was different. This time we were both
looking past the layers we'd built over time, this time we were
seeing each other's souls.

The peace our admissions made didn't last of course. After we got
remarried we went right back to bickering self's, but something had
changed for good. At the end of the day, despite our arguments or
moods over the day, we could hold each other, safe in the knowledge
that we loved each other.

I glance down at the weathered envelope and sigh. That love, that
look at Hilary's soul? I need that as much as she does. I need some
one to look at me in that soulful way. I need some one to whisper "I
love you" in the middle of the night. I need some one to love me despite
my quirks and failings. I need Hilary Booth.

I once heard some one say that I married Hilary Booth because she
helped my career. But that's not why. I married her, because despite her
sharp verbal barbs, icy glares, and often unfriendly demeanor, I love her and
she loves me. And that is why I need to have her back in my life.

I glance down at the weathered envelope and sigh. I'm going home
in two weeks and then...then I'll get Hilary to listen.

I put the letter down and rinse my tea cup in the sink. As I walk back
to my bedroom to try to sleep again I pass the photo of Hilary and
I can think of only one thing as I study it.

"I love you Hilary."

Fin.

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