out the café door before I knew it, high-heel boots clicking on the pavement, wool cape flying in the wind
like a sail.
She asked me to do a short play with her about an evangelical preacher, and I told her I wanted to
go to an Evensong service at the Episcopal Cathedral, and she should come with me.
Reluctantly she agreed, filling me in on her Pentecostal upbringing and as we sat in the Gothic carved
wooden choir loft seats listening to old hymns, and throughout the whole service she seemed as nervous
as a cat, ready to spring and run out the door, never singing a note even with her beautiful voice I’d heard
after a few glasses of wine one night.
I took her to the Hungarian cafe across the street from the Cathedral after the service, and we talked
about religion, and our experiences with it, good and bad,
“I don’t like churches, mister!” she told me, “and if I didn’t love you, I wouldn’t be here!” and
grabbing her cellphone, saying she had to go, she ran out the door.
I was having lunch with one of my New York friends, a big time theatre producer, who’s caustic
nature I could only live with once or twice a year, and the subject of Maria came up.
“Maria Rivera,” he said with a knowing laugh in his voice, “she’s a piece of work!”
“How?” I cautiously asked him.
“Good actress, but you hear stuff about her!” You don’t know what to believe!” he said, digging into
the stroganoff he’d