ABSTRACT
Cyma Rubin flashed her eyes at Lea as we entered Sardi’s following the opening night performance of Raisin, and spoke to me in an audacious stage whisper. “She’s absolutely stunning!” A year later, we were in our Sherman Oaks hillside home and Cyma Rubin was at the door. She had come to Los Angeles to finalize plans for me to direct and choreograph, Dr. Jazz, the new Broadway musical she was to produce. I led her upstairs into the L shaped living/dining area with its expanse of glass windows overlooking the valley below. “What a lovely home you have.” “Thank you. Can I get you something cool to drink.” Lea went off to get the mineral water requested by Cyma, who continued her inspection of the room and then wandered out onto the patio. Lea came up to me as I was about to follow Cyma and handed me an icy tumbler of bubbling water with a slice of lime. “Here, please give this to her, and don’t let her into the bedroom. If she wants to use the bathroom, send her downstairs. Guy’s bathroom is a mess.” “What’s the matter, dear?” “I don’t know. Call it a chemical reaction. I just don’t like that woman. I don’t want her around my personal things.”
