“Who?”
Michael stared at him in astonishment. “So this is what anonymity feels like. It’s like I don’t even exist. Vickie Webber is the character I played on Tomorrow Never Comes.” Her voice rose alarmingly.
“Relax. I’m sorry. It’s only me that keeps forgetting you’re on TV. From now on I will eat, sleep and breathe Vickie Webber.” Hudson put a carton of milk in the fridge.
“Don’t bother. There’ll be another girl playing her.”
“You can always get a job with the forestry service.” Hudson winked. “We couldn’t go to half-a-million a year but the uniforms are pretty cute.”
“As long as my career problems can amuse you, Mr. Grace, that’s all that matters.” Michael slapped the magazine on the table.
“I don’t understand the problem. You have a contract, right?”
“Not exactly. It was in the process of being renegotiated. That’s why they sent my character into a coma. Presently, they are relieved of any legal obligation to me and they could recast if they felt it necessary for the good of the show. And as I am not actually in New York prepared to tape until December twenty-fourth....”
“Sounds like they’ve got you.”
“Not yet. The fat lady hasn’t sung yet, Mr. Grace. My agent is talking to them now, trying to turn this thing around.”
The phone rang as if on cue. “That’s it! It’s Barbara! I’ll get it.” Michael leapt to her feet and ran to living room. The snow storm they had driven through on the way home had escalated to a blizzard. “Barbara—talk to me,” she said breathlessly.
“Oh hi, Miss Shannon.” It was Jeremy whats-his-name. Michael swallowed disappointment. “I wondered, I mean, I know for sure you’ll want to cancel rehearsal tonight but I’m calling to confirm since you haven’t given me the go-ahead yet to inform the cast.”
“Why would we cancel rehearsal? We open tomorrow night.”
“Um, ma’am? There’s a blizzard raging outside right now so even if the actors could get to the theater, they wouldn’t be able to get home again. I’m at the theater now running the sound and light cues and following through on those tech notes you gave me yesterday.”
“Well, how are you going to get home?”
“There’s an apartment on the top floor of the theater. I’ll bunk down there. We’ll be all set for opening. The storm is supposed to end early in the morning. So, um, if you want to schedule a run-through in the afternoon, I could inform the cast.”
Michael sighed. This is what separates the professional from the amateur, she thought. The pros strap on skis and get their butts to rehearsal. “I guess I have no choice. Shoot—I’m helping out at Simon’s daycare until four o’clock. But there will still be time for a final run-through. Have everyone ready to go the minute I walk in. And Jeremy, if any of the actors are available earlier in the day, I want you to work their scenes with them. Mr. Raquette needs to be off book, no excuses. And tell Jocelyn to get rid of those clodhoppers she was wearing yesterday and wear the heels she’ll be wearing in performance.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And instruct each and every one of them to rehearse their scenes for at least two hours tonight. There is no excuse for a less than stellar performance, blizzard or no blizzard. See you tomorrow at four sharp.” Michael banged down the phone and dropped her head to her hands with a groan.
Simon trotted into the room, clambered up on her lap and looked at her expectantly. “I hungy.”
Little kids. They did not give a person a single second to have a nervous breakdown. There was always some really important need to be met, like feeding them and cleaning them and helping them sleep through a storm and buying clothes for them and setting up Christmas trees. Her career was in the dumpster and she was reduced to directing amateur theater but the three-year-old didn’t care about that. Little kids lived in the moment. “Simon, honey, I’m having what grown-ups call a tough day at the office.”
He nodded solemnly and patted her face with his grubby little hand.
A wide grin split Michael’s face. Sympathy from a three-year-old worked wonders to shake her out of herself. She lifted him in her arms and carried him to the kitchen. “All right. What should we have for dinner?”
“That’s what I was going to ask,” said Hudson. The bags were emptied and folded; the groceries sorted into the fridge and cupboards. Hudson was gazing at the bare table, his hands on his hips as if he expected dinner to appear out of the woodwork.
Michael sat Simon in his booster seat and moved to the fridge. “I bought steaks. We could have barbecue steak, baked potato with all the fixings and green beans. I’ll do the potatoes and beans. You can start the barbecue.”
“Me?”
Michael shot him a glance. Hudson’s skin had taken on an odd chalky texture. “Yes, you. Why, what’s wrong?”
“It’s a blizzard out there. You want me to barbecue in a blizzard?”
“It’s a gas barbecue. It’s not like you have to keep the flame from blowing out. And it’s under the porch out of the wind. I can see it from here. Steaks this nice shouldn’t be pan-fried.” Michael was surprised by his reaction. She thought all men loved to barbecue. Wasn’t it some sort of male rite of passage to burn a slab of beef or two?
“We don’t barbecue much. I have a small problem with gas and flame.”
Michael eyed him apprehensively. It all made sense now. A great looking guy living alone in the woods—he was probably an arsonist. “What sort of problem?”
“It makes me nervous.”
“Oh.” Michael breathed out, relieved. “Well, there’s nothing to it. Just turn the thing on and throw the meat on the grill.”
“Why don’t you do it?”
“I don’t know the first thing about barbecuing meat—I’m from New York City! Besides, I have to do the potatoes. I thought I’d shove them in the microwave.”
“You could if I had a microwave.”
Michael spun about the kitchen but the truth was undeniable—there was no microwave oven. “Don’t you like living in this century?” she wailed. “Now what am I supposed to do?”
“Put them in the oven. I guess I’ll go start the barbecue.” Hudson pulled on his parka and glanced back at her, his expression worried. “Have the fire extinguisher ready.”
“You’ll be fine, Mr. Grace.” Michael handed him the plate with the steaks on it and shoved him out the door. Fire was nothing. She had potatoes to worry about. Michael had never baked a potato the traditional way in a regular oven. The stainless steel oven in her kitchen was only ever used by the caterers. How long did a potato take anyway? Michael poured over the worn cooking times listed on the metal plate on the stove. Potatoes weren’t on the list. Women must have known how long to cook a potato back in the day. Her microwave would do a frozen stuffed potato in eight minutes. A regular oven for a potato that wasn’t frozen or stuffed—the stuffing took longer—it couldn’t take much longer than eight minutes to cook. Right?
Simon watched the proceedings from his booster seat.
Michael turned the dial to set the temperature and placed the foil wrapped potatoes on the wire rack. “Now for the beans and by the time the potatoes and steaks are done, the beans will be ready too. You don’t want to overcook vegetables, Simon, just remember that. There is nothing worse than a soggy bean,” she said snapping off their ends and dropping them in the pot.
“I hungy.” Simon stuck his thumb in his mouth. Michael was feeling a little light-headed herself. She slathered some peanut butter over a plate of crackers and set them in front of Simon. “There. That should hold you until dinner.”
While Simon shoved the crackers in his mouth, Michael turned her attention to the bottle of red wine she’d bought. There were no clean wine glasses but a search of the cupboards produced two tumblers and Michael poured out a glass for herself and Hudson. Mr. Grace was obviously not a wine drinker, she thought, taking a long grateful sip, or he would own more than two wine glasses.
What did he offer the women he invited to his cabin before they wound up in his bed? Maybe he didn’t have to offer them anything. They just fell like trees for him.
Michael carried her wine to the living room and turned on the stereo. The stereo looked older than she was, she thought wryly. Michael tuned it to a station that was playing Christmas music and heaved a sigh of contentment. Weird. At this point in the holiday season she was usually numb with stress. Carrying Toby Dart down the mountain had been scary but not stressful. Even a blizzard right before opening night wasn’t stressful because there wasn’t anything she could do about it. Just go with flow, she thought. Drink wine and enjoy the night off. What a novel way to live. Too bad it’ll be over soon and she’ll be back in the real world.
Michael bent over the fire and set another log on the flame. Simon was chattering to himself in the kitchen. With one ear tuned to the boy and the other to the snow pelting against the cabin, she turned to watch Hudson wrestle with an ancient gas barbecue. He really was adorable. Michael loved the way he squeezed his eyes shut when the gas caught and the slanted smile of relief when he realized the barbecue wasn’t going to explode. Silly man, she thought carrying their wine to the door. What harm could come to him grilling a couple of steaks?
As she opened the door, Hudson dropped the meat to the grill. A column of fire instantly whooshed into the air and Michael screamed. She crashed onto the porch, sloshing wine over the rims of the glasses as the steaks burst into flame.
“Do something!” she shouted.
Hudson grabbed the glasses from her and tossed their contents over the steaks. The barbecue became an inferno driving them both back. Michael screamed, “Not that! What’s the matter with you?”
“I told you I had a problem with gas fires. Did you bring the extinguisher?”
Michael darted her hand to the lid of the barbecue and she slammed it down. She twisted the knobs cutting off the gas.
“Wow.” Hudson stared at the smoke curling out from the edges of the lid. “How did you know to do that?”
“Everyone knows to do that, Mr. Grace. I mean, literally—everyone. You’re supposed to smother a fire—not toss alcohol over it.” She lifted the lid and a cloud of smoke rolled out stinging her eyes. Two charred lumps hissed at her. Michael lifted a brow at Hudson. “Dinner is served.”
“I had a feeling that flame was too high.” He looked over her shoulder.
“I’ve never seen meat catch fire like that.”
“Do you think they’re still edible?”
“Oh, sure.” Michael lifted the steaks to the plate. “It’s called ‘searing the meat.’ All the best chefs do it.”
Hudson followed her into the kitchen. “Great, because I’m starved. How did you manage with the vegetables?”
Michael tried to hide her smile of superiority and refilled the tumblers with wine. “Beautifully, thank you.”
“Are you sure?” Hudson squatted to peer in the oven window. Two silver wrapped balls winked at him. “I thought baked potatoes took a long time. They’re a root vegetable.”
“I am aware.” Michael switched the oven off and opened the door. “I have cooked potatoes before.” She dropped the foil balls to their plates. Hudson served the charred steaks while Michael lifted the beans, steaming, from the pot. “Hmm. These might be a little overcooked.” Hudson eyed the flaccid green beans on his plate balefully but wisely kept his mouth shut. Michael set a foil-wrapped potato in front of Simon.
“Be careful. It’s hot,” she told the boy as she poured out a glass of milk for him.
Hudson poked at the potato on his plate. “Nope, it’s raw.”
“It can’t be! It’s been in there for like twenty minutes!” Michael stabbed experimentally at her potato. Her fork bounced back. The potato was raw. Rock hard. Uncooked. Inedible. “This meal is a fiasco.” Her shoulders slumped and she met Hudson’s eye. He gave her a heart-stopping grin.
“Three bologna and cheese sandwiches coming right up.”
Chapter IX: Nine Ladies Dancing
“DON’T YOU have to get to rehearsal tonight?”
“Jeremy Marks cancelled on account of this little snow storm. I thought Vermonters were supposed to be hale and hearty—Freedom and Unity—that sort of thing.”
They had carried their sandwiches to the living room to have a picnic in front of the fire. Without a television, the Christmas tree became the center of attention. Conversation revolved around on whether to add more tin foil or to leave it as it is. Michael and Simon voted to leave it the way it was; Hudson wanted to drag it out and shoot it. He wasn’t crazy about the Christmas music either.
“Freedom and unity—you bet. The cast is united in its decision not to go out in a deadly blizzard for the sake of a rehearsal.”
“Real actors don’t let anything get in the way of a performance. A Broadway chorus girl is tougher than these guys.” Michael plucked an apple from the bowl on the table and rubbed the fruit against her sweater. She had changed out of the black leggings and red sweater into her Stitch jeans and a snug green sweater that complimented her eyes. “You look exhausted,” she said to Hudson. “Didn’t you get enough sleep last night?”
“No. You snore. I should have remembered that from the first night we slept together,” Hudson said, biting into a bologna and cheese sandwich.
Michael reached over and punched him shoulder fiercely. “We did not!”
He choked and then made a sound like the sandwich went down the wrong way. Hudson gasped and then there was no sound at all.
“Uncle Hudson is choking on dat,” Simon said unperturbedly. He had mashed his sandwich into little balls and was eating them one by one.
Horrified, Michael jumped behind Hudson, caught him around his middle and pumped her fist into his solar plexus. When Vickie Webber’s vampire lover had choked on a bone, she was taught this maneuver for the scene. It had a German name....
Hudson coughed and his color returned to normal. “I’m okay. You can stop now.”
Michael ignored him and gave his midriff another thump.
“I can breathe, Miss Shannon,” Hudson choked. “Besides, you were doing it wrong.”
She released him. “If I was doing it wrong then how come it worked?”
“It didn’t work. I swallowed the sandwich.” Hudson sucked in oxygen. “But you tried and that’s what counts. Or so they say.”
“I think I just saved your life. That’s two lives in one day! There has to be major good karma in that.”
“If you hadn’t slugged me, I wouldn’t have choked in the first place. Karma doesn’t work if you’re the one putting the person’s life in jeopardy. Why did you hit me?”
She covered Simon’s ears. “We did not sleep together. That was a mistake and you know it. You’d like nothing better than to blab to the press that you slept with Michael Shannon.”
Hudson cleared his throat with a slight cough. “I didn’t mean it like that, and besides, who would care?”
“Everyone cares. I’m a target for that kind of gossip because I’m unmarried and I date men. For some reason, that excites gossip. An ex-boyfriend of mine actually sold the story of our relationship to the tabloids. It happens.”
“To women with poor taste in men, I guess it happens.” Hudson wiped his mouth on a paper napkin. “Why do women always fall in love with the bad boys? That’s what I want to know—hell, it’s what every decent man wants to know. Why do nice guys finish last with the ladies?”
Michael eyed him, her mouth full of apple. “I wasn’t in love with him. I never fall in love.”
“Is that some sort of Michael Shannon policy?”
She hesitated, wanting to divert the conversation to a less sensitive subject. Her reputation for being a cold-hearted, man-eating bitch was well-known in the industry. “I didn’t intend it to be a policy. It just made more sense than getting involved. When I was starting out, I had to devote every waking hour to my career. There was no time for a husband and kid
s. Falling in love was the last thing I wanted. So I avoided the whole intimacy thing.”
“And now?”
Her mouth twisted. “Well, now I don’t have a lot of faith in the institution. Everyone I know has been married three or four times.”
“Statistics don’t stop people from falling in love.”
“True.” Michael examined her apple thoughtfully. “You’re easy to talk to Mr. Grace. A little too easy. I hope you don’t decide to sell this conversation to the highest bidder.”
“When you say highest bidder ... what kind of money are we talking about? Just out of curiosity....”
“You’re laughing at me.”
Hudson grinned. “Yes, I am. I like talking to you too, but not if it means you’re going to worry that I’ll sell you out one day. I can only give you my word. I wouldn’t do that.”
Michael tilted her head, considering him. “Your word means something doesn’t it. That’s rare. I’ve met so many people who promise one thing and do the exact opposite. The truth is,” Michael said haltingly as she tried to understand the truth herself, “I think I’m too much of a playgirl to fall in love. The papers say I chew men up and spit them out. Sometimes I think they’re right. The men I’ve dated have said they love me, but as hard as I try, I can’t feel love for them.” Michael shivered. “My relationships always end badly. I wind up hurting everyone. It’s not their fault they fell in love with an Ice Queen. That’s what the tabloids call me.”
“Ice Queen? No, that doesn’t describe the Michael Shannon I know. You rile too easily to be an Ice Queen.”
“Oh with you it’s easy. I’m totally myself with you.” Michael waved away his objection. “You’re worse than I am when it comes to avoiding commitment so I can relax and show my true colors. You aren’t going to fall apart when I leave.”
Hudson nodded at Simon who was covered in mustard and had climbed onto her lap. “You’re good with Simon. You seem to understand him. He’s a different kid with you.”
Michael’s smile faded as she gazed at the boy. “What if I’m like this with him because I know I’m not sticking around for the long haul? What if I love him because it’s only temporary?”
The Way Home: Winter (Mandrake Falls Series Romance Book 3) Page 11
