“So the wrap party will be next Friday.” Muriel nodded with satisfaction. “We’ll hold our final chapel service on Thursday night, then. We’d love to see you all there.” Her invitation included everyone, but she directed her gaze at Rex. There he saw the longing, the passion, he had felt in their single kiss. She cared more for her God than for a mere mortal.
No flesh-and-blood man could hope to measure up. “I’ll add it to the schedule.” He uncapped his pen and made a big deal of writing it down. “I’ll be busy splicing the reel together for the wrap party.”
Her shoulders deflated. “Thank you for putting up the announcement.” With a quiet good night, she left the tent.
The paintbrush made out of spruce needles bound together by vines scratched against Muriel’s palm. How had the ancient inhabitants of this city managed to create art out of such primitive materials? But they had. They must have told stories around the campfire and perhaps acted out the adventures of the hunt. The descendants of Jubal and Tubalcain, the first musician and worker in bronze. Art, whether Beethoven’s symphonies, Rembrandt’s paintings, or Shakespeare’s plays, was part of what stamped God’s image on man. That ability to create.
She stared at the brush again, feeling the weight of it in her hand. She thought of the men Moses appointed to sound the trumpet for the movement of the Israelites. Once she asked herself how slaves who had spent their days making bricks had learned how to make music. But they had, on instruments made of animal horns instead of the intricate instruments of wood and string and brass enjoyed in the nineteenth century.
She was blessed to live in an age where her performances could be recorded to be played over and over again. But if she had lived in the times of ancient Greece, she would have donned a mask and taken part in one of the tragedies. She understood the drive that made people create art with whatever means they had at hand very well.
During the filming, she would pretend to mix the paint. But for this practice, she only wanted to conquer the movement of the brush and try her hand at creating a spiral.
“They’re uncomfortable things, aren’t they?” Beside her Fred grimaced at the brush in his hand.
Nodding, she straightened and touched the brush to the rock. Streaky lines of white paint appeared, but didn’t drip. “The paint’s a good consistency. No drip.”
He imitated her motions, a good swatch with his first swipe. “I wonder if they had colors. What might they use? People used plants and such to dye clothes, after all.”
“I don’t know. I’ve only seen the white.” She passed her brush over the patch several times to get a solid white color. After several tries, she had a thin line that wobbled as she tried to form a spiral. “The needles don’t hold the paint very well.” Next she tried an eagle, but it looked more like a flattened v than a bird.
Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted Rex in his typical pose, perusing their efforts. That man knew exactly what he wanted and headed straight for it—brimming with confidence that appeared as cockiness. That kind of man could woo any woman he wanted, but he didn’t. He was, in so many respects, a very moral man, puritanical in his work habits.
Her lips tingled as she remembered their kiss. They hadn’t ever discussed what had happened that night at the Four Corners. In the days since, she spent hours on her knees, asking for forgiveness—and pleading for strength to withstand Rex’s magnetism. God answered her prayer by keeping Rex at a distance, which had the unfortunate result of making her miss him all the more. She decided she had practiced enough, and walked in Rex’s direction with her paintbrush in hand.
“What do you think?” She kept her voice as neutral as possible, only her acting skill holding back the warmth she felt. “Will we get the result you want?”
“I only need the suggestion of you painting. The focus will be on you and Fred, on the marriage the painting represents.” Rex gestured to their props director, who had come up with the paint and brushes. “Don said there was no way to get something that would match the ancient painting, and I believe him.” He gave a rueful laugh. “There goes my wonderful climax.”
“You mean you do have limits?” Muriel flicked her hand, and paint flew in Rex’s direction. Dropping the brush, she put her hand over her mouth. “I’m so sorry.”
“Better my shirt than that lovely frock you’re wearing.”
Muriel looked down at her dress, a pale green dress she wore often as her coolest outfit. So he noticed. She fought the pleasure the thought brought her. To hide her confusion, she bent over to pick up the brush and carried it to Don. Returning to Rex, she said, “I should at least wash it for you.”
His lips formed the shape to say no, but what came out was “I’d like that.”
“Do we have time now?” She reached out to trace the splash on his shirt. It started at his third button and trailed down nearly to his waist. “Before the paint dries.”
“You want me to give you the shirt off my back.” A smile played around his lips, and he started unbuttoning the shirt at the top button.
“That’s all right. Bring it to me when you’ve changed.”
His laughter followed her as she scurried away in the direction of the wash tent.
Chapter 12
Why not? Rex smoothed out the shirt Muriel had laundered, bleached almost white after so many washings, and put away his dress blue. She should appreciate the gesture. Eight weeks and countless hours later, cast and crew of Ruined Hopes would celebrate the end of filming. He still had months of work ahead, shaping the rough footage into a seamless story, adding subtitles and storyboards and working with a composer to arrange the music he had chosen and integrate it with original compositions.
However, on this night, everyone would relax and enjoy their accomplishments, including him—including Muriel. Smiling, he tied a red bow tie around his neck, the only dash of color with his shirt and white linen slacks. What would Muriel wear tonight? Sensible walking shoes or heels? Evening dress or one of her day dresses? No matter what she wore, she would be beautiful.
Through his tent flap, he heard a popular song playing on his phonograph. Whistling the tune between his teeth, he checked himself in his mirror one last time and joined the party. Muriel stood talking with Helen and a couple of the minor actors in the film, her hips gently swaying in time to the music, sending the shimmering lavender fabric of her dress in motion. He poured himself a cup of lemonade and sauntered across the yard.
At his approach, the actors fell silent.
“Rex.” Muriel turned a brilliant smile on him. “I was beginning to think you were avoiding your own party.” She eyed the lemonade in his hand. “You should get some cookies to go with that. Cook has made some amazing shortbread cookies.”
She held it up to his mouth, and he took a bite. Rich with butter and sugar, it melted in his mouth. “A man could become addicted to these.” He took a sip of lemonade and his mouth puckered. “A good contrast to this stuff.”
A smile hovered around her lips.
“Come with me while I get some more cookies?” She accepted his arm for the short walk to the refreshment tables. In addition to the shortbread cookies—the nearly empty tray testifying to their popularity—he found a three-tier yellow cake and berry and buttermilk pies. He took a piece of each but left his lemonade cup on the table. “Coffee will go better with these sweets.”
Muriel chose to stay by Rex’s side all evening, the last night the crew would spend together. She wanted to spend this one night enjoying the company of the man she had come to admire—to love, even if she only admitted it to herself. There was only today, no future for them, she knew that, since the man remained as stuck in his refusal to see his need for God as ever.
At the last chapel service the night before, a dozen people and more shared testimonies of how God had changed them over the summer. Muriel’s heart rejoiced, but she kept looking, praying, hoping for a sign of the person she most wanted to appear. He remained away, having only visited
chapel that one time.
No, Rex wouldn’t change, and she would avoid working with him in the future to protect her heart. But for one night she pretended her dreams could come true.
All too soon the night drew to an end. Rex walked her to her tent and lingered, his eyes fixed on her face. “The moon is beautiful tonight.” He leaned forward.
He’s going to kiss me. With her last ounce of courage, Muriel took a single step back. “It’s been a lovely evening, Rex. Good night.”
The next morning, Muriel rose early to say good-bye. Almost everyone was leaving today, heading in the direction of all four winds. Cook would stay as long as Rex chose to work on-site. Benny would check out the last of the film before he left.
As for Muriel, she sent a letter to her family with the people departing today. She had planned to take a vacation before returning to New York for George Bernard Shaw’s play, Mrs. Warren’s Profession. Instead, she would visit with Nascha in her village and assist her as she started a Bible study among her people.
Fred, as unflappable as ever, stopped by on his way to the waiting wagons. “It’s been a pleasure working with you. I hope we can do it again? Perhaps on another Rex Pride production?”
She nodded, afraid tears would choke her voice. She accepted his hug. “The same to you, Fred. Do you think I would be welcome in London?”
“For you, dear. Always!” He kissed her on the cheek. “I’ll see you at the premiere, then.” He waved and climbed onto the wagon. They pulled away, leaving only empty sand and flattened bushes where they had lived and worked for the past two months. Dust swirled behind the wagons, obscuring her view of the people who had been closer than family for that brief span of time.
Rex stood by her side, watching them leave. “And you’ll be leaving tonight?” He had stuffed his hands in pockets.
She nodded. “I’ll spend a few weeks with Nascha.”
“Trying to convert the heathen, I suppose.” He kept his voice light, but she heard the puzzlement.
“It is my hope to help Nascha share the Savior, who died for all people, with her village.” Oh, Rex, please tell me you’re wanting to know more.
“It certainly seems to make you happy.”
“Happy? Maybe not.” She felt anything but happy at the moment. “But peaceful, yes. And joyful.”
“Joy and happiness are different?”
“Joy is permanent; happiness is temporary.” She decided to take one last gamble. “Do you want that kind of joy, Rex?”
“You’re about to tell me the plan of salvation, I suppose.” He put his hands on her shoulders, willing her to look at him. The same despair she felt in her heart was reflected in his eyes. “Look, we both know whatever we have between us wouldn’t work out. Don’t worry about me. I do okay.”
“Oh, Rex.” She lifted her hand to his cheek, unable to resist that last caress. “I promise I will always pray for you. There may come a time you will realize you need it.” Hiding her tears with a laugh, she dropped her hand and took a step back. At the edge of the clearing, she saw Nascha waiting. “Good-bye, Rex, and God go with you.”
I must like pain. Rex could think of no other reason for accepting Benny’s invitation to visit Sarah’s village after his painful good-bye with Muriel. He’d have to find a way to let the extras know if the film came to Cortez.
“I suppose you want me to attend that Bible study Sarah and Muriel are starting.”
“I wouldn’t object.” Benny flashed bright teeth at him. “Or you might visit with Charlie and ask him about the shots you want to get. Up to you.”
When they arrived at the village, Charlie welcomed Rex with a quiet manner he had come to recognize as friendship. They walked through the village, Rex taking in the unusual structure of the hogans. He itched to include it in a film. Maybe he would return.
“Are you available to come with me this afternoon? I want to get some more local color.”
Charlie thought for a minute before answering. “I can go tomorrow. Today I go to the study of the Jesus book with my sister.”
“Tomorrow then.” Rex accepted the inevitable. Muriel came with Sarah to draw water from the well. After a warm welcome, she had stayed too busy to visit. He was curious to see how this Bible study differed from the one they held on the set. How many people would attend?
For Muriel’s sake, he hoped they would have a good showing.
An older Navajo woman, unmistakably Sarah and Charlie’s mother, offered Rex a seat on the only stuffed chair in the home. He tried to demur, wondering how he could refuse since he didn’t know her language.
She gestured again. “Please. Take this seat. You are our guest.” That answered one question: at least one person spoke English. A hope stirred in him that they would speak English at the meeting.
Mrs. Begay led Benny to a hard-backed chair next to Rex’s. “Do they all speak English?”
Benny shrugged. “Not unless they have to.”
Rex knew a smidgeon of other languages: high school Latin, enough French to get around, a bit of Spanish. But Indian languages had never come up on any curriculum he had studied. When Muriel came in with Sarah, both Benny and Rex stood and offered their seats. “I will sit here.” Sarah took her place across the fire pit from the men.
Rex turned to Muriel. “You at least will sit here.” Rex heard the demand in the words, and scrambled to compensate. “No American male can take this comfortable chair while in the presence of such beauty.”
In spite of the smile that indicated her appreciation of the compliment, Muriel shook her head. “Mrs. Begay gave you the place of honor. I will not dishonor her—or you—by trading places.” She took a seat next to Benny.
“Do you know if they’ll be speaking English?” Rex feared that a steady diet of unintelligible speech might lull him to sleep. Maybe not. He pulled his favorite notebook and pencil from his pocket. People watching had often provoked new ideas.
“I hope not.” She must have seen his surprised expression. “I am praying that these people will realize Jesus is for everyone, not just for white men. They need to hear that in their own language. In fact”—her eyes narrowed in concentration—“I need to find out if anyone has translated the Bible into Navajo. I want to get a copy for Nascha. All people deserve to hear God’s word in their own tongue.”
“And what would be my tongue?” He found himself asking.
Muriel didn’t laugh but tilted her head before offering an answer. “American English with a generous helping of cockiness and every term in the theater lexicon.”
Benny laughed at that. “You nailed our Mr. Pride, all right.”
Voices at the door indicated the arrival of guests, and Rex followed Muriel’s gaze at the doorway. Two older gentlemen followed by one elderly woman entered. This man should have had Rex’s seat, he realized. Dark eyes regarded him and nodded in welcome. The elders of the village, perhaps? A couple of young women about Sarah’s age entered, followed by a few children. Men came in, nodding greetings to Charlie. All in all, about twenty people had gathered when Muriel returned to her seat, and silence fell on the gathering.
Charlie stood behind Rex.
Rex waited for the meeting to begin. No one chattered the way they had at the film site; not a single person held a Bible. Not even Sarah had a Bible, although Rex was pretty sure Muriel had given her one.
Sarah began speaking. She said their names, and he realized she must be introducing them. She paused and gestured in their direction. Muriel smiled and waved a greeting to the group, as did Benny and Rex.
After the introductions, Sarah began a long tale. She used more words in that one afternoon session than he had heard her use through the entire film shoot. Rex understood none of it, although now and then he thought he heard something that resembled “Jesus.”
Her voice rose and fell in the cadences of a natural storyteller, and her face lost its usual impassive expression. Grief and guilt and joy all flittered across her face. He didn’t
need an interpreter. The story of her decision to believe in Jesus as God read like an open book.
So much so that when Sarah broke into English, he was almost surprised.
“My friend Muriel told me about Jesus. She showed me that Jesus is for all people. She is a good friend. Muriel, would you like to say a few words?”
“Thank you.” Muriel stood. “I have much to learn from Nascha, as well. She reminded me that Christian doesn’t mean being white or American. I confess, I was too proud to see that for a while. Please forgive me. I look forward to learning from all of you as well.”
Her voice throbbed with all the pathos he had heard her evoke on stage, but he knew genuine emotion lay behind her words. Here she exuded fulfillment and peace. This was her world, in a way Ruined Hopes or any Pride production never would.
Instead of resenting it, of wishing he could abolish or redirect her drive, for the first time, he found himself wondering what it would be like to share it.
Back at camp, Rex cranked up the phonograph, seeking something to fill the vacuum created by the departure of the crew. The quiet enjoyment he experienced at the end of filming was missing. With every rattle of pebbles or snapping twig, he looked up, half expecting to see Muriel appear. He needed to get her out of his head.
Cook had left with Benny yesterday, so he was on his own with simple rations. It was time to get back to Denver and finish putting the film together. Go on to his next project. Stay busy and get Muriel out of his head and heart, before he turned into one of those Christians himself.
He tipped his head to see the highest of the apartments in the cliffs. If he could get up there, he could pan the entire canyon with the camera. That, plus the animal footage he had captured when he went out with Charlie yesterday, would finish what he needed. He scanned the cliff with his binoculars, seeking the best route. He had been climbing Colorado’s mountains since he was a boy; he’d strap the camera securely to his chest, and he could do it. Determined to finish that day if possible, he gathered his equipment and headed for the ladder.
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