But he was with her, and he was doing all right, and she was doing all right, which was what really mattered.
MID-OCTOBER BROUGHT the turning of the leaves. Garrick would have liked to show Leah the brilliance of the autumnal spectacle from the cabin, but he didn’t dare make even a day trip back to the mountain. The baby was growing bigger and Leah’s body more unwieldy; in terms of both comfort and safety, he knew that she was better off staying in Concord.
November brought a marked downshift in the temperature, as well as Garrick’s insistence that he and Leah file for a marriage license. It also brought orders from Gregory, soon after, that Leah was to stay in bed. She wasn’t thrilled with the prospect, for it meant an end to her outings with Garrick. And that she’d have more time on her hands to worry about the baby.
She’d had every test imaginable. Gregory had made detailed comparisons between the results of those tests and the information gleaned from less frequent and less detailed tests done during her last pregnancy in New York. All signs were good, he declared. The baby appeared to be larger, the heartbeat stronger than ever.
“I think you’ve planted a monster in me,” she complained to Garrick one afternoon when she felt particularly uncomfortable.
“Like father, like son,” he teased.
“Ah, but we don’t know that. What if we get an amazon of a daughter?”
“She can be a Cyclops, for all I care, as long as she’s healthy.”
Which was the password. Healthy. Boy or girl, they didn’t care, as long as the child was born alive.
Increasingly, though she warned herself not to, Leah did think about the child—what sex it was, what they would name it, whether it would have Garrick’s eyes or her hair, whether it would like to read. And the more she day-dreamed, the more nervous she became, for the critical time was fast approaching.
Garrick, too, was growing nervous, and only part of it had to do with the coming delivery. When he was on campus, he found himself drawn more and more often to the building that housed the small theater. Any number of times he simply stood outside and stared at it. Then one day, with his hands balled into fists in the pocket of his high-collared jacket, he ventured inside.
The theater was dim, with rows and rows of vacant seats, one of which he slipped into while he trained his eyes on the lit stage. Though he’d never acted in a classic himself, he knew Chekov when he saw it. The set was distinct, as were the lines. Slouching lower, he propped his chin on a fist and watched the fledgling actors and actresses do their thing.
They were impressive, he decided after a time. Not quite there yet, but on their way. They were interrupted from time to time by the director, a woman whose voice he could hear, though he couldn’t see her. The students were attentive, listening quietly to her criticism, then attempting to follow her suggestions. Sometimes they succeeded; sometimes they didn’t. But they tried.
Garrick wondered what would have happened if he’d tried the way they did. He wondered whether, if he’d listened to directors, perhaps taken formal acting instruction, he would have been able to evolve into a truly good actor. He’d never really given it a shot. Pagen had come along and made him a star, so he hadn’t had to.
Watching the young performers, he wondered if any of them dreamed of being stars. More aptly, he wondered if any of them didn’t. He focused on one young man whose voice wasn’t quite forceful enough but whose interpretation was a bit more compelling than that of the others. What would he do after college? Go to New York? Work off-Broadway for a while? Make it to Broadway itself? Or think beyond all that and hightail it to the coast, as he’d done?
His eyes skimmed the stage again, this time alighting on a girl, blond haired and petite of build. As she moved the faint bobbing of her breasts was visible beneath an oversize sweatshirt that tucked snugly under her bottom. He wondered whether she was having an affair with one of the boys—perhaps the good-looking one standing off by the wings? If so, it probably wouldn’t last. If her career surpassed his, she’d leave him behind and move on. To what? Male leads? Directors? Producers?
He wondered what she’d think if she knew that Greg Reynolds was sitting at the back of the theater, watching her. Then he snorted softly. She was too young. She probably didn’t know who in the hell Greg Reynolds was! And besides, he reminded himself, it wasn’t Greg Reynolds who sat unnoticed. It was Garrick Rodenhiser, and unnoticed was precisely what he wanted to be.
Shoving himself up from his chair, he strode quickly out of the theater.
But he was back several days later, sitting in the same seat, watching a rehearsal that had benefited from those several days’ practice and become more refined. The best of the performers were clearly emerging—the strong ones distinguishing themselves from the weak as the director focused her coaching more and more on the latter. He watched for a while longer, not quite sure why he stayed, knowing that he didn’t need the knot in his belly, that there were other things he’d rather be doing, but unable to move. At last he did move, and when he reached the fresh air, he felt a distinct sense of relief. Theaters were confining things, he decided.
Yet he went back again. A week later this time, and still not quite knowing why. But he was there. And this time he stayed in his seat until the rehearsal had ended and the performers, one by one, filed past him. The director was the last to leave, but while the others hadn’t given him a glance as they’d passed, she stopped.
She was a pretty woman, Garrick noticed, viewing her up close for the first time. Tall and willowy, she had long brown hair that was pulled into a high clasp at her crown, only to tumble smoothly down from there. She wore jeans and a heavy jacket and was clutching an armload of papers to her chest. She was younger than he’d expected, perhaps in her mid-twenties; he guessed her to be either a teaching assistant or a graduate student.
“I’ve seen you here before,” she said, cocking her head.
Garrick remained sprawled in his seat. “I’ve stopped by a few times.”
“We’ll be doing the show next weekend. I’d think you’d rather see it then.”
“Rehearsals are more interesting. They allow you to see what really goes into the production.”
“Are you a student of the theater?”
He took in a breath and pushed himself straighter. “Not exactly.”
“A connoisseur?”
He shrugged, then hoisted himself to his feet. He didn’t miss the slight widening of the woman’s eyes at his height. “Not exactly. What about you?”
“A grad student. We often direct undergraduate productions.” When she turned and started walking toward the door, he followed. His heart was pounding in protest, but his legs seemed not to hear.
“Doing Chekov is an ambitious endeavor,” he remarked.
“Isn’t that what learning is about—challenge?”
He didn’t answer that. He’d never associated the acting he’d done with learning, and his major challenge had been in topping the Nielsens for the week. “Do you get much of a crowd at your shows?” he asked.
“Sometimes yes, sometimes no. This one probably won’t be as well attended, since it’s more serious and heavy. We’ll get some of the university types, but the local crowd is drawn to lighter things.” They’d passed through the lobby and reached the door, which Garrick held open with a rigid hand. As she stepped into the daylight, she looked up at him. “Do you live locally?”
“For now.”
“Are you affiliated with the university?”
“I’m taking a few courses.”
They’d stopped at the top of the stone steps. She was staring at him. “Studying anything special?”
“Latin.”
She laughed. “That’s an odd one.” But her laughter died quickly. Her eyes were fixed on his. She frowned for an instant.
“Is something wrong?”
“Uh, no. You look vaguely familiar. I, uh, I don’t think I know any Latin students.”
He didn’t know if
it was a come-on. Yes, he thought her attractive, but it was an objective judgment. She didn’t turn him on in any way, shape or fashion. Still, he didn’t leave.
“Is this your first year here?” she asked as she continued to study him closely.
“Yes.” Feeling inexplicably bold despite the damp palms he pressed to the insides of his pockets, he returned her gaze unwaveringly.
“Are you a professional student?”
“Nope.”
“What did you do before you came here?”
“Work.”
“Doing … ?”
“I work up north.”
Again she frowned. Her gaze fell to his beard, then returned to his eyes. “I’m really sorry, but you do look familiar.”
“Maybe I just look like someone else,” he suggested with an outer calm that was far from matched inside.
She started to shake her head, but paused. “That may be it.” Her eyes sharpened; Garrick noticed that they were brown, rather nondescript, nowhere near as warm or interesting as Leah’s gray ones. Then she grinned. “That is it. Has anyone ever told you that you look like Pagen?”
“Pagen?”
“You know, the guy on television a few years back? Actually, his name was Greg Reynolds. I was a teenager when Pagen was in his heyday. He was one beautiful man.” She blushed, then frowned again. “He disappeared from the scene pretty quickly after the series ended. I wonder what happened to him.”
“Maybe he left the business and went to live in the woods,” Garrick heard himself say.
“Maybe,” she mused, then her look grew skeptical. “Are you sure you’re not him?”
Of course I’m not, Garrick could have said, or Are you kidding? or No way! Instead, and for reasons unknown to him, he shrugged.
“You are,” she said, an inkling of excitement in her voice. “You are Greg Reynolds. I can see it now. Your hair’s a little different and you have a beard, but the eyes are the same … and the mouth.” She was looking at the last in a way that made him press it closed.
“You’re not talking,” she announced with a sage nod, then held up one hand. “And your secret’s safe with me. I promise.” Then, suddenly, all pretense of maturity crumbled. “I don’t believe it’s you,” she singsonged, eyes aglitter. “What was it like in Hollywood? It must have been so exciting doing the series! I thought you were wonderful! I’d like to be there for one day—one week—one month! You really made it. What have you done since then? Have you ever considered doing something here? You can’t have retired from acting completely, not after … all that!”
“I’ve retired,” he said quietly, but the statement was ineffective in staunching her enthusiasm.
“I had no idea we had a celebrity in our midst. No one else did, either, or word would have spread. My students would love to meet you. You’d be an inspiration!”
He shook his head. “I think not.” He took a step to leave, but she put a hand on his sleeve.
“Maybe you’d speak before the theater group. I know the other grad students and the professors would be as excited as I am—”
“Thank you, but I really can’t.”
When he started off, she fell into step beside him. “Just me, then. Would you let me take you to lunch some day? You have no idea how much I’d like to hear about your experiences. God, they’d make a fantastic book. Have you ever thought of writing about your years as Pagen?”
“No,” he said, and quickened his step.
“How about it? Just lunch, or … or dinner? I know a fantastic little place that’s dark and quiet. No one would have to know we were there—”
“I’m really not free.” He strode on.
The young woman stopped, but she couldn’t resist calling after him. “Mr. Reynolds?”
He didn’t answer. He wasn’t Mr. Reynolds. Not anymore.
THAT NIGHT, WHILE HE AND LEAH were finishing off the last of the stew he’d made, Garrick told her what had happened.
“You told her who you were?” Leah asked in astonishment. It was the last thing she’d have expected him to do.
“She guessed, and I didn’t deny it.” He was reclining in his chair, one arm hooked over its back, the other fiddling absently with the spoon he hadn’t used. He looked nearly as confused as Leah. “It was strange. I think I wanted her to know, but for the life of me I can’t understand why. You know how I feel about my anonymity.” He looked up, those wonderful hazel-and-silver eyes clouded. “Why did I do that, Leah?”
“I’m not sure,” she answered quietly. “Did you feel anything … sitting there in the theater?”
“It was interesting. The kids were pretty good. But did I feel envious? No.”
“Did you get the urge to jump up there?”
“God, no.”
“You didn’t miss being on center stage?”
“I didn’t miss being on stage period. I was very happy to be sitting in the dark.”
She breathed a tiny sigh of relief.
“I heard that,” Garrick chided, narrowing one eye. “You were worried.”
“I don’t want you to miss anything about that life,” she said a little evasively, then added, “What about the woman?”
“What about her?”
“Do you think that somehow, maybe subconsciously, you wanted to impress her?”
He shook his head. “No. She was pretty and all, but not like you.”
“But she’s a thespian.”
“Good word, but it has no relevance.”
“Sure, it does. She’s involved in the same kind of life you came from. A person like that might not go gaga over trapping, but she would about acting, particularly big-time acting.”
“What I used to do was small time compared to the people who do Chekov or Williams or—even more so—Shakespeare. No, I wasn’t trying to impress her.”
“Maybe you just got tired of the waiting.”
“What do you mean?”
Leah searched for an example to illustrate her point. The only one was the most obvious, and since it filled so much of her thoughts, she went with it. “There are times,” she began quietly, “when I just want this baby to be born—one way or the other. It’s the waiting and worrying and not knowing that’s so bad. Even if the worst happens, at least I’ll know, so I can go on with my life.”
“Leah …”
“I’m sorry, but it’s the only thing I can think of, and it makes my point. I would assume that for you, it must be nearly as bad wandering around Concord, waiting for someone to recognize you, worrying about what will happen when someone does. Maybe you wanted to get it over with. Maybe one part of you wanted that woman to know who you were.”
He opened his mouth to protest, then clamped it shut and was silent for a minute. “Maybe.”
“How did you feel when the truth came out?”
His tawny brows knit as he tried to verbalize his thoughts. “Weird. A little proud, but a little like an imposter, too. I felt distanced … like she was talking about someone else entirely when she started bombarding me with questions. I felt like I was playing a game, letting her believe I was Greg Reynolds, superstar, when I knew that I wasn’t.”
“Did she bring back memories of how the fans used to be?”
“Yes and no. She went all wide-eyed and high-voiced like a typical fan, but I didn’t like it the way I used to. To tell you the truth, it was disgusting. Up to that point, she’d seemed dignified.” He gave a lopsided grin. “I have to admit that I felt damn good walking away from her.”
“Do you think she was offended?”
“Lord, I hope so,” he answered without remorse. “With luck, she’ll dismiss me as a fraud. If she starts blabbing about who I am, things might get a little hairy.”
“She doesn’t know your real name.”
He scowled. “No, but she knows I’m studying Latin. It wouldn’t be hard for her to track me down. Maybe I’ll cut the next class or two and stay here with you.”
“Chicken.”<
br />
“Nuh-uh.” He covered her hand with his and began a gentle massage. “I do want to be here with you. It’s getting close.”
“Three weeks.”
“How do you feel?”
“Tired.”
“Emotionally?”
“Tired. I meant what I said before. The waiting’s getting to me.”
“Everything’s been fine so far.”
“It was the other two times, too.”
“You’ve never had a ceasarean section before. It’ll minimize stress on the baby during delivery.”
“I hope.”
He squeezed her hand. “It will. Things will work out fine, love. You’ll see. A month from now, we’ll have a squirming little thing on our hands.”
“That’s just what I told myself eight months into two other pregnancies.”
“But this time is different. That’s my baby you’re carrying.”
She sighed, then smiled sadly. “Which is precisely why I want it so badly.”
THE NEXT WEEK WAS an uneventful one for Leah, but, then, she’d known it would be. Aside from when she was eating or using the bathroom, she remained in bed. She didn’t do much reading because she couldn’t seem to concentrate. She didn’t do much weaving because, with the bulk of the loom and that of her stomach, she couldn’t get comfortable. She listened to music, which was fine for a time, particularly since Garrick kept her supplied with new tapes that they both enjoyed. Susan came to visit often, usually—and deliberately, Leah suspected, to keep an eye on her—while Garrick was in school.
She didn’t do much work of the official puzzle-making variety because she’d declared herself on a temporary leave of absence. But she found herself working on that private puzzle, the one involving words that related to what she’d fondly come to think of as the life and times of Garrick and Leah. It was a whimsical endeavor and it helped keep her occupied.
Garrick’s week wasn’t quite as uneventful. He went back to school without missing a class, and though he was edgy during the first two days, he saw no sign of the young woman from the theater. On the third day, just when he was beginning to relax again, she accosted him as he was leaving his class.
Crossed Hearts (Matchmaker Trilogy) Page 18
