by Sandra Brown
“I see that Gracie’s already given you breakfast,” Lyon said, and the four groaned. He laughed. “Probably more than you bargained for.”
Andy was amazed at his geniality. Was she the one who would have to bear the brunt of his hostility?
“Make yourselves at home. When the time comes, Gracie will telephone the bunkhouse and someone will take you down there. If you need anything, tell Ms. Malone, and she’ll notify me.”
Ms. Malone.
The crew, even Jeff, seemed impressed with Lyon Ratliff, and Andy felt betrayed. She resented the hospitality and graciousness he had extended to them. When he went out the door, looking smugly satisfied, she knew he’d been deliberately effusive. It was his way of telling her that he could be nice when he wanted to be, but that he didn’t want to be nice to her. Her jaws began to ache before she realized how tightly she was clenching her teeth.
The first disaster occurred when Gil discovered that one of his microphone cords had gone dead. “I don’t know what’s wrong with it, Jeff,” he said placidly when the temperamental photographer lit into him. “It’s just not drawing power.”
“Gil, do you think you can find one here in Kerrville?” Andy asked in the voice of a mediator.
“I don’t know. I can try. If not, I’ll have to go to San Antonio.”
Andy ignored Jeff’s muttered cursing.
“Then take the van. While you’re gone, we’ll set up for the first shoot. As soon as you return, we’ll start.”
Eventually everything worked out well, though Andy’s concern was never for the crew, but for the general. Dressed in a suit and tie, he had been ready to start the interviews that morning, as Andy had told him they would. She had felt that the earlier they started, the better. That would give him the afternoons and evenings to rest before the session the following day. The project would take longer doing just one program a day, but she had promised herself, not to mention Lyon, that she would do everything she could to protect the general from fatigue.
She was disappointed that he hadn’t worn his army uniform, but when she tentatively suggested that he might consider it, he became visibly flustered.
“I never ordered another one after I retired. The ones I have are moth-eaten and forty years old. I’d rather not, thanks.”
She was puzzled and let down, but she smiled and touched him on the shoulder. “If you’d rather not, that’s fine. Besides, if you looked any more handsome, I might not be able to keep my mind on the questions.”
Gil returned while they were eating the sandwiches Gracie had fixed them for lunch. While he was setting up, Andy went upstairs to put on her “camera” makeup, pull her hair into its soft bun, and dress in an ivory linen dress, with no jewelry except for pearl earrings.
She received the usual wolf whistles from the crew as she descended the stairs with her notes in her hand. She bowed to them like a grand dame of the theater and did a slow pirouette. As she turned around she came face to face with Lyon, who had been watching her clowning with a face carved of stone and condemning eyes.
“I see that you’re in your element, Ms. Malone.” The judgmental tone of his voice irritated her more than nails on a chalkboard. She took the bait.
“Yes, I am.”
“Good. I’d hate for you to lose your knack.”
“So would I, Mr. Ratliff.”
“You’d never let that happen, would you?”
“Not on your life,” she said defiantly.
His voice dropped considerably. “It’s your life we’re talking about.” He looked at her with uncompromising disapproval, then went to his father to check on him.
General Michael Ratliff was sitting regally in an armchair in the living room. He was wired for sound, though Gil had carefully concealed all the cords. Only the small lavalier mike peeked from behind his necktie. Andy was gratified to see that her crew treated him with the utmost respect.
She took her place at the end of the sofa next to his chair, and allowed Gil to attach her microphone to a discreet spot on her bodice. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Lyon watching closely as Gil’s hands fiddled with the fabric over her breast. She’d seen less menacing expressions on the faces of offended despots.
“A little more cheek color,” Jeff said impersonally as he eyed her through his lens. “Why haven’t you taken advantage of the Texas sun, Andy? You look pale.”
“It rained yesterday,” she said absently as Warren scrambled to bring her the makeup kit she had brought from upstairs. Her eyes involuntarily sought out Lyon’s, and for a moment they stared at each other over the equipment that had converted a comfortable living room into a television studio. She forced her eyes away, and the mirror in her hands was shaking as she applied more blusher to her cheeks.
“There’s a glare on General Ratliff’s face,” Jeff said.
Warren adjusted a drape over the window.
“Ooookaaaay, everybody’s lookin’ good. Ready when you are, Andy,” Jeff said. “Gil, got your mike levels?”
“Yep. Sounds good.”
“Okay. Andy?”
“Ready,” she said licking her lips.
“And we’re rollin’.”
She stumbled once during her introductory remarks and they had to start over. What she had done hundreds of times before was now making her incredibly nervous. Actually it wasn’t so incredible. Lyon. If she had not known he was in the room, listening to every word and weighing it, watching each gesture and criticizing it, she would have been perfectly at ease.
Michael Ratliff was an excellent interview subject. He answered her questions expansively, expounding on them without any prodding on her part. Her personal philosophy when it came to interviewing was to get the subject to talk openly, asking him as few questions as possible. She felt it was the subject, not her, the audience wanted to see and hear. Andy Malone was only the usher who escorted the celebrity into their living rooms.
For the first interview she limited her questions to the general’s personal history, his childhood, his education, his early years in the army.
“You aren’t a native Texan, though you’ve lived here since your retirement.”
“No, I was born in Missouri and grew up there. My father was an iceman.” He related a few anecdotes about his parents and his one brother, who had died during the thirties.
“How is it that you came to retire in Texas?”
“Well, I’ll tell you about that, Andy.” He was totally unaffected by the camera and talked to her as though they were alone. It was her own disregard for the camera once it started rolling that put her interviewees so much at ease. She took the subtle time cues from Warren with barely a blink of her eyes. The subject never noticed.
The general told a story about how he had first come to the hill country of Texas with a friend to hunt elk. He fell in love with the limestone-dotted hills and lovely rivers fed by underground springs, and decided that he would settle there after his retirement.
“And did you get an elk?”
He laughed. “No. I never could shoot worth a damn. You can ask my son, Lyon. I never made higher than marksman in the Army. My contemporaries teased me about it unmercifully—they said that if the soldiers under my command hadn’t been able to shoot any better than their general, we’d have never won the war.”
On that note Andy concluded the first interview.
“Terrific!” Jeff said, switching off his camera and unlatching it from its tripod.
Lyon started pushing the wheelchair through the maze of lights and cable. “We’ll need him for about five minutes more, Lyon,” Andy said. “We have to do reverse questions.”
“What’s that?”
She explained that when only one camera was being used, after the interview the photographer would move his equipment over behind the subject, this time focusing on her. She would repeat some of the questions she had asked, but the general wouldn’t respond, only sit still. Then an editor would mix the two segments of tape, first s
howing Andy asking the question, then the general as he was answering it in the real interview.
“It’s a trick to make it seem like we had more than one camera. The transitions are edited so smoothly that the audience never notices they’re there.”
The general took his directions from Jeff, who was holding the camera on his shoulder and focusing on Andy past the general’s head.
“Dad, are you all right?”
“Yes, son. I haven’t had this much fun and excitement in a long time. During the war whenever I was interviewed, there were swarming reporters with flash cameras in their hands. Every once in a while I did a radio interview, but this is different.”
Andy was glad he was enjoying himself, but she didn’t like the high color in his cheeks any more than Lyon did. She did the reverse questions flawlessly and quickly. They were finished within a matter of minutes. Tony switched off the hot lights.
“You’re a true pro, sweetheart,” Jeff enthused, hugging her tight and kissing her smackingly on the cheek. Gil had gently separated the general from his microphone and was now unhooking hers, taking care not to snag her dress. Lyon was assisting his father into the wheelchair, but hadn’t missed Jeff’s show of affection. His eyes were hard as they drilled into her.
Out of regard for the general’s health the crew had refrained from smoking. Now they all filed out the front door to take in their required ration of nicotine.
Andy knelt in front of General Ratliff’s chair. She looked up into the lined, age-spotted face. “Thank you. You were wonderful.”
“I enjoyed it. I thought perhaps you’d change personalities when the camera came on, that you’d become hard, curt, and demanding. I should have known you’d remain the gracious lady that you are.”
She stood up to kiss him on the cheek. “You’d better rest. We’ll be at it again tomorrow.”
Since they had gotten a late start, it was almost dinnertime by the time they secured the equipment for the night. As with most cinematographers, Jeff treated his camera like a baby and coddled it lovingly. Tony’s lights were safely restored to their metal boxes. Gil’s microphones were replaced in their cushioned cases.
They were like ten-year-old boys over the idea of sharing their quarters with real cowboys and hastened down to the bunkhouse to take their evening meal. The general ate off a tray in the seclusion of his bedroom. Andy had to endure a virtually silent meal alone with Lyon.
“Are you satisfied with how the interview went today?” he asked. They were well into the main course before he broke the oppressive, unnerving silence.
“Yes. Your father is a natural before the camera. Often we have to remind the interviewee that he’s talking to me and not to the camera. They want to look at it instinctively. But your father was oblivious to the camera and the lights. He was an interviewer’s dream.”
“Your crew seem to like you.”
Andy knew there was more to the statement than a surface observation. “We’ve worked well together for years. Sometimes I’m assigned other technicians. It’s not always the same ones, though this team is my favorite. They’re very professional.”
“Um-huh.”
Water sloshed out of her glass when she slammed it down onto the linen-covered table. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“What?” he asked innocently.
“That ‘um-huh’ that drips with implication.”
“I meant to imply nothing,” he said, with so much feigned sincerity she wanted to scream. “If you read anything into my ‘um-huh,’ then it’s your guilty conscience that’s doing it.”
“I don’t have a guilty conscience!”
“Then why are you shouting?” he asked with a serenity that infuriated her.
“Tell Gracie I’ll skip dessert tonight,” she said, shoving her chair away from the table.
At the door his lilting voice reached her. “Sweet dreams, Andy.”
The mocking repetition of what he had heard her say to Les released the anger raging inside her. She spun around. “Go to hell, Lyon,” she said in a sugary voice. Then she stormed from the room.
The next day went smoothly, with only minor crises cropping up that were quickly dealt with. The crew was suffering from hangovers brought on by too many longneck bottles of Lone Star beer, but Andy was unsympathetic and unconcerned. She’d seen them do some of their best work after a night of revelry.
General Ratliff was as relaxed and loquacious as he’d been the day before. This time the interview took place in the garden room where she’d first met him. Jeff taped it using the natural sunlight, asking Tony to fill in with light only where absolutely necessary. He even left the ceiling fan on, to gently stir Andy’s hair and the leafy plants behind her and the general.
It was only midmorning when Jeff switched off his camera. “Gee, that was flawless. It’s a shame this segment couldn’t have been longer. You both just seemed to be getting wound up.”
“I’m willing to go on if you are, Andy,” the general surprised her by saying.
“I don’t want you to strain yourself.”
“Dad, you’d better stop before you get too tired.”
“I’m fine, Lyon. Truly,” the old man said, turning slightly in his chair to speak to his son, who was standing sentinel across the room. “Let’s go on.”
“Jeff?” Andy asked.
“I’m ready. I love this setting.”
They did another session and were finished before lunch.
Lyon had seen his father to his bedroom, where they were going to eat their lunch off a tray. Gracie served Andy and the crew in the dining room. They were sitting over glasses of iced tea, discussing the next day’s schedule and the tapes that were already done.
“He’s sharper than I expected,” Jeff said, spitting out an olive pit. “When Les told me the old guy was ninety, I thought, Jeez, what are we going to do with him if he nods off or something?”
Andy bristled. “He’s anything but senile, Jeff.”
“Don’t get all hot and bothered, Andy. I didn’t mean anything.”
“His sense of humor’s something I didn’t expect. Like yesterday when he admitted he wasn’t a very good shot,” Gil said diplomatically.
“It’s hotter than hell down here,” Tony grumbled. His complaint was ignored.
“I just wonder what the old man’s hiding,” Jeff said offhandedly.
The words could have been a bomb, judging by the impact they had on Andy. “What do you mean?” she said, turning to him with a swift jerking motion. “Why would you think he’s hiding something?”
Jeff shrugged. “Les said he wouldn’t talk about the war, that he might have some secret that he didn’t want anyone to know about.”
“Les is crazy. You know he gets these wild notions.”
“That usually turn out to be right,” Jeff said.
“Not this time.”
“Are you sure? Les said you were going to get chummy with the son to see if you could eke any info out of him. How ’bout it? Find out any juicy tidbits?”
A sound from behind them brought their attention around. Lyon was standing in the archway leading into the hall. His eyes were almost black as he glared at Andy. He was clutching his straw hat with both hands. Ten knuckles were white.
“I wanted to offer you the use of the pool this afternoon,” he said. The brittle words seemed to have a hard time finding their way out of the taut lips. “There are suits, towels, anything you need in the cabana.” He put the hat on and pulled it down low over his brows, thankfully screening his accusing eyes from Andy. His boot heels echoed like the strokes of a death knell on the tile as he went out the front door.
Tony whistled softly through his teeth.
Gil shifted uncomfortably and looked at his empty plate.
Warren cleared his throat.
Jeff chuckled. “Well, well, well. I think we’ve riled the cowboy.”
“Shut up, Jeff.” Andy snapped.
“Touchy, touchy. Wha
t’s with you two?”
Play it cool, Andy, and don’t you dare cry in front of them. Don’t think about the hatred you saw on Lyon’s face. Don’t think about the kisses you’ve exchanged with a man who now seems to hold you in contempt. Don’t think!
“He seems friendly enough,” Gil said, seeming not to notice that Andy hadn’t answered Jeff’s question. “But I get the feeling he’d just as soon we weren’t here.”
“He was dead-set against the whole idea at first, but as you see, he’s come around.” She took a sip of her tea with as much nonchalance as she could muster.
“Did you learn anything from him?”
“No. I didn’t get chummy, either. Les is way off base this time.”
“Is he?”
“Yes,” she fairly screamed. For the second time in only a few hours, she pushed away from the dining table in a high state of agitation. “Why don’t all of you go swimming? I’ll join you in an hour or so, after I’ve read over my notes for tomorrow. Warren, is the monitor set up so that I can play the tapes back?”
“Yeah, Andy. In the living room.”
“Thank you. See you all later.”
Ostensibly in her room to review her notes, she brooded instead. Below her windows she could hear the laughter and playful splashing of the crew, but she was disinclined to join them in the pool.
Lyon had overheard Jeff. Now he’d never believe that their intimacy was anything more than a ploy to get him to talk about his father. He had never trusted her. What Jeff had said would only confirm in Lyon’s mind that she was a schemer, a ruthless opportunist who didn’t care whom she hurt so long as she got her story.
Lying on her bed, her arm across her eyes, she groaned when Gracie tapped on her door and said, “Andy, a Mr. Trapper is holding on the line for you. Do you want to talk to him?”
No. “Yes. Tell him I’ll be right there. Can I take the call on the extension in the hall?”
“Sure. I’ll hang up when I hear you.”
