No. Darn it, there wasn’t a single thing wrong with her. She looked just as good as ever.
So why was it that Colin Peters, the only man she’d met in a jillion years to whom she’d even consider getting close, seemed immune to her physical allures? It was all very irritating, and she vowed that she’d try harder in the morning.
“No such Indians, my eye,” she grumbled as she toweled her face dry after washing it in the sink. Thank God for money and running water, which was so much easier to wash with than ewers and pitchers. One never managed not to drip, and those chintzy oilskin squares most hotels placed on the floor were never big enough.
After slathering cream on her face to keep her complexion soft, she sank into her bed. It had been made up with silk sheets especially for her by the hotel management, because she was a star. If they only knew, she’d as soon sleep on percale because the fabric didn’t slip so much.
Cradling her head in her cupped hands, she stared at the ceiling. “There’s got to be some way to get him to climb down from his high horse. He probably thinks I’m nothing but a pretty face.”
And why shouldn’t he? She’d cultivated that very image for half of her life. Anyway, so what? Men didn’t care about anything beyond a pretty face, so why should her own pretty face be a drawback in her attempt to get Colin Peters to teach her everything she wanted to know about Indians?
Shoot, this wasn’t fair. Why should her success in one aspect of her life play hob with another one?
“He’s not getting rid of me that easily,” she vowed to the ceiling and to herself. “And I’m going to turn him into a human being, too. I can do it. Heck, after creating myself, I reckon I can create a human being out of a brick.”
On that cheery note, she turned over and shut her eyes, only to sit up straight in bed a second or two later, a horrible thought having struck her.
“Good God! Maybe he’s a fairy!”
Feeling deflated, she sank back onto her pillows, turned over, and decided Colin Peters could go straight to hell.
Two open flatbed trucks rattled into the lodge yard at four o’clock the following afternoon. Brenda ran outside to meet the Indians in the trucks, curious to get to know them. She’d never met an Indian before.
“Oh, there you are, Brenda.” Martin smiled at her, and the two of them walked to the yard where the motorized trucks were going to be unloaded.
“Howdy, Martin,” said she, getting into the spirit of a picture about the Wild West. “I hope you’re putting these fellows up in the lodge and not making them sleep in tents or something.”
“Brenda.” Martin offered her a fake frown of injury. “You know me better than that. Peerless honors all of its actors, even the Indians.”
Even the Indians. Brenda felt a slice of bitterness cut into her heart. “That’s very nice of Peerless,” she said, her voice betraying only a little of the acidity she felt. “I’ve noticed that about Peerless. They’re even nice to women, of all unworthy creatures.”
Martin’s brows creased, and she felt kind of mean. Never, in the few years she’d known him, had she experienced anything but respect and friendship from Martin Tafft. And she had to admit that he’d never treated her any worse than a man—or any better, for that matter, which was almost more of a test of a person’s basic integrity than the other way around. She appreciated people who considered women equal to men.
They weren’t, though. Women were infinitely superior to men, if only because they had to battle so hard to achieve the same rewards that were handed out to men as a matter of course. She never brought the subject up because she knew it would be ridiculed, and she’d be considered an oddball.
She didn’t need a charge of eccentricity to be lodged against her at this point in her life. Maybe when she retired, she could recline in her huge house amid her immense wealth and enormous library and make snide and cynical comments about how, the world worked. But at this point she needed the world and all of its imperfections, because they worked to her advantage.
Colin was already standing beside the trucks, scowling at the Indian men who were disembarking when she and Martin arrived. Because she was still annoyed with Colin, both for snubbing her last night and for perhaps being a man who preferred men to women, she walked over and stood next to him.
Brenda was surprised to see that all the men, whose dark skins, broad faces, and black hair clearly proclaimed their race, were clad in trousers and shirts and jackets, just like everybody else. She didn’t know what she’d expected. Something more native, she guessed, although she knew it was silly of her to be disappointed. Had she anticipated breach clouts? Tomahawks? Feather and war paint? Silly Brenda.
Colin still looked pained. Brenda, feeling none too gently disposed toward him this afternoon, said, “What’s wrong, Colin? Don’t you care for this particular breed of Indian?”
He frowned down at her. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
Peeved, she said “Okay.” Then she gave him one of her most charming smiles and was glad when he blushed.
She was interested to note that three of the men getting out of the trucks carried baseball bats. Another one carried a baseball. When he stepped onto the dirt of the lodge’s yard, he started tossing the ball into the air and catching it casually. All of the men appeared ill at ease. They eyed the white folks standing around as if they expected to be shot at. Brenda’s heart went soft. She didn’t blame them for being wary; as a culture, these people had been through hell.
Because she couldn’t tolerate the gaping social divide that seemed to widen between the two groups as they stood there and eyed each other, she made the first move.
“It’s so good of you to come help us with this picture,” she said suddenly, and stepped across the invisible line separating them. Having studied human nature for years and years, she had detected at once the leader of this particular grouping: the man tossing the baseball. She walked up to him and stuck out her hand.
He stared at her hand, his face completely expressionless. He did stop tossing the ball, which Brenda appreciated. She decided that her best recourse in this awkward circumstance was her outgoing nature and the truth. “I’m sure you’ve never been in a situation like this before, so it’s all strange. And I haven’t, either, really. But I’m very glad to be working with you. Won’t you shake hands?”
After another moment or two—the time seemed interminable to her—the Indian stuffed the ball into his pocket, wiped his hand on his trousers, and shook her hand. “Uh, sure.”
A probably unreasonable feeling of accomplishment rushed through her. Her smile broadened. “I’m Brenda Fitzpatrick. I’ll be the lady you guys capture and carry off.” Because she wanted to make this man feel at ease and sensed that accusing him or members of his group of indiscriminate kidnapping wasn’t the way to do it, she added hastily, “Although I know that’s stupid, and you never did anything like that. It’s for the pictures, you know. They like to make a drama out of everything.”
The man said, “Uh . . .” and seemed to run out of inspiration.
She got the feeling she was confusing her audience and was irked with herself. “I’m sorry to blather on so. But it’s very nice to meet you. I hope we can all get to be friends. What’s your name?”
“Jerry Begay.”
That didn’t sound very Indian to Brenda, although she knew herself to be ignorant about such things—which was partly Colin’s fault, blast him. “Mr. Begay. Well, it’s very nice to meet you.”
He nodded. The other fourteen red men had gathered behind Begay and were staring at Brenda with faces empty of emotion. Accustomed as she was to adjusting her behavior according to the signs she detected in her audience, Brenda found this lack of visual and emotional clues as to what these men were thinking disconcerting. Feeling more nervous than usual, she took a step back and looked at Colin.
He was glaring at her as if he considered her the biggest ass in the world, and she resented it. She was only trying to make these
people feel welcome. Which, in her considered opinion, was a lot better than what anyone else connected with Peerless was doing.
Nevertheless, she gestured to Colin. “Mr. Begay, this gentleman is Mr. Colin Peters. He’s studied a lot about various Indian cultures.”
Begay looked at Colin, and Brenda thought she detected something in his eyes, although she couldn’t recognize what it was. He nodded at Colin.
Colin, nudged out of his stiff posture by Brenda and Begay, walked over and held out his hand. “Hello, Jerry. Good to see you again.”
Brenda felt her eyes widen. “Good heavens, do you mean to tell me you two already know each other?”
“Yes,” said Colin, looking at her with displeasure. “It was to my great benefit that Mr. Begay allowed me to stay with his family for a month two summers in succession while I was in school. This was in Arizona Territory.”
“Right,” said Begay, shaking Colin’s hand. He had a gruff, sandy voice that reminded Brenda of the desert from whence he came.
“How’s the family?” Colin asked, as if he’d only just then remembered the social custom of inquiring about people’s personal lives when one hadn’t seen them for a while.
“Good.”
Conversation ceased and both men stood there, Colin looking uncomfortable, Begay just looking. Once more Brenda stepped into the breach. “Well, isn’t it nice to renew acquaintances?”
Neither man agreed or disagreed, and she felt like socking both of them for being impossible clods. Instead, she caught Martin’s eye. “Let me introduce you to the man who’s putting this whole picture together, Mr. Begay. This is Martin Tafft. Martin, meet Mr. Jerry Begay.” She beamed at the two of them, hoping some of the tension surrounding this meeting would snap.
Martin shook Begay’s hand. “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Begay. Glad you could come. We had trouble finding enough—er—Indians to play the number of roles we had to fill.”
Begay shrugged. “I seen pictures where they just dress whites up in buckskin and pass ‘em off that way.”
So had Brenda. She smothered a giggle. She did, however, begin to sense that there were depths to Mr. Begay that she hadn’t at first fathomed.
Martin shifted uneasily. “Ahem. We at Peerless try to be more accurate in our depictions.”
Colin uttered a scornful huff. Again, Brenda felt like smacking him She was pleased to note that Mr. Begay seemed to have some manners. He only nodded at Martin and didn’t even look skeptical.
Another silence fell over the group, rather like a smothering fog, and Brenda decided to take matters into her own hands. “Well,” she said brightly, clasping her hands and smiling gamely at Begay and his men, “why don’t you come with me and I’ll take you into the lodge.” She gave Martin a quick, hard look. “These men will be taking rooms in the lodge, will they not?”
Martin, taken aback by her tone, jumped and said, “Of course. Of course. Here, I’ll go with you.”
Brenda turned to Colin and asked coldly, “Will you come with us, Colin? Or is this not one of your duties?”
He glared at her for approximately three seconds then barked, “What does that have to do with anything? Of course I’ll come with you and help.” He proceeded to ignore Brenda then. Turning to Martin, he said, “I have to talk to you about this, Martin. And soon. This whole thing is getting out of hand.”
Brenda wanted to ask what whole thing but didn’t believe the moment was opportune. If he was going to complain about her, she’d have something to say about it, though.
Long ago she’d learned to stand up for herself, and if this possible pansy intended to ask Martin to make her butt out of his supposed business, he was going to have a fight on his hands This was her business, too, darn it. It was her livelihood. She had every right in the world to ask questions of the man hired by Peerless Studio to assist with research. Heck, it was his job to help her understand Indians. Or, if not exactly his job, he should at least be expected to answer civil questions civilly.
Feeling unusually feisty, Brenda marched alongside fifteen Navajo Indians and two employees of Peerless Studio up the porch steps to the enormous and terribly elegant front doors of the Cedar Crest Lodge. She noted with interest the looks of fascination, not unmixed with disapproval, on the faces of several Cedar Crest employees when they espied the Indians, but she ignored them.
If any employee of the lodge, within her hearing, behaved rudely to any of these men, however, the lodge management would hear from her. Fortunately, she had enough wealth, status, and social clout to make a difference in the world. The knowledge made her feel better.
Life got complicated for a while at the registration desk. Only one of the Navajos, Jerry Begay, could write his name in English. Martin, Brenda, and Colin attended to the others, Colin advising her and Martin about spellings and so forth. Brenda was impressed by his knowledge, even though she still resented him for being cold to her. Eventually, the registrations were taken care of and a couple of scared-looking bellboys were dispatched to lead the new cast members to their rooms. Brenda watched them go with a sense of satisfaction that was out of proportion to the amount of help she’d been, but she couldn’t help it.
She felt sorry for those men. Indeed, she identified with them. Those Indians were in many ways akin to the women of this world. They were discriminated against for no reason, denied privileges any white man, even the basest and least intelligent, was granted as his birthright, and were generally considered of less intrinsic value than white men. It wasn’t fair, and she knew it. A victim of this sort of abuse herself, she felt a good deal of affiliation with this small tribe of Navajos.
The baseball accouterments they’d carried with them from Arizona interested her. Maybe they’d got a team together among themselves. Something started fielding her brain, and she grinned to herself.
“What’s up?”
She looked over to find Martin smiling at her. “Oh, I was just thinking about ball games,” she said airily. “Do you suppose those men like to play ball games? They have bats and balls with them.”
“Yes, they do like to play ball games.”
Brenda, who had been speaking to Martin, turned when Colin answered her question. She decided not to take him to task for interrupting, since he’d told her what she wanted to know. “Really? Hmmm I wonder if we can get up some games between the crew and the Indians. That might be fun.”
Martin’s brow wrinkled. “I don’t know. It might breed unhealthy competition.”
“Not with me managing the teams, it won’t,” Brenda said with self-assurance. “I won’t let it.”
“Honestly,” Colin muttered, as if he could think of only one thing more idiotic than baseball, and that was a woman managing a team of Indian baseball players.
But Brenda was having none of that. She squinted at him “You don’t know anything about it, Colin Peters.”
She resented it when he rolled his eyes.
“You’re right,” he said. “I know nothing about playing ball games. Or you.”
The way he said it gave her to understand that he didn’t want to know anything about either of them, either. Which was too darned bad because, she decided then and there, she was going to pester Colin Peters until he either came clean and admitted he was a fairy or unbent enough to be her friend. Or—although she hardly dared think about it—something more.
She only sent him a sweet smile and sailed over to speak with one of her beaux, who’d been trying to catch her eye for several minutes.
Colin watched her walk away and wondered what it was about her that seemed to bring out his least congenial side. He wasn’t by nature rude, and his parents had taught him vigorously and early how to behave in public. He’d known from the time he was three years old that women were objects of respect and consideration, even those who behaved in ways that would never be tolerated in men. The three-year-old Colin hadn’t questioned these teachings; he’d merely obeyed the rules of the game. It hadn’t mattered to hi
m anyway, since his mind was invariably on things other than social situations.
Yet here, in Brenda Fitzpatrick, he’d discovered an object of irritation that he couldn’t seem to rise above. Was it because she was so enticing? Perhaps. He pondered that aspect of her being for a moment, and decided that, while it was annoying to have her physical presence forever jostling his senses, there was more to his aversion than that. If it was aversion. Dash it, he was only confusing himself.
“I have a feeling this is going to be a lively production.”
Colin turned to look at Martin, who had spoken. “Er, yes.” Jarred out of his contemplation of Brenda, he decided now was a good time to discuss some things with. Martin. “I need to speak to you, Martin. About those Indians.”
“Sure.” Martin gave him a grin that held a modicum of wariness, as if he anticipated something unpleasant to come. “Let’s go sit in the parlor.”
“Very well.”
Colin noted with some vexation that Brenda was watching them as if she wanted to be part of this discussion, whatever it was. He didn’t want her to be. She was only a woman and an actress, and had nothing whatever to do with the important aspects of the picture. With something that might have been interpreted, even by himself, as pique if he’d seen it in another man, Colin deliberately turned his back on her and walked along with Martin.
“I’m really glad it’s Brenda who’s playing in this picture,” Martin told him with a pleased sigh. “She’s so down to earth. No squeamish Mimi, Brenda. She’ll have made friends of everyone in a day or two.”
“Hmmm.”
“Yes, indeedy.” Martin rubbed his hands together in pleasure. “We’re fortunate to have her. She’s smart and funny and a real joy to work with.”
With whom to work, Colin thought peevishly. Not that it mattered, and not that he generally spared a thought for other people’s grammar. It must be that his senses were disordered by that wretched woman. “Hmmm,” he said again.
Beauty and the Brain Page 6
