Carey and Molly spent a blissful night in their own enchanted land, and when morning came their wedding date on the following weekend had been decided. The decision to tell Pooh about the coming baby had been made. The wrap-up schedule for the picture five days hence was decided. Even the honeymoon had been decided.
Southern France for all three-and-a-half of them.
Only the decision about their working lives hadn't been decided.
Cowardly, they'd avoided the subject.
CHAPTER 50
W hen Carey arrived on location in the late morning, he immediately went to the trailer and rummaged through the file drawers. Five minutes later, he called in Allen from the final scenes being set up in the meadow near the lake.
After a brief exchange of amenities, Carey said, “I'm tossing another mess into your lap, Allen. Call and tell our lawyers they're going to be busy in the next few weeks. I just tore up my contract with Allied International to direct that film in Australia.”
Allen sat down hard, taking off his baseball cap in an unconscious gesture of shock. His horrified glance was no surprise to Carey. “You can't,” he exclaimed as vehemently as his breathless lungs would allow.
“I already did,” Carey replied with a much-too-cheerful demeanor for a man who may have committed financial suicide.
“You're ruining yourself,” Allen pronounced, his mind racing through the possible loss of income totaling millions, on top of Carey's determination to make this immigrant movie that may or may not make money, not to mention the losses suffered during the weeks he was gone on his murderous mission.
“Christ, Allen,” Carey responded, “I don't need all this. I lead a simple life. I know how to run my own camera.”
“Jesus, you're not some long-haired juvenile director with a creative dream, Carey, You're incorporated ten times over now.” And you don't lead a simple life, he thought, unless royal prerogatives had reached the masses when he wasn't looking. “You've a wife and daughter to think about, or soon will have,” he added in an attempt to reach the starry-eyed man he'd known as a hard-headed pragmatist for eight long years.
“And another child on the way.”
Allen's eyes bulged out. “That kid really is yours.”
It stopped Carey for a moment-Allen's inherent disbelief-even after all the weeks of legal maneuvering to put Pooh in his will. “Both kids are really mine,” he said very simply.
“Good God, then, Carey, think of them. If you renege on that contract-” Allen exhaled violently at the thought of all the dire consequences.
“I'm not exactly penniless, Allen. I think I'll survive. You're better off not going in for these big productions, anyway.”
He was sounding more and more like the barefoot man Allen had first met at Cannes long ago. “Shit, Carey, don't go native on me. This is more millions than-”
“I'm not impressed, Allen,” Carey interrupted. “If you recall,” he went on very quietly, “those millions and some of the people behind those millions were the reason I left Hollywood in the first place.”
Now that sounded exactly like the barefoot man at Cannes. And that integrity was what had always appealed to Allen. You could count on the man. Always. Ever loyal, Allen sighed deeply and gave up. “You're sure?”
“Sure as hell. If I don't have Molly, there aren't enough millions in the world to make me happy. Clear?”
“As crystal.” Allen smiled then. “Who the hell would ever think you'd find the end of the rainbow way the hell up here.”
“It's where I lost it in the first place. Why shouldn't I find it here?”
“And all those women around the world waiting their turn?”
Carey laughed, a pleasant sound full of pleasure, without regret. “They're all yours, Allen. Be my guest. My Honeybear is all I need.”
On the term of endearment, Allen's glance swiveled to the small honey-colored teddy bear mounted in a delicate bell jar which had always held a place of honor on Carey's desk. “For her?” he asked. “That was hers?”
Carey nodded.
“And Golden Bear Productions?”
Carey shrugged. “What else?”
“Holy Christ, would the gossip columnists have a field day with that,” Allen teased. “You, the guy who didn't believe in romance. Only amour.”
Carey smiled. “If you dare, Allen,” he said, humor weaving like children's laughter through his voice, “I'll find you, no matter where you hide.”
“Bloody hell,” Allen exclaimed, “under that man-of-iron will beats the mushy heart of a romantic.”
“More to the point, a mushy heart that just had me tear up my contract. So call the lawyers.”
“Okay, Carey. What the hell? My broker can learn to live a little cheaper.”
Picking up the torn scraps of contract, Carey said, “Put these in a box, will you, Allen. And have it gift-wrapped. Wedding paper, I think.”
“That's a thirty-million-dollar gift, you damned fool.”
“She's worth every penny of it.”
CHAPTER 51
T he film was finished. Carrie was in bed. It was the evening before their wedding. Contrary to custom, Carey refused to stay away from his bride-to-be, and they lay together in bed, the TV on but unwatched, the lights of the city spread out below them in a colorful array, framed in the floor-to-ceiling wall of windows.
“You're subdued tonight, Honeybear. Having cold feet?”
With her cheek resting on his chest, her hand trailing slowly over the hard muscles of his stomach, Molly murmured, “Not a chance. You're trapped this time, and no mistake.”
“Ah… a predatory woman. After my own heart.”
“You never did like the passive, gentle type, did you?”
“Nope-not my style. Too damn boring. Now a woman like you-temperamental, opinionated, dare I say, aggressive? Love every tiny little inch of your opinionated body.”
“Speaking of opinionated, I've made a decision.” Sitting up suddenly, Molly rose from the bed.
“Hey,” he protested, “if you're leaving me, you know the old saying-over my dead body. I'm not about to let that happen a second time.”
“Only getting you a present,” Molly shouted from the dressing room where she was digging through her purse. A moment later, walking back to the bed lush in a rose silk robe Carey had had flown in from Paris, she held out a heavy envelope. “My gift to you,” she quietly said.
Taking it, he patted a spot on the flowered sheets. “Sit down, Honeybear. I've something for you, too. I was going to wait until tomorrow, but why not now?” Graceful and lean, he twisted around to reach his leather travel bag on the floor near the bed. She watched the play of muscle down his body from shoulder to thigh. Tossing aside clothing, he found what he was looking for-a small flat package exquisitely wrapped in silver foil paper and white lace ribbon. Rolling back onto the bed, he offered the package to Molly. “Happy marriage, Honeybear.” And he lounged back against the pillows to rip the envelope flap open. His eyes shone with both tenderness and amusement when he extracted the colorful brochure of homes for lease in Melbourne, and the catalogs of private schools in that city.
Molly had carefully untied the expensive ribbon and folded away the paper the way her mother always did. She was piecing together the ragged edges of several sheets of legal-sized paper she'd taken from the small box. Perusing the first paragraph of a partially assembled page, her gaze lifted to Carey's.
“This is the nicest gift I've ever received,” he said, holding the brochures and catalogs aloft, his dark eyes full of love.
“You gave this up for me?” Molly whispered.
“For us,” he quietly replied. “For all of us.”
“It's too much.”
“No more than you gave up for me.”
“You really don't mind about Australia?” She was almost afraid to mention it. Life was too perfect, and her gypsy soul was screaming, “Don't be stupid.”
“Plenty of time for that when the
kids are older,” Carey said. “I'm going to be a father, you know.”
“Yeah,” she said with a grin. “Someone told me about that.” And then her voice became very small. “Are you really pleased?”
His lazy, seductive smile appeared like sunshine after the rain, and he whispered, “Come here, Honeybear, and I'll show you how pleased.”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Susan Johnson, award-winning author of nationally bestselling novels, lives in the country near North Branch, Minnesota. A former art historian, she considers the life of a writer the best of all possible worlds.
Researching her novels takes her to past and distant places, and bringing characters to life allows her imagination full rein, while the creative process offers occasional fascinating glimpses into the complicated machinery of the mind.
But perhaps most important… writing stories is fun.
***
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