Tom began searching through some papers in his wallet and apparently couldn't find what he wanted. “Shoot. Do you have a phonebook in there?”
“In my desk. Help yourself,” Phillip offered, glancing over at the pool where a sudden shriek was heard over the deafening music. He smiled briefly at Tom who rolled his eyes. It was an old trick. One of the young hopefuls had a friend “accidentally” throw her into the pool. Some of those on the terrace quit dancing and talking and came to the aid of the pretty girl whose dress was ruined but clung provocatively to her shapely body. Phillip couldn't recall many parties with a pool where that didn't happen. Too bad the girls didn't realize that trick didn't work any more. It would save a lot on dry cleaning bills, he mused as he went inside to get something to eat and see what Maxwell Marlowe was doing.
Tom Young, at age thirty-four, had been amused to find himself an over-night star after being an actor for more than ten years. His role of The Loner had made him instantly popular with the women. Although having acted on a television series before, he had never been one of the leads. What most people did not realize was that, in real life, Tom was a lot like his “Time Police” character—intelligent, quiet, and alone.
Tom was the youngest of five children. All of his brothers and sisters had gone into the family business that his mother and father had started, Youngtown Clothes in New York, forty-five years ago in a third-floor walk-up with two sewing machines and a head full of designs. Now, Youngtown Clothes was the fourth largest line in the United States. All the family was still active in design and sales and promotion. All, that is, except for Tom.
He had gone to college to major in business as was expected of him, but found he had little interest in the whole idea. Realizing, even at the time, that he was becoming a cliché, he followed a certain charming lady into a drama class as a chance to be near her. She dropped out, but he had been acting ever since.
Tom's current popularity with the female fans didn't faze him much. He was well aware of his plain appearance by movie standards. He didn't have the square-jawed, manly ruggedness or the dimpled, boyish handsomeness found on most popular stars. He was just under six-feet tall, amber brown eyes, straight brown hair that always looked windblown, and a serious countenance that belied his quiet sense of humor.
Like his character, he had never married and spent most of his free time traveling. Tom had not set out to be single, but had never met that certain, special Someone. And it wasn't the fault of his co-workers and friends as they were forever setting him up to meet this or that perfect companion. Even Tom couldn't fully explain what was wrong, what he was seeking. Absolute beauty didn't appeal to him, even when it was combined with an intelligent mind or a good sense of humor. Most of the actresses and models who looked his way lacked something indefinable.
One of his sisters was now vice-president of the family business, second only to their father. Her tough business sense was helping push the company towards the number three spot. While Tom admired her expertise, he knew he wasn't looking for someone of her particular type either.
It was Tom's humor that surprised people the most when he allowed someone to get close enough to discover it. While Eddie was the chief instigator in most of their capers, Tom was always the right-hand man when it came to execution. When left to his own devices, Tom would silently do private deeds. He would keep adding sugar to someone's coffee when their head was turned. Or tighten knobs of props on the set so the action would have to be halted. Or lock the door to the time portal that resulted in a four-person pile-up. Or invite fifty people over the Eddie's house for a party when Eddie was off visiting his wife in New York. During the festivities, they would make it a point to empty both the refrigerator and the liquor cabinet. When they were all ready to leave, everything would be completely cleaned up and put in order, and all attending would sign a huge thank you card that would be left on Eddie's dining room table.
Tom was now seated behind Phillip's desk, the forgotten phonebook pushed off to the side. For in his search for a blank piece of paper for some notes he had to make, he had come across a pile of letters and two scripts. When he picked up the edge of one to see what it was, a picture had fallen out of the upper pages of the letters and landed face down on the carpet. On the back of it were the words: “This is my word processor. Don't need none o’ them fancy gadgets.” He had turned the snapshot over and laughed. On an off-white sofa sat a smiling woman holding a pen ready in one hand and had some kind of lap desk on which she was writing. The sofa was literally covered with papers and reference books. The woman's sock-covered feet rested easily on her coffee table and a large yellow and white cat overlooked her work.
As Tom returned the photo, his eyes caught a few words of the letters and he read “Time Police,” and “my novel.” Curiosity aroused, he found himself reading all of the letters from this Leslie Nelson, not really meaning to be nosey or pry into Phillip's business. He would have quit reading immediately at the first indication of a love letter or some business he should not be privy to. But, instead, he found well-written, funny letters of thanks, friendliness and observations. He chuckled over some of the passages and wondered about others—ones that mentioned his Loner character and a Jane Barrett. He thought her descriptions of “The Time Police” conventions were hysterical as he was a regular guest at such events and knew what they were like.
Like Eddie, once he thought about it, he had remembered Phillip's preoccupation on the set and figured the larger dog-eared script had been the reason. After checking his watch, Tom knew he wouldn't have time to read the whole manuscript. And he could think of no way to ask Phillip for it without revealing how he came across it. So he allowed himself a few more minutes to thumb through the pages. He was surprised to find in the first chapter that his character was now married. The letters had told him what he was now reading was a second novel. The first was the one being published. Now he was interested, for the first time, in novels written about his television show. He wanted to see how this Leslie managed to do what their writers wouldn't.
After carefully collecting all the papers and replacing them in the drawer, Tom sat a moment thinking. Leslie had told Phillip she sent a copy of her first manuscript to Tom over a year ago. By now it would have been read, charted, and destroyed with all the other unsolicited manuscripts and mail that poured into the studio for him. He felt he would have liked to have seen that one. Oh, well, he thought, I'll just have to wait for the book.
Glancing at his watch again, it was now too late to make his call. Looking around the quiet, well-arranged office, he smiled as he preferred this room to any other in the bleak, white mansion. He would have liked to stay in there shut away from the noise and the hilarity of the party, but a giggly young woman boldly threw the door open and declared that she had been looking for him just everywhere. When she shut the door behind her and gave him an inviting smile, Tom hurriedly excused himself and made his escape around her. The woman looked around the quiet office, wrinkled her pert nose, and turned off the light as she left.
Early the next morning, Phillip was doing his usual laps in the pool. The party had gone on into the late hours, and he actually had no idea who was still asleep inside the many guestrooms. Eddie had arranged with his own housekeepers to come by later that morning to help with the clean-up.
As Phillip continued his workout he was unaware of the ringing phone. In one of the downstairs bedrooms, a moan was heard as a hand reached out for the horribly loud noise.
“Hmmm?” came out instead of hello.
There was a moment of silence at the other end and then a static-filled voice asked, “Hello? Who is this, please?”
“Mindy,” she replied, not yet awake.
“Cindy?” Sarah demanded, straining to hear. “Is that you? What are you doing answering the phone?”
A yawn. “It wouldn't stop ringing any other way.”
The static increased. “Where's Phil? I want to talk to him. Now.”
There was no reply.
“He's asleep. Good party,” Mindy mumbled and hung up the phone.
“Phillip? This is Bill. Did you ever get your house straightened out after that party?”
Phillip smiled and shifted the phone to his other ear. He leaned back in his office chair and put his feet up on the desk. He figured this call from his agent might take a while. “Oh, yes. Between my cleaners and Edward's, it only took one whole day. We found four pairs of shoes in the backyard in case you hear of anyone missing any,” he smiled.
The agent laughed. “Only shoes? After my last bash we found…. Oh, well, never mind. I wanted to know if you were all set to begin filming next week. Any problems?”
Phillip looked at the script entitled “The Drums of the Redcoats” sitting on the desk. “Well, I'd rather have played the Major, but I guess I can take the first bullet. Rehearsals went well. The director still calls me Fred.”
“Well, he's an idiot. Always has been. But, he does know his historical drama,” Bill pointed out. “One other thing. Did Tom or Eddie mention the convention coming up in two months?
There was a long pause and a groan from Phillip. “Don't start on me about that again, Bill. I don't like those things and you know it!”
Bill was quick to cut in. “Hold on, now. This one will be different. It's really big. The major “Time Police” fan club in the Silicon Valley is sponsoring it in honor of our fiftieth show.”
“Aren't they a little late? That episode was earlier in the season. And I wasn't in it,” he added as a passing shot.
“So they are a little slow. So what? Everyone else is going. Even Maxwell and Ron and two of the writers,” Bill reasoned. “They really want you to come. As your agent I feel the public exposure will do you some good. It will be after your part in the picture is done. Saturday and Sunday, the twelfth and the thirteenth. They're even talking about a parade.”
Phillip rolled his eyes. “I hate parades,” he mumbled in a flat tone, thumping the script with a pen.
Bill knew Phillip well enough to know he was just stalling. “All you'll have to do is just sit there and wave. The pay's good. They've already booked you a room.”
“Well, I'm not staying with Tom again. The last time I did he stapled all my underwear shut.”
Bill chuckled. That had been a riot. “No, no. You'll have your own suite. It's at the Fairington Oaks Hotel.”
Phillip perked up a little. “Really? Those are nice.” He gave an elaborate sigh. “Since it seems I again have no say in my own affairs, fine. I'll do it this time.”
“Good. I mailed you all the details yesterday. You should get it today or tomorrow. Oh, the wife wants you to come for dinner Thursday around seven. It's been a while since you've been over.”
Phillip opened his top drawer and pulled out a calendar. “Sounds good. I'm free.”
“Fine. We'll boil another hot dog for you. See you Thursday,” Bill told him and hung up.
As Phillip put down the phone, he wrote the date onto his calendar. Pen still in the air, he frowned. “I hate hot dogs,” he muttered.
In two days Bill's brochures of the convention arrived in the mail along with a small box from Amherst.
“Come on, Bunny,” Phillip sighed. “Don't start sending me gifts. You know better than that.”
He opened Bill's envelope first and took out the standard convention brochure covered with pictures of all the cast and come-ons for all the “exciting events” that will take place over the “two fun-filled days.” “Meet your favorite stars and chat with the writers” claimed the colorful paper. There would be the usual question and answer periods, “never before seen” slides from behind-the-scenes, autograph sessions both days, a trivia contest, costume judging, an auction for memorabilia, and a photo session. An attached note from Bill said the convention was expecting in the low thousands in attendance.
Phillip had to find a knife to cut through the packing tape on Leslie's little box. He had never felt comfortable when fans sent him things. He always felt obligated in return. Now Bunny was stepping beyond that silent boundary that he thought she understood.
What he found inside surprised and pleased him. There was her standard ivory-colored letter and two paperback books. He grinned as he pulled out the books and looked at the cover.
Adventure Novels Presents:
The Time Police
THE LONER FINDS LOVE
by Leslie Nelson
The picture on the cover showed a smiling Tom Young as The Loner and a frowning Eddie Chase as Andrew Fox facing each other. The face on the woman standing between them looked vaguely familiar to Phillip. Brown hair, blue eyes, shy smile. He had seen the model for the drawing somewhere, but where had it been?
As he stared at the book cover, a recollection came to him. He opened his lower desk drawer to take out Bunny's letters and a picture fell to the floor. Picking it up, Phillips started laughing. It was Bunny's face on the cover of her own book.
“Well done, Bunny,” he laughed. “I don't know how you pulled that off, but good show!”
He turned to the back cover and read the outline of the plot. He nodded. Yes, that was what she had said it was about. He then turned his attention to her letter.
“Hello, Phillip,
How are you? I am slightly ecstatic! Can you believe my book? I can't! It's not real just yet.
I'm surprised they moved up the printing date. My agent said it was because there were no major rewrites. (Of which I am most thankful!)
I well remember you told me you were too overwhelmed with your own work to read mine, but I don't care! I was sent five copies right off the press and I wanted you to have one of them. I'm sure you have a bookcase and I'm sure you can arrange to have a beacon of light illuminate my book.
The second copy, if I may impose on you, is for Tom Young. I didn't know how to send it to him so he would actually receive it. I was hoping you could help me out there. Please!
The book ought to be in the stores in a week or so. I hope someone else, besides my friends and me, likes it. Time will tell.
I hope you are well and working. I'll look for you at the movies!
Thanks again,
Leslie
P.S. How do you like the picture of Jane?”
Phillip put down her letter and immediately pulled out a blank piece of paper. As he hesitated, thinking about what to say, his eyes fell on the convention brochure. He wondered if she knew about it. The dates had been advertised on the weekly show a couple of times already and would be repeated. But he didn't know if her town of Amherst was anywhere near the Silicon Valley.
His curiosity had been aroused over this fan of his. Now that she ranked as an author, she was elevated above the fan level. Perhaps it would be all right to say hello to her in the midst of several thousand convention-goers.
“Dear Leslie,” he wrote,
“I was pleased to receive your book. I'm glad it has worked out for you. I will try to look through it when my schedule allows.
I will also attempt to get the other copy to Tom, but I can make no promises.
Enclosed is a brochure for an upcoming convention. I wasn't sure if you knew about it or not.
Again, congratulations.
Sincerely,
Phillip Beck“
CHAPTER 8
The days flew quickly for Jane. There had been so much to learn from Rex during her months at the hidden chateau. Being very happy and very much in love, now knowing him so well, she knew immediately when something was wrong. Rex would come away from the computer console looking tense and uneasy. She knew something was going to happen. Soon.
Whenever she asked Rex to confide what he was thinking, he would momentarily look sad and draw her close to him in a warm embrace. But he wouldn't tell her the reason. Rex would follow her movements around the kitchen with his eyes, or he would stand on the
terrace for an hour just holding her without speaking. Studying her face or running a soft hand over her cheek, he was trying to emblazon her features into his memory, becoming more tender and more loving than ever.
One warm evening they stood together on the balcony overlooking the swaying trees. Rex broke the silence as he stood a step back from her so he could see her face. He held her hands in his. “Jane,” he started in a soft voice. “I want to tell you something. I have come to love you more than I have ever felt possible…. No, let me talk,” he interrupted her attempted response. “I have been alone for many years. You have been the light to my darkness. Even when you have to go I will still have your light within me.”
Jane looked confused by his words. “Go? Why should I go? I'm happy here with you. Is this why you have been troubled lately?” her quick mind picked up. “Rex, tell me what you know,” she implored.
His hand caressed her upturned face and he gently kissed her lips. “I can't tell you just yet what will happen, but it will come soon and you will be gone.”
Tears came to Jane's eyes at his words. “Are you sending me away?” She had been sent away before, a long time ago in Scotland. The pain in her heart still burned.
The first tear the Professor ever shed now fell slowly down his cheek. “I would never willingly do that. You have to believe me. But, in the next few days—I fear its close—you will choose to go. And it will break both our hearts.”
“But, darling….”
He put a soft hand against her lips. “Please, Jane, let me finish. I want to tell you now that my chateau will always be waiting for you. And so will I. I will find some way to watch over you when you are gone from here. Some day, somehow, I will reclaim you. The portal is at my disposal. When your other life is complete, the portal will make you mine again.”
“Other life? I don't understand.” Her tears were falling again, her face showing her confusion by his words.
The Fan Letter Page 12
