Harvest Moon

by Rochelle Alers

  Regina Cole stared out the window, noting a series of gardens, a guest house, and a tennis court. The driveway ended at a porte cochere. Beyond were two more welcoming areas: a covered courtyard with scrolled gates, and an open courtyard with statuary and more gardens. She knew every inch of the house. Designed with the features of a Tuscany villa, it fused the grandeur and comfort afforded a man of Harold Jordan’s station.

  She had come to the sprawling mansion six months ago, spending a week under twenty-foot high ceilings and lazing around the Olympic-size swimming pool with the Pacific Ocean as the backdrop. Harold Jordan had summoned her and award-winning director Oscar Spencer to his home to discuss the film he decided to finance—a discussion which lasted only an hour.

  Harold had invited her back more than half a dozen times during the filming of the virtually unknown artistic masterpiece, Silent Witness, but she had deftly sidestepped each request with a preconceived, rehearsed declination. There was something about the thrice-married producer which made it impossible for her to relax in his presence. At forty-nine, he was thirty-two years her senior. However, their age difference had not stopped him from pursuing her with the craftiness of Machiavelli.

  This evening was different. Harold had summoned everyone who had had anything to do with the production of Silent Witness to his home to celebrate the film’s eleven Academy Award nominations. She still had five months before she turned eighteen, yet she had garnered a Best Actress nomination for her first film.

  The news had numbed her for hours. Then she had picked up the telephone in the sparsely furnished Los Angeles apartment she shared with another actress and called her parents in Florida. Hearing their drawling Southern cadence reminded her of how far she was from home, and despite her joy she felt more alone than she had ever been in her young life. She had wanted her parents and the other members of her family present when she shared her jubilation, not strangers; she needed people around her whom she loved, and who made her feel safe.

  And there were times when she did not feel safe, despite sharing the apartment with another young woman and hiring drivers to take her everywhere. Years of therapy helped her cope with her fears, but hadn’t eradicated them entirely. It was only on the set, in character, that she was no longer Regina Cole, but whoever her character was. It was then she no longer feared close, dark spaces. It was then she could breathe without a suffocating darkness crushing her body and her mind. And it was then that she could look out at the audience and smile, because she was completely free of the demons who attacked swiftly, silently, and without warning.

  The car stopped at the entrance to the Jordan residence and a white-jacketed valet opened the rear door. The young man extended a tanned hand and Regina laid her slender fingers on his palm. His gaze widened appreciably as she placed one black, silk-shod, sling strap-sandaled foot on the terra-cotta path, then the other. Smooth, incredibly long legs were displayed under a body-hugging black dress in a stretch knit with a wide neckline and cap sleeves.

  His mouth went suddenly dry as he pulled her gently to her to feet, she meeting his gaze. He was an even six-foot in height, and Regina Cole’s head was level with his. A warm wind blew in from the ocean, lifting her waist-length curly hair. Turning her face into the breeze, she smiled. His smiled matched hers. She was even more beautiful in person.

  Tucking her hand in the crook of his arm, he led her toward the glass-paned mahogany doors. “This way, Miss Cole.”

  Regina’s trademark dimpled smile faded the moment she spied Harold Jordan standing in the entry waiting for her arrival. He was as casually dressed as she was. He had selected a pair of black linen slacks and a white raw silk shirt with a Mandarin collar piped in black.

  He extended both hands, his fingers encircling her tiny waist. “My queen,” he crooned, pulling her to his slim, hard body.

  Tilting her head, she avoided his wet kiss and it landed on her chin. “Good evening, Mr. Jordan.”

  The warmth of his gaze grew cold, his eyes resembling pale-blue topaz. They were a startling contrast in a face deeply tanned by the brilliant, Southern California sun.

  “How many times must I remind you to call me Harold?” His reprimand, although spoken softly, was cutting.

  Forcing a smile, she said, “You’re old enough to be my father.” He flinched as if she had struck him. “And because you are, I can’t address you by your name.”

  “You can’t, or you won’t?”

  Her smile faded. “I cannot.”

  Harold Jordan’s patience had been worn thin with his continued attempts to seduce the very beautiful and very talented young woman who managed to occupy his every waking moment. If she had not been the daughter of a wealthy man she would’ve shared his bed as soon as she hit the streets of Hollywood.

  But Regina Cole wasn’t a starving actress waiting tables or auditioning on a casting director’s couch to land a role. She had arrived in Los Angeles trained by the best drama coach her father’s money could procure, and the training paid off. She had been nominated for Best Actress amid a field of veterans for her first film.

  It wasn’t just her acting talent which had drawn him to her, but the total package. She was the antithesis of the flaxen California blond. Her jet-black hair flowed to her waist in loose, shiny curls, a perfect foil for golden-brown skin further darkened by the hot sun.

  The moment he stared at her black-and-white head shot he had been transfixed by the perfection of her delicate features. The large dark eyes, staring out at him from the photograph, along with her straight nose and lush, full mouth, had held him spellbound until she walked into his office. She’d smiled at him, displaying a set of deep dimples and greeted him in a low, smoky voice which belied her youth. He’d stared, temporarily paralyzed, and a slight arching of one sweeping eyebrow let him know she was aware that he was not unaffected by her startling natural beauty.

  He did not remember his interview with her until after she’d left his office. All he recalled was her height, the sensually haunting fragrance of her scented body, the boyish slimness of her hips, and the firm, fullness of her thrusting breasts.

  Regina Cole had successfully parried his advances, but this night he would not be denied. Having her share his bed would make the eleven nominations for Silent Witness pale by comparison.

  Grasping her hand, he led her through an arched hallway off the opulently furnished living room and out to the patio. A state-of-the-art sound and lighting system filled the area around the pool with music and flattering lights. The glow of the setting sun bathed every light surface in a fiery orange.

  Harold gave her a warm smile. “May I get you something from the bar?”

  “Club soda, please.”

  His hand moved up her back, his fingers catching in the wealth of hair floating over her shoulders like curling black ribbon. “Can’t I interest you in something stronger? I can assure you you won’t be carded tonight.”

  “Club soda with a twist of lime.”

  He stared at her, a polite smile in place. “Even if you were old enough to drink what would be your preference?”

  “Club soda,” she insisted stubbornly. She had experimented with drinking with her friends during her sixteenth birthday celebration, and she woke with a severe migraine the following day. The episode was enough for her to never drink alcohol again. Along with her mother’s voice, she had also inherited Parris Simmons-Cole’s intolerance for most alcoholic beverages.

  “Then it’s one club soda with a twist for the pretty lady,” Harold whispered close to her ear.

  Regina watched him make his way to the bar before turning and searching the crowd for her mentor. She saw Oscar Spencer as he listened intently to one of the film’s supporting actresses; the skimpily attired woman gestured wildly, the many bracelets on her wrists sliding noisily up and down her bare, tanned, well-toned arms.

  Resting her hands on her hips, Regina smiled at the bored expression on Oscar’s face. She found him to be the most
patient man she’d ever had the pleasure of knowing. And if it hadn’t been for his genius, she knew, her performance would never have been good enough to earn an award nomination.

  “Congratulations, beautiful,” whispered an assistant director as he walked past her in his quest to find some much needed liquid refreshment.

  She flashed her celebrated smile. “Thank you, Neil.”

  Oscar turned in her direction, nodding his acknowledgment. She beckoned with her forefinger and he excused himself from the chatting, clinging actress. He wove his way through the swelling throng, reaching her at the same time Harold arrived with her drink.

  The producer handed her a goblet filled with a clear, chilled, carbonated liquid with a sliver of green. “A club soda with a twist.”

  Regina took the glass, giving him the smile he had come to expect from her. “Thank you.”

  Harold nodded, dropping an arm over Oscar’s shoulder. “Have your feet touched the ground yet?”

  Shaking his head, Oscar offered a shy smile. “Actually, they’ve never left the ground.”

  Regina slipped the cool, refreshing drink, peering over the rim at the director. She knew he was apprehensive about celebrating his nomination prematurely. It had taken him more than thirty years to prove his genius in an industry that had employed its own efficient strategy of excluding people of color from the major studios. But Oscar had quietly made a name for himself, directing low-budget independent projects.

  Then, at sixty-six, he did what he had never done before—he made the rounds of the studios to finance a script sent him by a recent graduate of an avant-garde film school. His instincts told him he had a winner, and he was right—once he finally convinced Harold Jordan to underwrite the cost of the project.

  She had answered the casting call along with hundreds of others, knowing she was born to play the role of a young woman who, while on vacation in Mexico, falls in love with a priest who is living a double life. Like Oscar, she knew her instincts were correct once she received the call from her agent telling her she had gotten the part.

  Her parents had flown out to the West Coast with her younger brother and sister to congratulate her on winning her first starring role, but she knew the reunion was more of a reconciliation than a celebration. Martin and Parris Cole had indulged what they had thought was her fleeting passion for acting, hoping and praying it would wane with maturity.

  However, it did not wane, but intensified, and a week after she graduated from high school she packed her bags and left Fort Lauderdale, Florida, for Los Angeles, California.

  She checked into a hotel, then called her parents to give them her address. Within twenty-four hours her father had set up an account in her name at a major California bank, permitting her to withdraw enough monies each month to maintain the lifestyle she’d had in Florida. And two weeks after her arrival she found a comfortable, two-bedroom apartment in an upscale L.A. neighborhood. She lived alone for a month before she offered her spare bedroom to another actress who had just separated from her boyfriend.

  She had now been a Californian for nine months, and during that time she had made one film and had not gone out on one date. It wasn’t as if she hadn’t been asked out by men of varying ages, but it was her own age which kept her away from the clubs and the private parties. She was old enough to drive, yet still not old enough to vote, smoke, or drink. And the realization was sobering, because legally she was not an adult.

  Harold removed his arm from Oscar’s shoulder, his pale, penetrating gaze never straying from Regina’s face. “Do you think we have a chance at the triple crown—Best Picture, Director, and Actress?”

  She took another sip of her drink. “I’m not so certain the Academy will want to give me a Best Actress award, given my age and inexperience.”

  Oscar’s dark brown eyes narrowed in concentration. “Your age and the fact that Silent Witness is your first film should have nothing to do with it.”

  She shifted her expressive eyebrows. “Must I remind you of politics, my friend?”

  The director shook his head. He had been involved in the film industry longer than his talented protegee had been alive, and had known firsthand how politics had played havoc with his own directorial tenure. He’d won numerous awards at the Cannes, Venice, and Sundance Film Festivals, but never his namesake—the coveted, gold-plated statuette.

  He was now sixty-seven, and he knew he did not have many more years in the film industry. He had planned for Silent Witness to be his last project, but changed his mind after working with Regina Cole. At first he thought her garnering the lead for Silent was a fluke. However, he had quickly changed his mind after working with her.

  He found her intelligent, extremely talented, and uncannily perceptive. She usually knew what he wanted even before he outlined what he required of her. Watching her transform herself into a character usually sent chills through his body. She always sat apart from the others on the set, meditating. Once the signal was given for her to take her place for a scene, the transformation was complete. She was no longer Regina Cole, but her character.

  He wanted to direct her once more before he officially retired. He wanted and needed to know if the magic was still there, if they could become a winning combination for the second time.

  Harold excused himself, walking away and leaving Regina alone with Oscar. She took another sip of her drink, then lowered the glass and smiled at the tall, spare, elegant black man. Oscar Spencer was old enough to be her grandfather. In fact he was twenty years older than her forty-seven-year-old father, but somehow she did not regard him as a father figure. She saw him as a protector. Quietly, surreptitiously, he had shielded her from the obvious and lecherous advances of some of the men on the movie set.

  When she was first introduced to Oscar she had found herself staring mutely at the man whose quiet voice and gentle manner put her immediately at ease. After working with him she realized he never had to raise his voice to issue an order. A withering glance and a noticeable tightening of his moustached mouth usually indicated his displeasure, and no one appeared willing to challenge his authority on the set.

  Oscar’s private life had remained that—private—though the tabloids did uncover that he had been twice married, both times to actresses. His first wife died in childbirth, giving him his only child, a son. The second divorced him within the first year of their marriage, citing irreconcilable differences.

  She noticed that women of all ages were drawn to him, but at sixty-seven he did not seem the least bit interested in initiating an ongoing relationship. She had shared an occasional dinner with him, but only at his home. He always sent a driver to pick her up from her apartment, and after they shared a meal and several hours of intelligent conversation, the driver drove her back home.

  Taking another sip of the club soda, she noticed an unnaturally bitter taste on her tongue. A slight frown marred her smooth forehead. Perhaps the sliver of lime had given the liquid an acrid flavor.

  “Is there something wrong with your drink?” Oscar questioned, seeing her frown of distaste.

  She shrugged a slender shoulder, taking another swallow. “I don’t know. It was fine when I first tasted it, but now it seems so bitter.” Her words came out slurred, in a singsong fashion. She blinked furiously, eyelids fluttering rapidly as she tried focusing. Why was the room spinning? And why couldn’t she see Oscar’s face clearly?

  Oscar’s graying eyebrows met in a frown when he noticed her dilated pupils. Reaching out, he pried the glass from her hand and poured the contents into a large planter.

  “Let’s get out of here,” he ordered quietly. Curving an arm around her waist, he led her across the patio and around the rear of the house to an area where several dozen cars were parked.

  Supporting Regina’s sagging body, he made his way over to a middle-aged man who jumped up from a chair at his approach. “Preston, please tell my driver to bring my car around.”

  “Yes, sir.” He raced away to do th
e director’s bidding.

  Regina felt her knees buckle as her head rolled limply on her neck. “Oscar.” Her voice was barely a whisper. “I think I’m going to be sick.”

  Pulling a handkerchief from the breast pocket of his jacket, he held it close to her mouth. “Let it come up and you’ll feel better.”

  She did not want to throw up—not in public. Then, whatever she had eaten or drunk refused to stay down. “No,” she moaned, pushing his hand away and swallowing back the rush of nausea.

  Oscar solved her dilemma when he held her jaw firmly and thrust a finger down her throat. Within seconds she purged the contents of her stomach onto the octagonal-shaped flagstones. Her eyes filled with tears, which streamed down her cheeks. Her throat burned, her stomach muscles ached from the violent contractions, and she couldn’t keep her knees from shaking.

  “It’s all right, Regina. You’re going to be all right,” he crooned over and over, wiping her mouth with the handkerchief.

  The odor of undigested food was revolting, and Regina thought she was going to be sick all over again. What was wrong with her? What had she eaten or drunk to make her throw up?

  The caretaker returned with the driver and stepped out of Oscar’s car. His eyes widened when he noticed the splatter on the flagstones. Wrinkling his nose, he cursed to himself. He hated the superficial, self-centered people who attended Harold Jordan’s parties. They always drank too much and wound up throwing up, and he always had to clean up after them. There were times when he let them lay in their own filth, while calling them pigs, and they were—overpaid, plastic pigs who wallowed in slop but were able to clean themselves up and then flash their perfect smiles to their adoring fans, who worshiped them as if they were royalty.

  The chauffeur alighted and opened the back door. Oscar settled Regina onto the backseat of the car, then reached into a pocket of his slacks. He withdrew a large bill and handed it to Preston. “Here’s a little something for having to clean it up.”

  The caretaker pocketed the money, smiling. “Thanks, Mr. Spencer.”