“It’s beautiful here,” she said softly.
He smiled down at her. “It certainly is. Early morning’s always the best part of the day.”
“You’re an early morning person?”
“I am.”
“Me too.” Another thing they had in common.
Carston stopped. “Listen.”
A noise, high and hysterical, intruded on the morning’s peace.
“What is it?”
“Chain saws.” He looked pleased.
“Lumberjacks?”
He nodded. “I imagine so.”
“Glory be!” Sherry exclaimed. “Breakfast is creeping into the picture after all. Fried eggs, home fries, toast with melting butter, and milky coffee, here I come.”
****
Over the phone, Charlie’s chuckle sounded like the ominous rumble of a Tyrannosaurus rex. “That’s what I like about you, chicken. When you go for something, you go for it in a big way. You always know where you’re headed.”
Sherry felt her anger rise, but a quick glance across the table told her that this wasn’t the moment to show it. Once again, she was in the Paradise Café in Traverton, and Carston was right across the table from her, sipping his third cup of coffee. He couldn’t even pretend not to hear. As for the sleepy waitress, she was perfectly wide awake, breathing down Sherry’s neck, eavesdropping, hanging on every word. She’d probably never heard of such concepts as discretion or privacy, Sherry thought sourly. Coping with Charlie in private was always bad enough. Who needed an audience?
“You sure you don’t want to tape this?” Sherry muttered.
The waitress didn’t bat an eyelid. Sarcasm wasn’t part of her world either.
“Listen to me, Charlie,” Sherry said. “You’ve got it all wrong. There was this tree lying across the road. We got some lumberjacks to drive us back to the car. Then it took time for them to saw the tree up. At the moment, we’re in a restaurant in Traverton, having brunch.”
“Just think. Three days ago, you walk into the radio station and Mister Playwright-big-shot-Ivy-League looks at you like you have antlers. One day later, he’s making goo-goo eyes at a cocktail party. And then, what happens? You both disappear into a love nest.”
Nest? He wasn’t that far off. Bits of straw had worked their way down under her shirt and wedged themselves between her lacy bra and skin. She was itching like a dog with fleas.
“Charlie! That’s the whole story, right? Nothing omitted.”
“It’s a good story, chicken. We’ve all heard ones just like it plenty of times. Tree lying across the road? Your phone not picking up signals? Oh sure. How about running out of gas? Or getting a flat tire and having no spare? Or lost car keys? Or a dead battery?” His snort of ridicule came through, loud and clear.
“Now you listen to me—”
“I know. Here it comes again.”
“What comes again?” Her teeth were so tightly clenched, she could hardly move her lips.
“The bit about Dog’s Pass and the boy next door? Well, that goody-goody next door won’t like this story one bit.”
“There isn’t any story.” She rolled her eyes heavenwards. Half an inch away, the waitress sniffed with disbelief. Sherry turned to her. “Go away. Please, just go away.” She indicated Carston with a jut of her chin. “Go serve him another cup of coffee.”
“He already had two free refills. You gotta pay for another cup, you want more.” Her voice was a plaintive whine.
Impossible to miss Carston’s snigger. At least he was enjoying this.
Sherry’s glared at the waitress. “I’m making this personal. Go away. Please go away. This is a private conversation.”
“Lost me, chicken,” said Charlie. “What’s personal? And what do I mean by what?”
“What you said about the boy next door.”
“Come on, kid. You’re a big name. Mister Ivy League’s big time too. Last anybody saw, the two of you were sashaying out the hotel’s front door and gazing at each other like love-stuck teenagers. And that was yesterday morning.”
“This is incredible. Really incredible. Teenagers. I can’t even talk to a man without everybody deciding we’re headed for the closest patch of dark shrubbery.”
“Then you don’t show up last night,” continued Charlie, as imperturbable as usual. “I was worried. You don’t show up, your phone doesn’t ring. You could’ve had an accident.”
“Don’t pretend, you old fake. Everyone knows you have no human emotion. You only worry about losing money.”
“I know you think I have a cash register instead of heart, but it’s not true. I’m your agent, your manager, and your personal slave driver, but I’m also the best friend you’ve got. I love you like a daughter.” There was a hurt, sentimental note in his voice.
“Okay, okay. Don’t go all mawkish on me.” But she was touched anyway. “Save the smooth talk for May.”
“May doesn’t even like me,” Charlie lamented. May was his long-suffering wife. They’d been together for over thirty years, although Charlie had been on the road for most of that time. May threatened to leave him several times a year, and usually packed all her bags before changing her mind. “Then because there’s no report of an accident near Traverton, I figured the two of you wanted to be alone. So I told myself to stop worrying.”
Sherry gave a sigh of relief. “So no scandal, right?”
“Wrong.”
“Wrong?” She straightened up again, tense as a rattler.
“It’s all Lila Patterson’s fault.”
Sherry made a face at her telephone. “Oh really? And who might she be?”
“Mister Playwright’s leading lady. Gorgeous, too. Black hair, violet eyes, tall, slender. You know: a face that would launch a thousand ships.”
The sharp serrated knife of pure jealousy sliced through Sherry’s heart. “Times have changed, Charlie. What modern woman wants to look like diesel fuel?”
“She says Mister Playwright was supposed to meet her plane last night. She was hopping mad by the time she got to the hotel. When he didn’t show up for their dinner date, she threw a full scale drama, actress style.”
“Interesting.” Very interesting indeed. Sherry threw Carston a suspicious look. He hadn’t said anything about a leading lady—one who had the right to throw temper tantrums if he wasn’t on call. Hadn’t he’d declared himself as free as a bird? Yes, he had—and she remembered every single word of all their conversations…or she thought she did. Maybe she’d been so busy staggering around on cloud nine that she’d missed out on a few important details? Or perhaps he hadn’t been entirely truthful? Because that’s the way the landscape was rolling out at this very moment...
“Then there’s the journalist from Star.”
“Oh no. Don’t tell me this. Oozing out from under the rocks.”
“Seems someone called that rag, told them Sherry Valentine had a new man. And that Sherry Valentine had announced she was dropping the big boys like Johnny Withlock and Clyde Winter. Did that really happen? Did you really say that?”
Sherry only groaned.
“Things are getting interesting,” said Charlie with great satisfaction. “I like it.”
Furiously Sherry clicked off her phone.
“Bad news?” Carston raised a wonderful eyebrow. He didn’t look concerned, not really. And why the hell did he have to look so good? Traitor. That lean jaw, those gray eyes, the bristles of a one-day beard, the errant curl on his forehead. Violet-eyed brunettes probably looked great standing beside him.
“Looks like hell for you.” Sherry forced herself to smile archly, then drank down the rest of her cold coffee with what she hoped was a reasonable semblance of detachment.
“I see,” said Carston. He still only looked amused. He waited but Sherry said nothing more, merely looked around the room in a bored way. “And who looks like diesel fuel?” he prompted.
She threw him what she hoped was a very dirty look. “Why don’t you and this
waitress get together and compare notes?”
He wasn’t even slightly embarrassed. “You and Charlie were so busy shouting, neither one of you really needed a telephone.”
“Well, here’s the news: Lila Patterson is on the warpath. You were supposed to pick her up and take her to dinner.” She waited for his reaction: shock, distress, misery, or embarrassment.
“Oh. Is that all?” He shrugged. “So what? Obviously she made it from the airport to the hotel. She didn’t get lost, wasn’t forced to sleep in a barn, or wash in a freezing cold river. I bet she even gets free coffee refills.”
No. She had to admit he didn’t look like a worried man. Far from it. Her suspicions began to ebb. But what if he was just a good actor? An actor who did an excellent job of hiding uncomfortable feelings such as worry? Or guilt?
“But I suppose we really should head back to Midville and the festival.” There wasn’t much enthusiasm in his voice.
Sherry sighed. “If we can. If we haven’t fallen into some sort of time warp, or some alternative Bermuda Triangle. You know what I mean: once in Traverton, always in Traverton.”
“It’s a possibility, I suppose. But we still have to make an effort before taking out a mortgage.” He stopped suddenly and looked puzzled. As if a strange thought had just crossed his mind…or as if he wasn’t quite sure what he wanted to say. “Sherry?”
“Yes?”
He hesitated. Shook his head slowly before meeting her gaze. “I’ve enjoyed myself. Very much.”
Her breathing stopped. “Ditto.” It was the only word she could manage without giving everything away. Without coming out with wild, uncalled-for, and unwanted declarations.
“We’re sticking to our plan, aren’t we?”
“A deal’s a deal.” She noticed how her voice trembled and hoped he hadn’t heard it too.
“And the candlelit dinner, that’s still on, too?”
“I’m looking forward to it.” Her heart soared, weightless.
****
“So the lovebirds make it back to civilization.” Charlie Bacon was sitting in the armchair in her hotel room, gumming his stinky cigar. He was an immovable force.
“You super-glued into that chair, Charlie-boy? Because, if not, you’re out of here. I want a shower, a nap, some free time to myself.”
“Cute, both of you vanishing like that.” It was as if she hadn’t even opened her mouth.
Since there was obviously no way to get rid of him fast, she could try ignoring him. Charlie loathed being ignored. Sherry turned toward the dressing table mirror, began showing a sudden intense interest in her hairstyle, brushing her curls forward, tying them in a knot, shaking them out again. She wasn’t interested in a cozy little gossip. She only wanted to be alone. Collect her thoughts. Remember. Run all the good memories through her mind, get them into some semblance of order. Try and control the crazy, dangerous feelings of want and excitement. Just so she didn’t make an utter fool of herself as soon as she got near Carston again. And here was Charlie, a solid heap in her room, eating away into precious private think-time and about to ask her questions to which she had no answers. Or even if she had answers, she wasn’t about to share them. Because what would Charlie do with them? Dream up a scheme, plan away her life.
“Those journalists down in the lobby, they get their hands on you yet?”
“Nope. No one saw us, aside from cooks, waitresses, and a few grilling chickens. We snuck in through the kitchen.” She looked at Charlie triumphantly. “Carston’s brilliant idea. After he saw all the cars in the parking lot.” She looked at Charlie, her eyes narrowing suspiciously. “And I bet you were the one who set up that mob down in the lobby.”
“I didn’t set up a thing. I didn’t have to. The two of you managed it all on your own.”
“Oh sure. Have I ever told you how much I love having no personal life? Being a product?”
“Not so many years ago, you spent nights tossing and turning, wishing the press would notice you more, wishing you’d have real fans—even one or two of them. So I don’t take the complaints seriously. I know better.”
“Okay, that was back then. These days I want the press to be interested in the kind of music I make, not that I spent a day out with Carston Hewlett.”
“And a night too.” Charlie chuckled evilly. “But I’m just preparing you for the kind of interrogation you’ll be facing. One journalist asked me this very leading question.”
“What very leading question?”
“If you and Mister Playwright organized the whole thing to drum up interest in the festival and the arts in general. And in yourselves. So your names are linked together in the gossip columns because you have other plans.”
She raised her eyebrows. “Plans?”
“Career plans. Movie plans. Television plans.”
Sherry felt faintly ill. “Damn!”
“Just letting you know which way the wind’s blowing, chicken. But I know you can handle nosy questions; you’re pretty good at that kind of thing. There’s a cocktail and press conference down in the dining room, and I want you down there looking like a princess in twenty-nine minutes flat.”
“I’ll tell you what sort of a princess I’ll look like: like the one who tried to sleep with a football-sized pea under her straw mattress.” There were dark circles under her eyes, and she didn’t feel like covering them over with goop either. If Carston liked her without makeup, she’d go easy on the stuff, no matter what Charlie and her fans said about it. She wouldn’t mind getting out of spangled costumes for a while either. Looking normal, or elegant. Buying a simple, black dress and surprising Carston with understatement.
“And I haven’t even told you about the phone call yet.”
“Phone call?” She wheeled around, watched Charlie with foreboding. He was looking even smugger than usual: the cat who’d swallowed a vulture whole. Why hadn’t she noticed? “What phone call?”
“You’re going to like this.”
“You sure?”
“Of course I am. You’ve been making my life miserable for over a year now about this very thing. The call was from Hollywood. From Mark Ballance.”
“The director?”
“You got it. The director. Chicken, you’ve gotten your first big acting break. I’ve wangled a role for you in Ballance’s Baby and the Bank.”
“The television series? I’m being hired as an actress?” Sherry couldn’t believe her ears. Finally. She was getting a break. Then, just as quickly, her heart plummeted. “In Baby and the Bank?”
“Okay, okay.” Charlie waved his stubby hand. “It’s not a great series, I’ll give you that. But the public loves it, and it’s a big step in. Your first. I couldn’t get you a leading role in some big film just like that, you know. Gotta start smallish. But that’s not all either. You know who showed up here in Midville this morning? Ned Lantini. You know? Lantini. The producer, right? I’ve spent hours chewing the fat with him, selling you as an actress. He wants you to take a look at one of his scripts: a science fiction thriller about a serial killer.”
“How awful.” She grimaced.
“As I said, gotta start somewhere. Small is good. Besides, you’re no young starlet. You’re coming into this late in the game. Let’s take what we can get at first.”
“Oh Charlie…” How was it possible to feel so miserable?
“Now what’s the matter?” Charlie looked genuinely puzzled. “I thought you’d be jumping in the air with joy. I get you where you want to go, and here you are, looking miserable.”
She sighed. “Why is life so unfair?”
Charlie sat there silently for a minute or two, the wheels in his head churning slowly before coming up with Bingo. “This lack of enthusiasm on your part, does it, by any chance, have something to do with Hewlett? Him being a playwright and all?”
“Yes.” She swallowed. “You see, he’s ultra-sensitive about people using others to get what they want. And now, if he thinks I’m headed for an acting
career he might just take it the wrong way.”
Charlie nodded thoughtfully. “Maybe he will,” he said slowly. “Maybe he won’t. But if you like him and he likes you, all you have to do is explain. He’s bright enough to handle facts, isn’t he? And if he isn’t, why ruin your chances of doing something you’ve always wanted just because Mr. Ivy League is hypersensitive? Besides, what does Hollywood have to do with live theater? Nothing. Especially not a lousy television series like Baby and the Bank or one of Lantini’s tenth-rate sci-fi flicks.”
Sherry didn’t feel as though she had enough humor left over for a snigger.
Chapter Seven
Lila Patterson lay across the large couch in Carston’s hotel room. Her legs in their tight black pants and high black boots were long and elegant, and when she stretched, oh so languorously, she knew her supple, slender body was shown to best advantage.
Sitting across from her, Carston tensely drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair. He’d noticed the stretch, was well aware of Lila’s seductive powers. He always had been. She was a beautiful woman and a very talented actress, but that didn’t mean they had to fall into each other’s arms. He wasn’t in the least bit interested in being another one of Lila’s conquests. If he had one fast rule, it was keep personal relationships separate from working ones—and that was something he hadn’t been smart enough to do in his younger days. He’d paid the price for that foolishness too, and he wasn’t about to repeat the same idiotic experience now.
These days, his emotions came equipped with a very effective on/off switch. Well…he thought they did. So why did he only want to see Sherry again? To be standing beside her and watching her smile up at him, to be hearing one of her funny quips? And why the hell was he so damn intrigued by her?
Temporary lust, he told himself. Again. Nothing more than lust. And this impatience was no more than an adolescent manifestation of those same lusty feelings. When this festival was over, he and Sherry would go their separate ways, calmly, intelligently, knowing the good memories were quite enough. Because Sherry was a woman of the world; she knew better than to become attached to a man she’d had a brief fling with. She did know that, didn’t she? Of course. And if not, well, that was her problem. Nothing to do with him.
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