“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Charlie grunted. “I know the whole story backwards. So tell me, you go see his rehearsal last night?”
“I did. And the play was very interesting,” she answered primly, and began buttering the cold toast she had no desire to eat.
“So if there’s no reason to carry on with your deal, why’d you bother going?”
“Because that’s the way I am. I’m not going to be scared off by rude behavior. Besides, I really did want to see his play. See some real acting.”
Charlie put down his fork and knife. Leaned back, pulled the morning’s first smelly unlit cigar out of his pocket. “You want my advice?”
“No, but you’ll give it to me anyway. As usual. Anyone can see you coming from light years away.”
“Forget him. The world is chock full of these overly sensitive creative types who’d accuse their own grandmothers of plotting behind their back. If that’s how Hewlett functions, you’d waste a lifetime trying to convince him you’re sincere. He’d never believe you.”
“You’re really something, Charlie. One minute you’re trying to create a romance, and the next, you’re calling off the dogs.”
Charlie grunted, a sound that could have meant pretty well anything. Or nothing. “Let’s drop the subject. Ned Lantini just walked into the dining room, and he’s headed in this direction. I’m trying to convince the guy he has a script for you to look at. So be nice.” He looked at the boys and jabbed his cigar in their direction. “As for you guys, you all stick around the hotel. This afternoon, we’re going over to the hall to prepare tonight’s concert.”
He turned back to Sherry. “And I repeat my advice: keep away from Hewlett. You don’t need problems. Tomorrow, we’ll be hundreds of miles away, and he’ll be nothing more than a bad memory.”
It was clear Charlie would do his best to make sure things happened that way too.
****
When she was performing, making music, nothing else mattered to her, that much was evident to Carston. And since the audience expected the best of Sherry Valentine, she gave it to them. It was exciting music: old traditional sounds were blended into newer ones. And Sherry was a determined, precise, and talented woman working in tandem with her top-notch boys.
Never again would he be stupid enough to doubt the importance of her work. Through pure ignorance, he’d underestimated her. Never nasal, never harsh, the remarkable purity of her voice went arrow-straight into his heart.
He was proud of her. Proud that, only two nights ago, he’d held her in his arms. That he knew the subtle perfume of her hair, her skin. The warm response of her mouth. Onstage, the white boots and white jeans set off the length of her legs to perfection; the fringed and sequined blouse displayed her soft curves. She was utterly beautiful.
She didn’t know he was out here, of course. How could she? Sure, he’d reacted badly to the news that Sherry was moving into an acting career. He’d felt betrayed. Why hadn’t she confided in him? Had he really believed she’d wanted to use him? Really? Well, perhaps she did expect something: an introduction to people who’d help her get started. But, so what? He also remembered Sherry’s generosity at the hospital, her incredible good nature when forced to tramp miles in a storm and spend the night in a chilly barn. He’d enjoyed being with her. Very much.
And she’d been right: he did care. More than he wanted to, more than felt comfortable. And that frightened him. Yes, he was an emotional coward, but he didn’t want to be. He was also a total jerk. He’d acted badly; he’d put their budding relationship into jeopardy. And he’d even shown her what an idiot he was.
Why had he let himself get worked up by a journalist? By Lila Patterson? His stupid reaction had cost him time. He could have been spending it with Sherry instead.
He’d gone down in her esteem too. In the breakfast room this morning, he’d seen her with Charlie and her boys, seen how they’d noticed him crossing the room with Lila. Sherry’s eyes had been mocking. She probably thought he and Lila were lovers, that they’d spent a wild night together. But they hadn’t.
He needed to talk to Sherry. He’d do it tonight, just as soon as this show was over.
****
The whole world seemed to be backstage: journalists, festival sponsors, local businessmen, politicians, and the odd fan who’d somehow managed to sneak past the guards. One man, tall, dark, and handsome, presented Sherry with a huge bouquet of flowers, and Carston saw how she smiled at him. Who the hell was he? Why was she smiling like that? And why the hell hadn’t he thought about bringing her flowers? Red roses, for example.
Carston fought through the crowd, trying to get closer, pushing against the mayor who still managed to clap him enthusiastically on the shoulder. He didn’t even mind. Not at the moment.
“Great concert, huh,” the mayor roared over the din. He looked chuffed, as if personally responsible for the success.
“I’m trying to tell Sherry just that,” said Carston as he elbowed another half-inch forward.
The mayor chuckled. “Looks like she’s plenty tied up at the moment.”
Carston almost growled. “Who’s the guy she’s talking to?”
“Todd Barclay. Local oil man.”
An oil man? Here in Midville? And what right did he, Carston, have to feel jealous?
He watched Sherry receiving compliments and congratulations; she did it with grace, although she must be exhausted. Charlie Bacon never left her side, of course, sticking to her like a pilot fish its shark. Carston was fairly certain Charlie had seen him too, but hadn’t acknowledged his presence. No cheery hello tonight. No waving him over. If Sherry felt the same way, he was out of luck.
He saw Todd Barclay glow down at Sherry, his smile full of innuendo. “Will I have the honor of your company at a late supper this evening?”
She did seem to do that to males, Carston thought sourly. Had them drooling without making so much as a personal gesture. And he was the one she should be dining with, not oily Todd.
“No can do, Mr. Barclay,” Charlie’s voice cut in smoothly. “Miss Valentine, the boys, and I are booked for a midnight dinner celebration at the hotel.”
Thank goodness for Charlie, Carston thought. He didn’t like the look of the oil magnate one bit, and he felt a primitive need to intervene, pull Sherry away, tell everyone she was his.
Charlie’s eyes flickered in Carston’s direction, only for a brief second, but it was long enough to show how superfluous he considered him. Then he looked back at the oil man. “Of course, Mr. Barclay, you’re more than welcome to join us, isn’t that right, Sherry?”
“More than happy to do just that,” Todd Barclay answered suavely.
Carston pushed his way closer. “Sherry?”
She turned slightly. Saw him. Her impersonal smile vanished, was replaced by something else altogether. Her mouth softened, her eyes showed warmth. And hope, perhaps? Vulnerability? She was pleased to see him, he knew it. Rudely, he elbowed closer still until he was beside her.
“You came to the concert after all.” Her voice, soft, enticing, was meant only for him.
“You were wonderful.”
“Thank you,” she answered simply.
He wanted to say more, of course. Much more. Even more powerful was the urge to reach out, pull her into his arms. But he couldn’t do that either. Not yet.
“Sherry—” he began.
But a massive shoulder suddenly separated him from her, and further conversation was squashed under the weight of Charlie’s loud bellow. “Sherry? Look who’s here to meet you: Ralph Reckon.” An elegant, dissipated-looking gray-haired man was tugged into the picture.
Ralph Reckon: Hollywood actor. Okay, a big name, but a lousy actor and a womanizer, Carston knew that for a fact. He watched Ralph Reckon pick up Sherry’s free hand, kiss it—a trick he’d perfected in all the gory crusader films he’d starred in over the years.
“Charmed, Ms. Valentine.” Reckon’s implants gleamed ultra-white. “And you�
�ll soon be joining us in Hollywood. Baby and the Bank, am I right?”
“Yes.” Sherry didn’t look wildly enthusiastic.
“Perhaps you’ll let me be your guide when you arrive in Los Angeles?”
Guide? Yeah sure. Carston knew all about the sort of guidance Reckon was referring to.
“Forget about Baby and the Bank,” said another voice. “Sherry and me got bigger plans than that.” He saw producer Ned Lantini hove into view. Lantini? That guy was so lecherous, he made Ralph Reckon look like Snow White.
Carston made a move to shoulder his way past Charlie—shouldering was a technique two could use—but he didn’t stand a chance.
His huge paw on Sherry’s shoulder, Charlie almost manhandled her away. “Come on, chicken. Let’s make a move.” And they, the boys, the oily oil man, Lantini, Reckon, the journalists, and hangers-on, began shifting toward the exit.
Carston gave up the fight, refusing to join that particular pack of jackals. Charlie had made him feel perfectly invisible, cut off and cut out. Okay. But at least he knew what the rules of the game were now. Charlie would make sure he and Sherry had no private conversation; he’d managed that very skillfully this time. But Charlie wouldn’t be calling all the shots. No way.
Carston watched the technicians packing away equipment, coiling up cords and wires.
“Tomorrow is another day,” he muttered to himself. “Or so they say.”
****
Carston and his mattress hated each other. He tossed, turned, pounded. The mattress retaliated, bouncing back unperturbed. Did he manage to sleep at all? He didn’t know and didn’t much care. He tried convincing himself that the reason he couldn’t stop thinking about Sherry was because of frustrated desire, but even he knew that wasn’t true—or, at least, it wasn’t entirely true. He’d have been happy just talking to her, hearing her voice, her laughter, sitting across the table from her in a booth in the Paradise Café in Traverton and drinking lousy coffee.
The desire to reach for the telephone beside his bed, call her room, was almost overwhelming. But he resisted the impulse. This was the middle of the night, and besides, he had to be careful. He was getting too involved, feeling too vulnerable. If he ran after her, she’d probably misinterpret everything. Think he meant their relationship would be long, on-going. But where could it go? He still didn’t see how their lives could possibly intersect, and he wasn’t really sure he’d ever want them to.
He’d wait until morning. Things might be clearer in his head then. He and Sherry could talk, and he’d be able to figure out what was really going on between them…maybe. He’d approach her in the breakfast room, when she was there with her boys and Charlie. Now that her concert was over, she’d be bound to have some free time, and even he could juggle his schedule before tonight’s performance. If he suggested that in front of everyone, then Charlie couldn’t intervene. If he did, what then? Well, he’d come up with something. Play it by ear. He could manage—wasn’t he a man of words? The thought comforted him, and near dawn he managed to doze off.
At seven, he was dressed, downstairs, and crossing the lobby in the direction of the breakfast room. There was no Sherry, no Charlie with his cigar, and none of the boys at their usual table. Of course they weren’t there. He was far too early. He’d have to sit this out. Drink coffee until his nerves hummed like the strings on a highly-strung electric guitar.
Eight o’clock. Eight-thirty. Where the hell were they? They usually breakfasted at this hour, so why weren’t they all there now, fringes wriggling, spangles gleaming? Had they all decided to sleep late? Rest up from the concert?
He pictured Sherry in her bed, sleeping softly, her curls spread out over the pillow. Her eyes opening slowly, just the way they had that morning in the barn. And the way they’d softened when she’d seen him over near the fire? Softness like that had nothing to do with play-acting. No way. What he wouldn’t have given to have spent last night beside her. But that hadn’t happened. So all he could do now was sit tight, drink more coffee, try and eat something. Sherry would show up sooner or later.
But the waiting game was killing him. Carston stood, left the breakfast room, strode over to the reception desk. The receptionist looked up at him with a coy smile and batted her eyelashes.
“Good morning, Mr. Hewlett. What can I do for you?” Her voice was lazily flirtatious.
Forget about flirting, this was serious. “I’d like the number of Ms. Sherry Valentine’s room.”
The receptionist stopped batting her eyelashes. “Sherry Valentine? She checked out this morning.”
“Checked out?” He stared, not believing his ears. “What do you mean she checked out?”
The receptionist looked at him strangely. “You know. Checked out. Left Midville. Ms. Valentine, her road manager, and her band. At six o’clock this morning.”
“Oh.” It was all Carston could come up with.
She shrugged. “That’s what a musician’s life is all about, isn’t it? Thank goodness the rest of us don’t have to keep up with that kind of schedule. I’m such a lazy bunny myself. I just love luxuriating in a big, soft bed.”
“Where did they go?” Carston knew the question was idiotic, but that was okay. He felt like an idiot.
“Who knows? They didn’t leave a forwarding address. Musicians are like that. Here today, gone tomorrow.”
Carston turned, left the hotel. Stood staring down the sunny main street as if there were something else to see other than cars roaring through Midville. Okay. As far as Sherry was concerned, he’d fluffed it. There’d be no candlelit dinner, no shared bottle of wine, no steamy nights, no more confidences, and no more confusing emotional turmoil. She’d breezed into his life, then breezed out again. He had no way of contacting her now, no address, no phone number. If he wanted to speak to her, he’d have to get in touch with Charlie and depend on his good graces—and he now knew how far those would take him.
So. End of story. The best solution? Forget the whole thing. Stop behaving like a besotted adolescent. He was a man in the prime of life, too old for this sort of emotional fooling around. It was even embarrassing at his age. So why had he let himself be obsessed by Sherry? She’d gone on to pursue other dreams, a life in Hollywood, other men. It was time for him to return to his own world too. Tonight his play was being presented; he’d be the one in the limelight. Tomorrow he’d hit the road. Forget what happened here. Forget Sherry Valentine.
He’d manage that, all right, and he’d do it very well. He knew he would.
Chapter Nine
“Oh, Jed. You couldn’t possibly mean that. Take our baby away? No. Oh no, oh no. You couldn’t.” Samantha, played by actress Judy Dellor, blinked her big, blue eyes. Holding her arms stiffly by her side, she poked her head forward in jerky little gestures meant to imitate an emotion of some sort.
Sherry sighed. Judy Dellor didn’t have the faintest idea of how to move in front of a camera, but then again, she didn’t have to. She was director Mark Ballance’s wife, and just so long as she kept that position, she’d be the long-time star of Baby and the Bank.
“What do you mean I couldn’t do that?” Jed, played by Tony Taylor, tried to look ferocious…and failed. Sherry sighed again, wondered if even a very small flea would have felt threatened.
“But Jed, I love our baby.” Samantha shook her curls in a vague facsimile of frenzy.
“Does that mean I don’t?” Jed’s voice rose in a squeak.
“Cut!” shouted Mark Ballance. “Okay, Rolanda? Walk into the room like you just heard something that’s gonna make you angry.”
Samantha’s wicked aunt Rolanda (played by Sherry Valentine) got into position; the camera panned in. She prepared to paste the appropriate expression on her face. The clapboard snapped and filming began. Sherry moved forward.
“Cut.”
Now the camera moved back to Samantha and Jed. The clapboard snapped, and filming began again.
“Eek,” exclaimed Samantha.
“Rolanda! What are you doing here?” growled Jed. For the first time that morning he almost sounded sincere.
“Cut. Back to Rolanda.”
The clapboard snapped and filming began again.
“I’m interrupting, I see,” Rolanda (aka Sherry) said with what she hoped was just the right suggestion of menace.
“Cut.” Director Mark Ballance heaved himself out of his chair. Moved over to the cameraman and technicians to view the results of the last hour’s shooting on the screen. Sherry held her breath until she heard him call, “Okay, kids. That’s it for today.”
“You’re going to keep that?” Sherry asked, her voice flat. She was certain she’d just witnessed—and participated in—the worst piece of acting on earth. Acting? No, she couldn’t even call it that.
Ballance grunted sourly. “Damn right, I’m gonna keep it. I couldn’t go through all that crap again.” He turned to his actress wife. “Get ready. You’ve got five minutes.”
Judy blinked mascara black lashes with annoyance. “Five minutes? What is this? A bad joke?” Her baby voice was petulant: she was hardly better at real life drama than acting in front of a camera.
Feeling as frustrated as she usually did after a day’s filming, Sherry stalked to the dressing room. She was dying to scrape the makeup off her face: television goop was as bad as the stuff she’d had to wear as a singer. At least there were some advantages: Mark Ballance hadn’t protested when she’d shown up at the studio without her curls but with her natural hair color—dull sand, she called it. Sand threaded through with enough pale silver threads to give it a lovely sheen. Thank goodness, she’d always only used temporary color instead of dying it. Now, silky, gently waving, it fell softly to her shoulders. As for her green contact lenses, they’d gone directly into the garbage.
Cleansed of her television makeup, Sherry slipped into a loose print dress and headed out. This was the best part of the day: leaving. But a blast of polluted, exhausted air hit her as soon as she reached the street. No relief in sight. And she was stuck here. In this new career, this new city, this new life.
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