“Is that so? My, my.”
“If you’ll be so kind as to give me the directions―”
“Take the Humm road for about two miles, turn left, then right, then left again toward Whoa. First turning on the right and you’re there. Got that?”
“Clear as mud,” Sherry muttered. Then thanking Myrtle, she left.
But not before she heard Myrtle sniff and say to another nosy-looking woman who had suddenly popped out from behind the magazine shelf, “Call it acting these days, do they?”
Ten minutes later, after rolling down a long, wooded drive, the taxi pulled to a halt. A sagging sign on a wooden gate read Owl’s Nest.
“End of the line,” said the driver.
Sherry stepped out. So this was it. Ahead of her, cupped into the curve of a hill, was a long, low house of wood and stone, surrounded by vegetation and half hidden by climbing vines. Clearly the place had been designed by an architect who admired Frank Lloyd Wright…unless…was it possible? Was this an original Wright?
“You going to be all right, missus?” The taxi driver was gaping at her curiously. Sherry had totally forgotten him.
“Yes, of course I will be.” She wasn’t really so sure of that. Only a mid-sea confrontation with a starving shark would have made her feel more anguished. But she wasn’t about to pour out her heart to a total stranger, was she? Despite the feeling that her knees were melting, she managed to pay the driver and refuse his offer to carry her bags. No, she wanted to do this slowly. Creep up on the situation. She headed, very slowly, in the direction of what might be the front door.
There was even a doorbell. She pushed the button and waited. What if he wasn’t home? Okay, what then? Since he’d only given her the part because Charlie had bullied him into it, what if he was now regretting his decision? What if he was in there with another woman? What if he opened the door and looked at her in that cold, terrible way again?
She could handle the first three scenarios, but not this last one.
She heard the unmistakable sound of a lock being turned, and the door swung open.
And she was face to face with Carston.
Well! Forget all those Hollywood pretty-boys. Look at those laugh lines radiating out from his wonderful gray eyes, the errant curl brushing his forehead. Here was the beautiful impatient mouth, so sensual; she ached with the sudden remembrance of how it had felt to be kissed, wonderfully and deeply, by him. He wore a dark blue sweater, faded tight jeans, and the tall muscular strength of his body pushed at the fabric. Oh, how she’d missed him.
And you are absolutely, hopelessly a goner, said the little warning voice in the back of her mind. Who needed voices? Just being in Carston’s presence told her that reality was stronger, far more intense than memory had ever been.
Carston stared down at the woman standing in front of him. It was almost like looking at someone he didn’t yet know, except the strong pull of his gut told him otherwise. Yes, it was Sherry Valentine, but this Sherry in front of him was an unknown quantity. Her pale hair, pulled back from her high cheekbones by two simple barrettes, fell in wavy, shimmering simplicity to her shoulders; her fine, almond-shaped, hazel eyes—not bright green—watched him with amusement and not a little mockery. A thin, cotton Indian print dress fell softly, revealing, yet hiding, the rounded curves of her body and, instead of cowboy boots, she wore elegant beige heels. This Sherry was refined, cool. Very different. And still so very desirable.
“Hi.”
That voice. Unmistakable: soft, throaty, rich. Only Sherry Valentine had a voice like that. She was observing him, waiting for a sign, an emotion.
Unable to move, he could only stare with wonder. “You’ve changed so much.” He managed to say, and shook his head in disbelief.
“This is the real Sherry.” She smiled faintly. “The one that was hidden under all the makeup and curled dyed hair. No more green contact lenses for that magic cat look, either. And no cowgirl fringes, no sparkles.” The smile vanished and she looked at him questioningly. “I guess you don’t watch that awful television series Baby and the Bank. I mean, you didn’t miss anything…but you’d have seen how I look now.”
“I don’t own a television.”
She raised her eyebrows. “Welcome to Cutter’s Edge and the fourteenth century?”
He felt idiotic. “It never dawned on me to go somewhere and watch the series,” he said honestly. That would have been so easy to do too. He hadn’t needed to sneak around peeking at Star or Glitzy.
She shrugged. “Well, here I am anyway. Just basic Sherry Valentine. I hope you don’t mind.” She sounded bright, flippant. Or just defensive. And she must still be waiting for some sort of a reaction from him.
Or perhaps she was sorry she was here? That he’d forced her hand. When Charlie had told him how hard it had been to convince her to take up his offer of a starring role in his play, he’d hardly been able to believe his ears. Hard? Why? Wasn’t it everything she’d wanted?
And here he was, staring at her, taking her in. The space separating them seemed enormous, a vast universe that had to be negotiated somehow. Yet every inch of his body ached with the desire to feel her warmth, her weight against him, her arms around him. He wasn’t even aware that he was still standing in the doorway. That she was still outside, on the landing, a vision traced in gold by the late afternoon sunshine.
Reaching out timidly, he softly touched her shining, silky hair with his fingertips.
“You are very beautiful as basic Sherry Valentine,” he said simply. “And I can’t even begin to tell you how happy I am to see you again.”
Her eyes softened with pleasure. She swallowed. “Ditto,” she said softly.
“How did you get here? Why the hell didn’t you tell me you were coming today? Why didn’t Charlie call me and let me know? I’d have picked you up at the airport.”
“I know you would have. But I wanted to take you by surprise. Don’t ask me why. I suppose I wanted to catch you off your guard.”
“You did.”
“You don’t mind?”
“Mind? Mind?” There was nothing he could have wanted more. “Please keep on surprising me, Sherry Valentine.” Then, unable to resist another minute, he slid his hands over her slender shoulders and down her back, pulled her tightly against him, thrilling to the warmth of her body under the thin tissue of her dress. “And it’s so wonderful to touch you again,” he murmured into her hair.
“Ditto again,” she answered softly.
Cupping her face in the palm of his hand, he kissed her softly, tenderly. She moved in even more closely, pushing into the hardness of his chest, her mouth opening under his. His pleasure exploded into passion. Just like before. No, nothing had changed. If he’d often wondered how he’d react if they ever met again, here was the answer: in the same elemental, nerve-searing, pure gut way. And here too was the same old magic.
“Sherry,” he whispered.
She half-opened her eyes, and he saw everything he wanted to know. The joy at seeing him, the returned intensity. So he kissed her again. Longingly, more tenderly. Until the chilly breeze tickling a lock of hair across her flushed cheek brought him back to reality.
He laughed, embarrassed. “What a great host I am. Perhaps we could do this inside the house?”
She blinked as if coming back from a distant place. “It’s so wonderfully nice kissing you. I didn’t notice we were still outside.”
He didn’t trust himself to speak. Grabbing her two bags with one hand, he slung his other arm over her shoulder and led her into his house. Now that she really and truly was here, he certainly didn’t intend to let her vanish again.
****
They sat in the main room where high windows gave out over a wooded landscape just now slipping into dusk’s shadow. A log fire crackled merrily in the fireplace, right in front of the large cushioned sofa where Carston and Sherry sat side by side, but not touching. As if they both needed the space in order to think clearly. At least sh
e needed the space, Sherry thought. Or else she’d never be able to keep her hands to herself.
Toying with the stem of her wine glass, she was as tightly wound as the old wooden clock ticking away steadily on the far wall. Even Carston was less at ease than he pretended. She’d seen how his hands shook when he’d taken the crystal glasses out of the antique sideboard. Was this the right time to question him? Probably not. But what time would ever be the right one? Might as well plunge in, get this over with.
“Carston? There’s something I have to know. Promise me you’ll tell the truth.”
“All depends on the question.” But his eyes twinkled.
She shook her head. “It’s about your play, Swan Song.”
“What about it?” He stood, went over to a wooden table where the wine cooled in its bucket of ice.
She took a deep breath. “Are you sorry you asked me to play the role of Melissa? If you are, I won’t hold you to it. I’ll back out right away. With no hard feelings, okay? And that’s a guarantee.”
He came back to the sofa, carefully refilled their glasses, then sat beside her again. Only closer. Close enough to slide his arm around her shoulders. “Why would I regret choosing you for the role?”
“Because I’m not an actress, not really. You know it and I know it. I have very little experience in that domain—if you consider what I did in Baby and the Bank as acting experience. I’m really a performer, a plain and simple country music singer. And you know as well as I do that you’re only giving me this chance because Charlie bullied you into it. Charlie’s a steamroller. He could coax water rats into tuxedos.” She stopped. She didn’t dare look up and meet his eyes for fear of seeing how right she was. And how relieved he’d be that she’d offered to back out of the play.
There was a long silence. Sherry stared into her wine glass. She was utterly miserable.
Carston’s arm left her shoulder. “Sherry, look at me, please.”
She looked up, finally.
“Good,” he said. “Now don’t look away again. I want you to keep looking into my eyes so you’ll know I’m telling the truth. That way you won’t have to ask me the same question twice. And you’ll never come up with something so crazy and so wrong again.”
“But…”
“Listen to me. All those months ago, if you hadn’t left Midville so suddenly, I’d have told you I think you’re an intelligent, talented performer. That you have a very special aura when you’re on stage. You’re captivating, surprising, and if my hunch is right, you’re a wonderful actress too.”
“But you can’t know that. What if...” She stopped. Carefully put her wine glass down on the low table beside her. Knotted her hands together in anguish.
“What if what?” he questioned gently.
“You wouldn’t be offering me this part just so I can fall on my face, would you? As some sort of bizarre revenge. Because you think I tried to use you to become an actress.”
He let out a sigh and shook his head. “Please don’t throw my own stupid words back at me. If you only knew how often I’ve kicked myself for being such a jerk back then.”
“But…”
“Stop trying to complicate things, Sherry. I don’t want you to fall on your face. I’d have to be downright masochistic to want that. Why would I want to ruin my own work and make myself a laughingstock by giving the role to someone incapable of handling it?”
She smiled ruefully. Even she had to admit that it sounded completely silly. “Okay.”
“Look, Sherry. You’re here, in my house, so we can work together. I wrote the play, I’m directing it. Your job is to make the words and the story come alive. To make people believe in the character of Melissa. So you see? We’re both on the same side.” He stopped. “Is that settled now?”
She nodded dutifully, but of course nothing was settled. The worst was still in front of her: the project, her fears. And then, when the work was finished, when the play had been produced, they’d be separating again. She’d go back to her world; he’d stay here in his.
“My turn to ask a question?” Now he was the one fiddling nervously with his wine glass.
“Only fair.” She smiled.
He took a deep breath. “So tell me all about Hollywood…”
“What about Hollywood? I hated being there.”
“And Ned Lantini.” He still wasn’t looking at her.
“Ned Lantini? What about him?”
“Didn’t Lantini offer you a role in his film?” he prompted. Did he actually sound jealous?
“He certainly did.” Sherry smirked evilly. “He saw my acting potential right away. Topless to start with, bottomless by scene two. Not to mention the sneak previews that were supposed to take place somewhere warm, cozy, and relatively private. In his bed, for example.”
“I thought you were more involved with him?”
“Involved? With Lantini?” She stopped smirking. “You have to be joking. Lantini is a complete slime.”
“And what about your relationship with Jason Reel?”
Sherry gaped at him. Carston sounded like he was forcing himself to be casual. “My relationship with Jason Reel? Carston? Where did you get this information? Or shall we say misinformation?”
“Nowhere in particular. You know how gossip gets around. Actresses tell me all sorts of things.”
His breeziness didn’t deflect her, even for a nanosecond. “Tell me why I don’t believe you. Perhaps because you’re not meeting my eyes. Come on, Carston. Truth time.”
“Okay. This information is in Star. And Glitzy.” He looked miserable.
“Star! Glitzy?” Her mind whirled in total disbelief. “Are you joking? You’re telling me you read that stuff? That you actually believe what you read there?”
He pulled himself up, desperate to retrieve some dignity. “I’d never actually read them, but I work with actresses that do.”
“They do? Actresses who work in the real theater, in serious plays, actually read Star?”
“Some,” he said miserably.
“How about Allan Mace? Didn’t you read about him too?”
“What about Allan Mace?” His eyes met hers. Finally.
“Wasn’t my name also linked to his in those trashy magazines?”
“Should it have been?”
“What do you think?” she challenged.
He looked at her, searching her face for information. Then smiled. And relaxed. “Just to stay on the good side of logic, if something really is going on between you and Allan Mace, would you have kissed me like you did at the door? Would you have come here to be with me?”
“No.” She smiled back. “Besides, Allan Mace is too involved with the beautiful Allan Mace to even notice anyone else. We were out together in public quite often, so I suppose we can read all about it in next month’s Star. Then we’ll even find out if he asked me to marry him and if I accepted.”
“Magazines like Star and Glitzy are pure, utter trash.”
Sherry couldn’t stifle a broad Cheshire cat grin. “But since you don’t read rags like that, you wouldn’t really know.”
He stood, but his lips tugged into an answering, self-mocking grin. “Change of subject. Are you hungry? You must be after all that traveling. How about if I make dinner?”
“You know how to cook?”
He almost looked offended. “Of course I do.”
“Don’t get huffy. It’s just fairly rare, you know. Men cooking.”
“That’s the silliest thing I’ve ever heard,” he scoffed. “How many top chefs are men? You think women have a special gene telling them, instinctively, how to put food together?”
“Of course not. Sorry,” she said contritely. “You haven’t forgotten I’m a vegetarian, have you?”
“And you figure I don’t know the slightest thing about vegetarian cooking.”
She shrugged. “I suppose that was just about what I was thinking, yes.”
“Well, I’m about to show you how wrong you are.�
�� He marched in the direction of the kitchen, and Sherry tagged along behind him. Perching herself on a high stool, she watched him pull out a deep purple eggplant, olive oil, fresh fragrant basil, tarragon, parsley, coriander, and fat yellow lemons.
“Do I have the right to ask what’s on the menu?”
He nodded with satisfaction. “I don’t mind bragging. The starter is this eggplant, cooked in herbs and sprinkled with basil. After that, we’ll go on to lentils and fresh spinach simmered in coconut milk with coriander, cumin, and sage. How does that sound?”
“Incredible. Where did you learn to do stuff like that? Where did you learn about vegetarian cooking?”
“In books, on the Internet. Then I just started to invent my own recipes.”
“Oh,” she said, her eyes still following his every move. A little suspicion had begun growing inside her head. “Since when?”
The question had come so abruptly, he didn’t have time for adroit hedging. “Well…for a while now.” He concentrated on slicing the eggplant into small, perfect cubes and avoided her eyes again.
“I see,” she said slowly. “Since coming back from Midville, by any chance?”
“Around then, I suppose.”
“Uh huh. And how long have you known I’d be coming here for dinner?”
“For a few months now.” He tried, quite unsuccessfully, not to look smug.
“I see. And how could you know I’d accept to be in your play?”
He put his knife down on the cutting board. Met her eyes evenly. “I didn’t know anything, okay? Let’s just say I hoped you would.”
She was stunned. Did he realize how much this confession of his revealed? Did he know how deeply involved he was? As deeply as she was, evidently. But would he admit it? Was there a chance that Carston Hewlett, loner, long-time bachelor, might be taking her seriously? She wondered.
Chapter Twelve
Clearly he was still more in control of his emotions than she was. He would be. She was absolutely, hopelessly befuddled. And lost in the feelings of desire and tenderness he evoked in her. She hardly dared meet his eyes as they set the table together, afraid he’d be able to see too clearly into her heart. See her vulnerability. She’d always been fairly lousy at dissimulation, and she knew she’d be even worse now, in these circumstances. There wasn’t a nerve in her body that didn’t vibrate in anticipation of what might happen when dinner was over.
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