A Swan's Sweet Song

by J. Arlene Culiner

  She couldn’t leave through the main door, of course. The lobby would be blocked by people: journalists, those in charge of the festival, people from the audience. And a crowd was clumped around the stage door too. Was there another way out?

  In the dressing room, she rolled her jeans and sweater into a bundle, stuffed them into her tote, and slung her handbag over her shoulder. Then she peeked into the corridor. Not a soul around. Stealthily, quietly, she headed in the direction of backstage. There had to be a fire exit somewhere past the wilderness of electrical wires, abandoned sets, stacked furniture. Another long corridor on the left was perfectly dark, empty. Would there be a door? Sliding her hand along the wall, she managed to keep her bearings.

  Then she heard a noise behind her: a click. A door opening and closing? She couldn’t be certain. She stopped, stood still. This was definitely not a comforting place to be lurking in. Just the right setting for a chance encounter with the Phantom of the Opera, she thought miserably.

  She inched forward. Again she heard something. Stopped. She wasn’t alone, she knew that now. Someone else was here. Someone—or something—was coming up behind her. She could feel, but not see a presence.

  In the split second before she whirled around to confront whatever it was, a massive hand clamped onto her arm with the tenacity of a Doberman’s jaw.

  “Where the hell do you think you’re going?”

  She almost sank to the floor with both relief and dismay. “Charlie.”

  “Spill the beans, chicken.” She couldn’t see him, but his voice was mirthless. Uncompromising.

  It put her on the defensive. “Don’t you dare manhandle me.” She struggled to free her arm.

  “Who’s manhandling you?”

  “You are. Let go of my arm.”

  “What were you doing? Sneaking out?”

  “Not sneaking. No way was I sneaking. Just making a quiet, unobtrusive exit, that’s all.”

  “Oh yeah? Well, let me just roll out a few facts to you.”

  “Don’t bother,” she spit out.

  “Fact is, this is your party, chicken. You’re the star. People are waiting for you out in the lobby, and they want to congratulate you, meet you. There’s champagne. And journalists. And festival organizers. And where the hell are you? Creeping out the back door, leaving Carston looking like a jerk.”

  “Guess what else. I’m not creeping, not sneaking. I’m walking. And you’ve got it all wrong. I’m not the star here. Carston is. I’m just the person who was in his play. The one who spoke the words he wrote down. The talent belongs to him, right? Now will you let go of my arm?”

  “Excuse my being nosy for a minute—”

  “What do you mean, for a minute? You’ve been nosy for a whole lifetime. Let go of my arm, Charlie Bacon.”

  “Answer my question first.”

  “Let go of my arm or I’ll scream.”

  “Scream away. How are things between you and Hewlett?”

  “What things? Let go of my arm. Now!”

  “You love him, right? Back in Los Angeles you told me you did.”

  “All right. Yes. So what? Everyone makes mistakes.”

  “Why’s it a mistake?” He released his grip. “What’s wrong?”

  “Just go back in there and take a look. Then you’ll see what’s wrong.”

  “Got it.” Charlie emitted a rasping sound that sounded, annoyingly, like laughter. “Lila Patterson. So that’s it. Carston was talking to Lila Patterson, and you’re jealous.”

  “Don’t you sound smug.” Then she gave up the fight. Her shoulders sagged. “Okay. Yes, I am. I’m wildly jealous. So what? But the point is, I don’t want Carston to think he’s obliged to me for anything. We had a wonderful time together. It was brilliant working with him; I had the honor of being in one of his plays. But now he’ll want to get on with his own life. And I want to keep my last bit of pride.”

  “Carston’s not allowed to talk to other women?”

  “Stop making me sound silly. Lila Patterson isn’t just any woman. We went down this old road back in Midville, remember? Lila and Carston make the cutest couple I’ve ever seen. I’d also like to remind you that you were the one who warned me off Carston. You told me to stay away from him.”

  “Sure. But that was before.”

  “Wasn’t it just! Before you bullied him into putting me in his play.” Before she’d woken up beside Carston every morning, seen his face across the breakfast table, felt his touch at night. Before she’d learned to love their complicity, their incredible lovemaking, his intelligence, and his kindness.

  “What the hell are you talking about?” Charlie roared.

  “Don’t bother denying it. Carston would have given the role of Melissa to Lila or some other wonderful actress, but you forced his hand. You’re aggressive and insensitive. You push people around until they can’t think straight.” She felt horribly close to crying again. She knew she was being unjust to Charlie. If only her heart wasn’t aching so badly.

  “Sherry? Didn’t he tell you?”

  “Didn’t he tell me what? And what didn’t who tell me?” The hell with sounding intelligent.

  “Carston. About the play. I wasn’t supposed to let the secret out. I gave my word. I guess it doesn’t matter now, though.”

  “What secret?”

  “I didn’t bully him into giving you the part, chicken. He was the one who contacted me. He thought you might refuse if he asked you directly. He wanted you for the role because he wrote this play just for you. To tempt you away from Hollywood. I didn’t even want to accept, at first. I thought you’d get hurt again.”

  “What?”

  “That’s all there is to it. He knew he’d messed things up back in Midville, and he wanted another chance to get to know you better. To be with you. What better way to do that than write a play for you?”

  “How do you know all this?” It sounded so hard to believe. But hope was growing.

  “Because Carston told me, that’s how. We’ve become good buddies—telephone buddies. He even came all the way to Memphis to see me, convince me he really cares about you. So I admit I was wrong about the guy. I like him.” Charlie put his hand on Sherry’s shoulder. “Stop acting like a wounded toughie. If you love him, go get him. You’ve always fought for what you wanted in life. Why stop now?”

  “What if he doesn’t love me?” she asked weakly.

  “Are you joking? Everybody loves you. Haven’t you noticed the way he looks at you? The way he talks to you? Come on, chicken.”

  Sherry could only stare into the dark, lost for words.

  “But that’s not the whole story.” Charlie was suddenly sounding very sly. “If tonight’s success is anything to judge by, this play’s going places. Boston, New York…London. Just think, chicken.”

  Suspicion reared its head. “Okay. I get it. The voice of Charlie-manipulator’s coming through loud and clear.”

  “So? Actresses need managers just like singers do. It’ll be a nice change for me, getting in with the Ivy League culture crowd. No more cowboy gear. Just tuxedos and silk underwear.”

  ****

  “Where the hell have you been? I’ve been searching all over for you.” Carston was wildly furious. He’d gone through ten minutes of panic when he’d realized Sherry had vanished. “What do you think you’re playing at?” His hand clamped, vise-like, around her arm.

  “Charlie just did that to me,” she said dreamily.

  “Charlie did what?”

  “Put a vise on my arm. It didn’t feel the same way when Charlie did it, of course. It was minus the sexy electricity.”

  He stared down at her. She met his gaze evenly, and her lips curved upwards with the seductive little smile that always turned him into pussycat. He loosened his grip. “Where have you been?”

  “Actually, I was running away,” she said nonchalantly.

  “Running away?” His heart was pounding so loudly, he thought folks in far-off Cincinnati could
hear it. Then he shook his head. “Well, you don’t seem to be very good at it. You didn’t get far.”

  “Don’t you dare make fun of me.”

  “I’m not.” Strangely enough, he only felt like smiling too. “Believe me, I’m taking this very seriously. Why were you running away?”

  “Because I thought you didn’t love me. But you do, don’t you?”

  “Of course I do,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “I love you very much. I’ve been in love with you ever since I met you at the radio station. But so what? Where’s it going to get me? Or you. Or us. I can’t ask you to spend the rest of your life in Cutter’s Edge.”

  “You can’t?”

  “It’s really a very dull place.”

  “Mm-m-m.” She grinned lasciviously.

  “And I spend hours every single day locked up, writing.”

  “I noticed.”

  “And you’ve always lived in the fast lane, in the limelight, surrounded by people. It just doesn’t seem like the right combination.”

  “Didn’t you ever think of asking me what I thought?”

  He sighed. Closed his eyes, rubbed them with his fingers. Then looked at her again. “No. I guess I didn’t. But you’re right. I should have.”

  “But?”

  “Fear of rejection, I suppose. I’m just a simple country boy, at heart.”

  “Fine.” She nodded. Looked up at him, her heart full. “Could you just say it again? That bit about loving me very much?”

  He laughed softly. “I love you, Sherry Valentine. And I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to come out and say it. Forgive me.”

  “I love you, Carston Hewlett. I promise it will never be dull living with you. It’s all I want. I hate cities, and I love Cutter’s Edge. I love everyday life with you; I love the way the countryside smells; I love walks; I love sticky mud. I could even get to love that piggy Mrs. Brown, if she’ll accept my advances.”

  “Then you’ll stay with me?” he asked quietly.

  “Forever, if you want. Besides, you did promise me a pair of walking boots. You think I’ll let you get out of that?”

  He didn’t care who was watching. Pulling her into his arms, he gave her the most wonderful kiss.

  It was all the journalists needed. Cameras clicked wildly.

  “I can just see the headlines in Star,” Carston growled.

  “SHERRY VALENTINE CHANGES HER MIND YET AGAIN

  IS IT FOR REAL THIS TIME?”

  Sherry pulled back slightly. Smirked. “But of course you don’t read Star. Or do you?”

  “I’m deeper and more complex than you imagine.” He hoped he sounded mysterious.

  A word about the author...

  Born in New York, raised in Toronto, J. Arlene Culiner has spent most of her life in England, Germany, Turkey, Greece, Hungary, and the Sahara. She now resides in a 400-year-old former inn in a French village of no real interest. Much to everyone’s dismay, she protects all living creatures—especially spiders and snakes—and her wild (or wildlife) garden is a classified butterfly and bird reserve.

  Visit her at:

  http://www.j-arleneculiner.com

  Thank you for purchasing

  this publication of The Wild Rose Press, Inc.