Playing the Part

by Darcy Daniel

  After the meeting with Jason Trent, she had tried to track down Ethan, but with no success. As her manager, he must have known about the role, yet had done nothing to arrange an audition. If her own brother didn’t believe in her, and an industry professional like Jason Trent had no faith in her acting ability, then who would? Was she destined to be nothing but a B-grade actress—or as those women in the restrooms pointed out, a D-grader?

  Fear blossomed through her body. Maybe she couldn’t live up to the lead role of The Farmer’s Wife. But hadn’t she felt that way when she’d transformed herself from a child to an adult in front of the world? That wasn’t a transition she could control or avoid—everybody got older, including little sitcom stars. This time she wanted to prove that she could be the actress she always aspired to be, the actress her mother had seen in her from such a young age.

  She could do it. She had to. Not to would be career suicide. Time couldn’t be stopped, and it wouldn’t be long before she became too old in Hollywood’s eyes to play sexy action roles. She hadn’t worked her whole life only to have her career end because of age. If she could convince everyone that she was capable of playing serious roles, then her career might last a lifetime. All she had to do was figure out how.

  Yes, she knew the source material for the movie like the back of her hand, but what did she know firsthand about life on the land? Nothing.

  The idea came so abruptly, she shot up in bed, the sudden inspiration making her heart skip.

  Research. She had three weeks before auditions. Three weeks in which she could live on a farm and learn everything she needed to know about being the wife of a farmer. Three weeks in which to gain the internal truth needed to convince everyone that she, and only she, could play the part.

  Just one tiny problem. She didn’t know anyone who lived on a farm.

  She slumped against her pillows, covering her face with her hands.

  Although acting had given her a tremendous amount of success, a multitude of acquaintances and contacts were not the same as real, personal relationships. Something she’d neglected to form ever since her mother’s passing. Instead, she’d erected a barrier around herself. And every time she’d taken a chance and lowered that wall, she’d been hurt one way or another. The only solution seemed to be to raise the barrier higher.

  It probably hadn’t helped that right after Mattie’s death, her father, Brian, had abandoned the pharmacy he owned in Mayfield and dragged Anthea and Ethan to Los Angeles in an attempt to make his daughter a famous movie star. At first she had been too upset by the loss of her mother to even pretend to be interested in the auditions her father organized. But as time went by, as he constantly reminded her of how Mattie had always called her my little actress, she slowly came to understand what he was doing. He was trying to keep Mattie’s memory alive, trying to make his dead wife’s dream a reality.

  So to ease her father’s pain, she immersed herself in each and every audition. And something amazing happened. She found she could disappear into the character she was playing. When she was someone else, her own pain vanished. Anthea was no longer the small-town girl who had lost her mother too early to cancer. She was a girl who ate the latest breakfast cereal, wore trendy new sneakers or played with the most coveted toy on the market. Whatever the commercial called for, Anthea could become. And her grief disappeared.

  After starring in seventeen commercials, along with bit parts in a few television shows, she was offered a major role in a family sitcom at the ripe old age of ten. The sitcom was a wild success.

  But, even at ten, the irony of her celebrity weighed on her. How was she supposed to react to her achievements? She wanted to be happy, wanted to bask in the glow of feeling like she was somebody, but how could she do that without being glad that her mother had died and spurred Brian into pursuing those opportunities for her? All she could do was disappear into the parts she played. And that’s what she did for six years until the sitcom came to an end.

  Then another blow: her father suffered a sudden heart attack and passed away.

  The loss hit her hard. Having repressed the effect of her mother’s death, it almost became too much. Almost. Had it not been for Ethan, she may have crumbled.

  Unfortunately, none of that solved the problem of researching the role of her dreams.

  Disheartened, she flopped on the pillows and stared at the ceiling.

  Then it hit her: The e-mail about Mayfield’s annual fundraiser!

  Leaping out of bed, Anthea raced into the spare room, ripped her iPad from the treadmill and waited for the screen to come to life.

  Mayfield. The town she’d tried so hard to forget. The memory of losing her mother there simply hurt too much to think about. But, if she really wanted this role, she’d have to face those memories. Although the thought put her on edge, maybe it was time to stop burying her head in the sand and deal with the unpleasant emotions Mayfield brought to the surface.

  After all, Karin had invited her to the fundraiser every spring for the past several years, so wasn’t it about time she made an appearance? And in return, Karin might be happy to introduce her to a farmer who could help with her research.

  As Anthea packed her bags, she glanced at the two Kick posters. Before she went anywhere, she needed to kill Alex Stark.

  She charged into the bathroom and found a box of hair dye. Alex Stark might be a platinum blonde, but Anthea Cane was a brunette.

  After restoring her hair to its natural color, she grabbed The Farmer’s Wife novel and the script Jason Trent’s assistant had given her and placed them in her suitcase. From a velvet box on her dressing table, she removed the jade earrings her father had given Mattie on their wedding day, and secured them in her ears. By carrying the happiest memories of her mother with her, she hoped she could ward off all other thoughts.

  Even at 7:00 a.m. with the high-rises shading the streets, Sydney’s thick, humid air clung to her skin while she climbed into her Mercedes. This year, summer had come a few months too soon. She lowered the soft-top, headed out of the city and settled in for the five-hour drive.

  As Sydney’s outer suburbs gave way to wide-open countryside, Anthea relied on the directions given by her bossy satellite navigator.

  After a stop to refuel her car and stomach, the sky darkened with threatening clouds as she drove deep into the lush rural countryside of southern New South Wales.

  “Signal lost. Signal lost,” the navigator announced.

  “What?” She knew she couldn’t be too far from Mayfield, but hadn’t been paying attention to her actual location. Wasn’t that what the navigator was for?

  “Signal lost,” it repeated.

  Anthea checked the rearview mirror and pulled to the side of the road. She grabbed the navigator from its cradle, shook it and hit a few buttons.

  “Signal lost.” Fat lot of good that did. Frustrated, she tossed it on the passenger seat and glanced at the sky. Dark clouds churned closer. As thunder rumbled, she took the opportunity to raise the convertible’s roof and study her surroundings.

  An intersection lay about fifty yards ahead, no sign in sight, of course. To her right, the perfect green lawn of a turf farm stretched over the flat land for as far as she could see.

  When she looked to her left, she sighed with relief. In the distance, a man worked in an enormous plowed field.

  She grabbed a floral silk scarf from her handbag, checked her reflection in the rearview mirror and adjusted her sunglasses. Until she attended the fundraiser, she wanted to keep her visit to Mayfield under wraps while she did her research. As she climbed from the car, a gust of wind pushed against her. She looked at the sky. The clouds seemed to grow darker by the second. If she wanted to get to Mayfield before the storm hit, she’d better get those directions.

  In the field, the man stood, took something from a wheelbarrow and kne
lt in the soil.

  Anthea cupped her hands around her mouth. “Hey!” The wind instantly whipped her voice away. Thunder rumbled. “Hey!” It was no use.

  She stared at the soft, plowed earth and wondered what possessed her to wear Manolo Blahniks on a drive to the country. Of course, she hadn’t planned on traipsing through a field.

  Hesitant, she gazed at the man again. He rose, raised his face to the sky and whipped off his T-shirt. As her mouth dropped open in appreciation, she knew she should get in the car and drive away. Apparently her feet had other ideas because her Manolos sank into the dirt and drew her toward the half-naked man.

  Okay, she told herself, make it snappy. Get directions and get out of here.

  Chapter Two

  Cole Daniel wiped his brow with his sweat-soaked T-shirt, luxuriating in the cool downdraft as it swept over his bare skin and took away some of the heat he’d absorbed throughout the long day. The high temperatures were a burden both he and his plants could do without. Summer had arrived early this year, creating a spring heat wave that seemed to have no intention of letting up. Besides the fact that his shipment of paulownia saplings had been delayed for over a month, the last thing he needed was this unseasonal heat ruining his plants.

  Over a month ago, his neighbors had plowed the field he was working in with their ancient, but reliable, Massey Ferguson. Since the delivery of the late shipment, Cole had managed to plant half the field with a new crop of paulownia saplings.

  Thunder rumbled again. Hoping to make it to the house before the rain started, he patted soil around a sapling, placed the shovel in the wheelbarrow, gripped its handles and headed home.

  “Hey!”

  Cole tensed. Who the hell was that? Thunder boomed overhead. Okay, maybe he’d just imagined it. As he rolled the wheelbarrow forward, he heard a sharp squeal, followed by feet stumbling over the freshly planted saplings. That didn’t sound like his imagination.

  “Hey! Hey, wait up!” a woman panted, her voice getting closer.

  Cole froze.

  “Well it’s about time. For a second there I thought you were deaf.”

  Whoever she was, she wasn’t a local. No one he knew would make such a tactless comment. He remained motionless, silent.

  “Talk about rude,” she mumbled.

  Cole had no time for uppity strangers with no manners, especially those who showed no consideration for his plants. “No one’s forcing you to be that way,” he said, but when he heard her audible gasp, he wished he could see the look on her face.

  “Me?”

  “You’re the one trespassing on my property, barking at me.”

  “I’m not barking!” she yelled over another boom of thunder.

  “I suppose ‘hey’ is the new ‘excuse me’ is it?”

  Her lack of response gave him hope that she’d returned to wherever she came from.

  “At least I have the decency to look at someone when I’m talking to them,” she said.

  No such luck. “From what I can hear, there’s nothing worth looking at. So if you want something, lady, spit it out. I’m busy.”

  He gripped the wheelbarrow handles and pushed forward. After a few steps, she brushed past and grabbed the side of the barrow, forcing him to stop before it tipped sideways.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean… Can you just give me directions to Mayfield?”

  Gladly. “Straight through the crossroads, then take your first left.”

  Thunder clapped overhead. At the same moment she released a startled yelp, he sucked in a breath and smelled something he didn’t like at all.

  “Thanks,” she said. “I’m out of here.”

  As she rushed past, he reached for her, fumbled but managed to snag her arm.

  “Hey!” She tried to pull free of his grasp. He held on.

  “The clouds. Are they green?” he asked.

  “What?” When he thought he’d have to repeat the question, she answered, “Sort of.”

  Just great. “Hail,” he informed her. “You parked on the road?”

  “Yes. Now let go.”

  She wouldn’t make it halfway to her car. And from where they stood, they were even farther from the house. Only one choice remained.

  “Come on.” Cole tightened his grip on her arm and pulled her toward the small pump house in the middle of the field.

  “What are you doing?” she shrieked.

  He really didn’t care about her apparent alarm. When she hammered at his hand and dug her feet into the soft earth, the urge to set her free and let her get pummeled with hail became very tempting. But as awful as she sounded, he didn’t want her to get hurt.

  “Just come with me,” he insisted as he urged her forward.

  “Like hell!”

  Fine, if she wanted to be a stubborn city-slicker twit, then who was he to argue?

  “Suit yourself.” He released her and strode toward the pump house.

  Cole made it three steps before hailstones whacked into the earth. Quickening his pace, he heard a sharp cry of surprise from behind. He grinned, but his mirth left him when ice stung his bare back and a chunk thunked against his head. From the feel of it, this wasn’t the average pea-sized hail.

  Knowing he must be close to the small shed, he extended a hand to search for the corrugated iron. Just as he made contact, the woman careened past and beat him inside. He touched the water pump within the tiny shed, found the small space to its right empty and squeezed in.

  Hail smashed against the tin roof in a riotous crescendo.

  “You okay?” he shouted over the almost deafening din.

  From the other side of the pump, she yelled, “You could have warned me!”

  “I’m pretty sure I did.”

  After receiving no response, he tuned into the steady beat of ice against the shed. Pea-sized hail made a ticking noise against corrugated iron, but this sounded more like someone pelting the shed with cricket balls.

  When the hail began to ease, he asked, “How big are they?”

  “See for yourself.”

  That’s a little difficult, he thought, but remained silent. After a moment, the air in front of his face moved. She had to be kidding. He reached out and managed to catch her wrist. Sure enough, she’d been waving her hand in front of his face.

  “Didn’t your mother tell you that’s not polite?”

  She jerked her wrist from his hold, but said nothing.

  “What? No snappy comeback because you don’t want to hurt the poor blind guy’s feelings?”

  To his surprise, she took hold of his fist, pried it open and placed a hailstone on his palm.

  Cole closed his fingers on the icy lump. The damn thing felt like a golf ball.

  “Are they all this size?” he asked.

  “Yes. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  Not the answer he wanted. “Bloody hell!” He crushed the ice in his fist and flung it outside.

  “What’s the big deal?”

  “Weeks down the drain, that’s what. I was already behind.”

  As the last of the hail gave way to heavy rain, Cole decided to inspect the damage. Easing out of the pump house, he took his first step. Ice crunched under his boots. Definitely not a good sign.

  “Wait!” she called.

  Ignoring her, he crunched across the field, the rain beating against his bare skin as he headed toward the wheelbarrow. It took a moment to find it, but his instincts had grown fairly accurate over the twenty years since he’d lost his sight.

  “Don’t worry,” she shouted. “I found them.”

  Whatever she’d found, he didn’t care. In fact, he couldn’t understand why she hadn’t left. He’d given her the directions she needed to find her way into town, the hail h
ad stopped—so why wasn’t she leaving?

  Bending over, he felt for the saplings. His hand froze on a broken stem.

  “My shoes, in case you were wondering,” she said from close behind.

  “I wasn’t.”

  She gasped, and for a second he thought she was about to accuse him of being rude again. Then she said, “I can’t go into town looking like a drowned rat.”

  “Not my problem,” he said, listening to her feet squelch in the wet soil.

  “The least you could do is offer me somewhere to dry off.”

  Cole scoffed. The least he could do? As if it was his fault she was standing in the rain getting drenched.

  “Will it get rid of you?” he asked.

  “Absolutely.”

  He rose and extended his arm toward the house. “Help yourself.”

  “It’s just… My clothes. They’re in the car and my feet are burning up on this ice. Or freezing. I can’t tell which. But I do know I can’t make it all the way across this field.”

  “Does it ever end with you?” he said, and stalked toward her.

  She released a squeak, followed by a splat, which sounded suspiciously like she’d fallen on her butt.

  “Even I’m not that clumsy.”

  He offered his hand, but she didn’t take it. Instead, she grunted and squished around in the mud in what he presumed was a scramble to her feet.

  Turning his back to her, he said, “Get on.”

  “Are you out of your mind?”

  He shrugged and walked away.

  “Okay! Wait up.”

  He stopped and, as he heard her approach, bent his knees. The moment she touched his shoulder he realized his mistake. Before he could change his mind, she leaped onto his back and wrapped an arm across the front of his bare chest. When she started to slip, he caught her thighs and hoisted her higher.

  As he strode over the uneven earth toward the road, her body began to heat against his, shooting unfamiliar sensations through him. Determined to be rid of her, he put on a burst of speed, but his quicker movements only caused her hand to slip and slide over his slick skin.