"Stay put, Jess, I’ll be back."
She dared to peek out the window after he left. A single, emergency powered light was illuminating the roof of the main building. The blackened sea was a writhing, seething monster assaulting the shoreline just forty yards away. She became frightened, and felt around for the phone, which was still dead. Panicky, she next began groping around in the drawers of the dresser, her hand finally closing on a box of wooden matches. With clumsy fingers she lit one and squinted at her watch; it was nearing midnight, 8:00 p.m. at home. Hopefully, the phones would be restored soon and she could call Mac. She curled up on the bed and was soon asleep.
~ * ~
It was Jessica who woke first, her head dizzy and aching. She looked around and saw Dane sleeping in the chair, an empty bottle in his hand and the remains of a small candle on the dresser. She crawled across the bed and sat up, rubbing her eyes and adjusting her shirt. Looking at her watch, she saw it was eight o’clock, and bright sunlight poured into the bungalow. She listened tensely, but no sound of wind could be heard. Instead, there were voices outside.
She reached across and shook Dane’s arm gently. He started as if he’d been shocked. "The storm’s gone," she announced.
Dane put his hands into his hair. "What the fuck did I do to my head?" he moaned. He looked at the bottle on the night stand. "Jesus H.--! What time is it?" He closed his eyes in pain.
"Eight a.m." Jessica waited for another outburst of obscenities. Instead, Dane stumbled to the door and opened it, leaning out and staring up the beach. Five or six people were gathered a few yards away, sunning themselves on the purged sand. Farther down, he could see crewmembers setting up the day’s shoot and rigging the Pacifica, still in one piece. He rubbed his eyes, and when they noticed him, they applauded. He promptly flipped them off, his spirits lifted by the sight of the perfect weather, and his working crew.
He returned inside and faced Jessica with a worn smile. "Sorry. I’m not at my best after sleeping with a bottle of rum."
"I should apologize. I was a bitch last night. I don’t know what got into me."
"Same thing that got into me." He motioned to the bottle. "Alcohol can be a dangerous bed-fellow. Especially this rot-gut." He went to the bathroom to splash his unshaven face.
Not as dangerous as you are, she thought, but held her tongue. This week would be difficult enough without her fanning the flames.
~ * ~
Power was restored that afternoon, but the shooting did not resume. Nor were the phone lines repaired. It was discovered that several vital pieces of equipment were damaged in the storm, and replacements had to be flown in from Los Angeles. But first, communication to the States had to be established via Ham radio.
Jessica hastily penned a letter to Mac, explaining the situation, but was not encouraged by the hotel that the letter would not arrive in even a week’s time. Disheartened, she strolled away from the lobby and wondered what to do next; most of the company was taking the day off. Aimlessly she wandered down the beach, enjoying the mild weather and curiously eyeing the dense vegetation that grew down from the volcanic bluffs to the beach, leaving only about a hundred feet of sand exposed. She didn’t bother turning around at the sound of the approaching Jeep; Dane, she knew, would catch up with her momentarily anyway.
"Want a lift?" he called, pulling the vehicle alongside as she walked.
"Not really."
"Come on. Doug and I are going for a ride. It’ll be fun! I want to go round to Admiralty Bay."
Jessica sighed and held out her hand. Dane was delighted at her decision and turned the Jeep around, heading back toward the Marquis, where Doug Lewis was waiting.
"You’ve met Doug?" Dane asked.
Before Jessie could respond, Doug was climbing into the Jeep and shaking her hand.
"Of course we’ve met. I’m the villain who can’t wait to abduct the lovely Miss Sinclair. Glad to see you, Jessie."
~ * ~
They spent the afternoon exploring the small island. Admiralty Bay and Port Isabella, then on to Consequence Bay where whaling boats were moored in the small inlet.
"I can’t believe they’re still killing whales," Jessica said with a shiver.
"They don’t get many, anymore," Doug answered. "I was talking to an old guy earlier, he said they took six in 1969 and that was a very good year."
They stepped over giant bones and strips of baleen strewn about outside the remains of a closed whale factory. The smell of the factory was still very much present, and Jessica begged Dane to move on, her arms crossing her stomach demonstratively.
The three of them piled into the Jeep and Dane took them up a narrow, unimproved road through the dense, jungle-like foliage, coming to a rustic cottage built into the rocky hillside. Portions of the home were actually caves, carved from the ancient volcanic rock of Amande. Dane thumped on the horn a couple of times before swinging himself out of the Jeep and helping Jessica to the ground.
A man soon appeared, his grin as broad as his hair was white.
"Dane! I knew you’d show up one of these days--how the hell are you?" He shook Dane’s hand aggressively, simultaneously clapping him on the shoulder with his other.
"I’m great, as usual, Art. And you look like island life agrees with you…Art, this is Jess Taylor, and Doug Lewis…my cohorts."
Art Martino ushered the trio into his rock house and proudly expounded on its unique construction.
"Sherie’s out at the market right now, but we’ve been expecting you, so I hope you’re staying for dinner?"
Dane looked to Jessica, who shrugged slightly and looked to Doug.
"I could use a good meal," Doug offered with an amused smile. "I’m getting a bit worn on corndogs."
Jessica marveled at the odd combination of Americana and West Indies culture that had collected in the Martino home. Since they’d chucked the Wall Street scene fifteen years earlier, the Martinos had built an entirely new life in Amande and would never go back. Sherie was probably fifty, Jessica assessed, but her casual, relaxed mannerisms and comfortable hospitality made her seem years younger. Was it the absence of stress, Jessica wondered wryly, noting the sharp contrast between Dane’s weary, sometimes haunted look and Art’s bright, enthusiastic demeanor?
"This looks great," Doug commented as Sherie loaded the dinner table with island delicacies. Doug, Jessica noticed, would try anything and ate heartily of every dish Sherie offered; Dane picked around, trying this and that, keeping up an endless stream of vibrant conversation with Art. Jessica herself secretly eyed each selection with suspicion, forcing herself to appear casual about the food; the last thing she wanted was to offend Dane’s friends, and she warily tasted whatever he spooned onto her plate.
"Ecrevisses," Sherie announced, passing a shallow bowl around the table.
Expectantly Jessica turned her eyes to Dane’s.
"Freshwater crayfish," he explained with a gleam, and Jessica nodded. "Think of it as baby lobsters."
Okay; this isn’t too bad. Jessica chewed the shellfish quickly and swallowed, her heart sinking as Sherie brought forth still another platter of steaming…was it meat?
"Mountain chicken." Sherie smiled proudly. "Got the recipe from Madame Toussaint, in Port Elizabeth."
Ah, chicken. Something Jessica could deal with. And almonds, lots of them, around the edge. Of course, she recalled with a smile, almond trees grew all along the beach. "That looks good." She took a large portion, hoping that her filled plate would preclude any more offerings. Dane smiled in approval.
Soon, the platter of "chicken" was bare, and Doug lamented that he’d never taste anything so good again.
"You’re probably right. You won’t find this kind of chicken in L.A., my friends. Or in New York," Art chided.
"Is that right?" Dane mused. "What’s it called?"
"Crapaud."
"It’s hard to believe there’s anything you can’t get in the States," Jessica challenged with a smile.
"True. But these little buggers have to be caught fresh. They’re slippery, hard to find. Most of them are found on Dominica. They’re even a delicacy here."
"Slippery? Chickens?" Doug asked.
The smile that had remained on Dane’s face throughout dinner broke into a chuckle and he reached across the table to touch Doug’s forearm. "Crap-poe; they’re frogs, my man. Best damned bullfrogs you ever tasted."
~ * ~
"I will never, ever, forgive you, Dane Pierce." Jessica kept her voice low as they climbed into the Jeep later that evening. "You knew we were eating…bullfrogs…oh, God! And you never said a word!" Angrily she shoved him, nearly sending him out the side of the open Jeep as he laughed uncontrollably. In the back seat, Doug was moaning.
"I owe you one, Pierce," he warned. "Eating amphibians is against my religion."
"It was good, wasn’t it?" Dane reminded them between giggles. "Tasted like chicken, right?"
"That’s not the point! Oh, God, I’m going to be sick."
"Well, wait ‘til we get back to the hotel. Jesus, you should have seen your expression!"
"I’m sorry if I offended your friends," she said dryly.
"You didn’t. They’re cool. They pulled the same shit on me two years ago, when I first came here to scope out the location." Dane reached over and slid his fingers across her stomach as he drove.
Torn between casting his hand away from her and relishing the warmth of his touch, Jessica decided on the former and grasped his wrist; before she could demonstrate her chagrin, however, Dane clasped her hand warmly in his, then brought it to his lips. "I’m sorry, sweetie," he murmured against her palm before kissing it.
"It’s all right, sugarplum," Doug answered from the back, his voice a mockingly high pitch.
His apology warmed her, despite the nausea grinding away at her insides.
At the hotel, Dane helped her from the Jeep and tried to take her into his arms. Jessica wrestled away from him and ran from the Marquis parking lot all the way to her cabin, arriving just in time to rid herself of the crapaud.
~ * ~
Later that evening Jessica heard a commotion outside her bungalow. Through her window she could see a small group of people gathered near the entrance to the cantina, Dane’s tall figure unmistakable in the middle. Still not feeling well, she grabbed her shawl and left the room.
Dane waved when he saw her.
"You won’t believe this one, sweetie." He handed her a folded sheet of yellow paper.
"What is it?" Before Dane could respond, she realized it was a telegram. Her eyes widened when she saw the sender’s name: The Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences. Quickly she scanned the brief notice. She grasped her stomach in surprise.
"They want to know if you can hook up a live feed to the States?" Jessica re-read the telegram again. "Does this mean what I think it means? Oh my God!" She rushed him with a hug and he laughed out loud.
"Can you believe it? An Oscar!" Dane spun her around, still laughing.
Kyle was beside himself, standing nearby grinning ear to ear. With an "air" microphone, he turned to the group of well-wishers with a mock serious tone.
"And now, accepting the award for Dane Pierce, coming to you live from the God-forsaken island spec of Amande, we bring you, Dane Pierce."
Dane threw back his head and shrieked. "Bellerive! This is…insane!"
Jessica was truly happy for him. Nonetheless, she declined his offer to celebrate later in the cantina.
Seven
Boys Will Be Boys
Fortunately, the weather held and the equipment arrived on Tuesday. Dane’s optimism ebbed slightly as they now fell behind schedule. Phone service was partially and sporadically restored, and Jessica tried in vain to get through to either Mac or Roxie.
~ * ~
By Monday night, Mac had become increasingly anxious about Jessica’s failure to call. He had contacted the weather service and had been told that several of the Grenadines’ tiny islands had been "shorted out," and that phone communications were intermittent at best. On Tuesday, he began trying to call in to the hotel with little or no luck at even getting the call past a long distance operator. So it was with great surprise to Mac that on Tuesday afternoon someone at the front desk of the Marquis finally answered the ring.
His joy at connecting was soon dashed by the news that Miss Taylor had checked out of her room. After further delay, it was determined that Miss Taylor had moved into Mr. Pierce’s suite, and she was currently not in. Mac hung up the phone in confusion. He stared at the instrument, frowning, trying to make sense of what he’d been told. There must be a mistake, he reasoned, and dialed the hotel again. But it wasn’t in the cards for him to get through a second time. The service was no longer available.
His mind burning with obscure thoughts about Jessica and Dane, Mac strode to the garage and uncovered a Honda 750 parked in the corner. Quickly donning his helmet, he opened the garage door and started the Honda, which sputtered and complained at first from lack of use, then rode down the leaf-strewn driveway and out into the canyon.
He drove until he came to the beach, where he stopped and strapped his helmet to the side before continuing, illegally, down the strip of wet sand near the surf. Thoughts of Jessica filled his head in flashing visions; sitting across from him on a blanket in Santa Barbara; taking Megan’s hand along the Oxnard pier; tearing down Laurel Canyon in the blue Miata, her hair dancing wildly behind her in the wind. He smiled softly at the thoughts of Jessica sharing ice cream with him late at night and the lunch in his dressing room; but the smile faded with the memory of Jessica, crying into his shirt after walking out on Dane Pierce.
Finally, he parked the bike and sat down in the sand, watching the sun begin its nightly dip into the water. "I can’t do this," he thought out loud. "She must know what she’s doing." Don’t get involved. He squinted at the water, but the visions in his head would not stop. He remembered the fear in her eyes when he’d asked about Pierce, the night before he’d left for Germany. Mac unconsciously grasped a handful of wet sand as he thought about Pierce’s cocky arrogance and callous treatment of Jessica’s heart.
"No. I can’t do this."
As the stars began to appear, he got on the bike and drove slowly home.
Tonight, the big house seemed tight and confining after his ride. He went to the kitchen but found nothing there that would fill the emptiness he knew was not really hunger. In the bathroom, he stared at his own features in the mirror. "Get a grip, Mac. You’re freaking out over nothing." He needed to do something, something to kick-start his engine and burn off this unreasonable anxiety eating away at his insides.
Mac picked up the phone and dialed. "Hi Roxie, it’s Mac. Have you heard from Jess?"
"No, haven’t you?"
"No. Look, I have to be gone for a few days. If she should call you…tell her I’ll try to get through to her when I get home."
"Sure, Mac. Where are you going?"
"Colorado." He didn’t elaborate, hanging up without further conversation.
Aspen, Colorado, was a cold place about now. February had brought an abundance of snow, and Mac met old ski buddies for three days of downhill racing fever. It felt good to be frozen and exhausted, he decided, after the first two days of strenuous skiing. It felt good to be among people he understood and who enjoyed the simple pleasure of slicing cold air with a warm body at sixty miles per hour. He gained back some sense of self, honing his skills on the slopes for still another day before retiring his skis and flying back to Los Angeles. And although he felt he’d renewed his perspective, his heart was heavy as he entered the dark house. The message light was blinking.
"Hi Mac, it’s Jess…sorry I missed you, boy am I sorry! I guess you must have heard about the storm…It’s taken days to get a line out of this awful place…um…Our luck’s been both good and bad out here, of course the weather’s been a constant problem. Part of the hotel was destroyed and they’ve changed my room twic
e, can you believe it?…Oh Mac, I’ve only been here ten days and I can’t wait to get home. The bugs here are huge and ugly, and there’re these weird little lizards everywhere…the food is gross, I can’t eat it, and everyone drinks rum all the time, and…I hope everything’s okay with you…it’s noon here, so I guess it’s…eight a.m. there, I thought I might catch you, but I guess not…" There was a pause while she said something incomprehensible to another person. "Well, I have to go now, I’m being paged…Ha! As if they had anything so "high tech" here! I sure hope you get this message. I miss talking to you. I guess this place is supposed to be beautiful, but I think it depends on who you’re with, y’know? Take care, Mac, I’ll call again. Bye."
Mac listened to the message again. He sighed. He chewed on his lip, tapping the machine nervously with his fingers. She sounded homesick and anxious. So maybe she wasn’t sharing a room with Pierce after all.
Collapsing on the couch, he once again turned on the television. He’d all but ignored the fact that tonight was Oscar night in L.A. Although he had attended in past years, it meant little to him. Even his own Emmy statuette bore no great distinction in his house. The glitz, the egos and the phoniness of it all depressed and offended him. But as Whoopi Goldberg introduced Harrison Ford to announce the Best Actor nominees, Mac leaned forward as Dane’s name was read.
The other four nominees were sitting within the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion. Dane, of course, was shown in a still inset, dressed in his pirate threads. Intrigued, Mac could not force himself to turn off the tube.
Ford’s looking pretty good, he thought, purposely distracting himself from the anticipation he hated to feel. And yet he knew, before the infamous envelope was opened to reveal Dane’s name. He picked up the TV controller.
"We have Dane on a live remote." Harrison Ford was saying. Mac stayed his hand. "Dane? Are you there?"
Mesmerized, Mac’s eyes grew wide. There was Dane, standing in some kind of bar with revelers all around him, cheering and holding up beer steins. And beside him, Jessica.
Mac rubbed his mouth involuntarily. He couldn’t hear what Dane was saying as he stared at Jessica. She looked thin and pale. And TV is supposed to put weight on?
Starcrossed Hearts Page 11
