Because of her popularity in the role, Isabelle was now financially secure. She had been able to buy a lovely secluded house with plenty of yard for Jenny to play in. She could send Jenny to an excellent school and pay for a housekeeper/companion for her daughter. She had even been able to pay back her parents for the money they’d lent her during her first years in L.A. But money was the only thing that had changed for them. Isabelle still had only one interest outside of work, and that was her daughter.
She squeezed Jenny tightly to her now. “How was school?”
“Fine. I made something.”
“You did? How nice. May I see it?”
Jenny shook her head. “I’m not supposed to tell you.”
“I see. A special present, then.”
Jenny nodded. “We made it this morning. But I can’t tell you.”
“That’s all right. I’ll see it when you bring it home.”
Jenny nodded. “Miss Bright said, ‘Shh.’” She brought her forefinger up to her lips and made an exaggerated gesture of silence. “I don’t like it, they say. ‘Don’t talk.’”
“Who says, Jenny? Miss Albright?”
Jenny nodded emphatically. “Miss Bright says ‘Don’t talk,’ and I only asked... He was drawing, see, like this.” She made big circular motions with her right hand, as if drawing in air. “And he—” She pulled her hands apart as if ripping something.
“He tore up his paper?” Isabelle wasn’t sure exactly what Jenny was talking about; she sometimes had trouble following her disjointed, repetitive way of speaking even after years of experience.
Jenny’s dark head came down in the same hard nod. She was clearly feeling indignant. “Yes! And Miss Bright, she said, ‘Don’t talk.’ I don’t like that.”
“I’m sure not. You just wanted to see what he was drawing, right?”
“‘Whatcha doing?’” Jenny agreed. “‘Whatcha doing?’”
Isabelle repressed a smile. This was Jenny’s favorite question of any-and everyone. No doubt some other child in her class had resented her asking it.
“Well, I’m sure Miss Albright didn’t want you disturbing the other students. Apparently he didn’t like it when you asked him to let you see.”
“He’s a poophead,” Jenny commented. Then she added, “Kevin said ‘He’s a poophead.’”
“I bet Miss Albright didn’t like that.”
“Uh-uh.” Jenny shook her head exaggeratedly. “She said, ‘No, no, no.’”
“And what have you been doing since you came home from school?” Isabelle asked, deciding it was probably better to switch off this subject. Miss Albright would probably not appreciate Jenny’s implanting the forbidden word in her mind with further repetitions.
“I gave Patience a ride.” Jenny leaned down and patted the dog firmly on the head.
“Good. But don’t ride her around too much, or she might get sick.”
“She likes to ride. Lady didn’t like to ride.”
“No. Lady was getting a little old for riding.” Lady had been their first dog, a rather cantankerous old miniature poodle that had been Isabelle’s mother’s dog. Jenny had cried so much at leaving her when they moved to Los Angeles that Frances had given her to them.
“Lady’s gone now. Lady’s in Heaven,” Jenny pointed out.
“I know. And I’m sure she’s very happy.”
“Lady’s in Heaven now. We took her—she went—weeks ago.”
“Even longer than that.”
“She went to the dog hospital. Now she’s in Heaven.”
“That’s right. Why don’t you put up your bicycle and let’s go inside and see what Irma has fixed for supper?” Isabelle suggested.
“Hot dog and chips.”
“That’s what we’re having for supper?” Isabelle smiled. “I imagine Irma’s cooked something healthier than that.”
“I had it. Hot dog and chips. That’s what I wanted.”
“When you came home from school? That’s what Irma gave you for a snack after school?”
Jenny nodded and started over to her cycle, saying again, “Hot dog and chips.”
She walked her big tricycle into the garage and carefully stowed it away in its place beside Isabelle’s car. Isabelle waited for her, and they walked in the back door. Irma Pena, their housekeeper, turned and grinned at them, whisking off her apron.
“Ah, Mrs. Gray. I’m glad you’re home. I’m sorry, but I have to run tonight.” Usually Irma was happy to stay longer with Jenny when Isabelle ran late in the evenings. “I have to pick Estrellita up at school. They’re practicing a play, and I have to be there at eight-thirty.”
“I’m sorry I kept you late. We ran over at the studio today.”
“Sí. No problem.” Irma waved away Isabelle’s explanation and apology. “I got plenty of time still. But I don’t like for Estrellita to have to stand around and wait, you know—you never know what can happen.” She shook her head, clicking her tongue, as she crossed the room and picked up her handbag and keys from the counter. “Terrible thing, when a girl isn’t safe at school.”
“Yes, it is.”
Jenny was frowning, listening to her. “I’m safe,” she said.
“Of course you are, precious one.” Irma smiled at her. “I was talking about something else. Don’t you worry about it.”
“Don’t talk to strangers,” Jenny told her solemnly. “Then you’re safe.”
“That’s right. Never talk to strangers,” Isabelle agreed, waving to Irma as she bustled out the door.
“I never do. Miss Bright told us. Strangers might—might—”
“They might hurt you,” Isabelle supplied gently. “That’s why Miss Albright told you not to talk to them.”
This was a lesson that Jenny had been taught regularly for years, both in school and out. She repeated the words often, proud that she had learned the lesson, but for all her words about it, Isabelle was not at all sure that Jenny would heed the advice. She was impulsive and affectionate, prone to hug everyone she met, and Isabelle could easily imagine her wandering off with anyone, hand in hand, while she faithfully repeated her maxim of “Don’t talk to strangers.” For that reason, she made sure that Irma was always there to pick Jenny up as soon as school was let out, and she never let Jenny play outside their fenced-in yard.
Irma had left grilled tuna and a broccoli-and-rice casserole on the stove for them, and Isabelle dished them up and carried them to the table while Jenny painstakingly set the table. Jenny continued to chatter all through dinner and afterward, until finally Isabelle told her that it was time for a quiet period and sent her off to her room to play by herself for a few minutes.
Isabelle kicked off her shoes and stretched out on the couch. Her head was pounding and had been for some time, she realized. Prudence uncoiled her large, smoky gray body from the mantel where she liked to perch and leapt lightly down. She came over to the couch and rubbed herself against it beneath Isabelle’s head, emitting plaintive meows.
“Hey, kitty,” Isabelle murmured, stroking her hand down the cat’s back. “You’re looking as fat and sassy as ever.”
She closed her eyes, still stroking the cat, reveling in the peace of the moment. She needed it, after a day like this one had been.
Taking this time to herself—turning off Jenny’s incessant chatter and separating herself from the child for a few moments—had been one of the hardest things for Isabelle to learn to do. She had been accustomed since Jenny’s birth to spending all her time caring for her and worrying about her. She felt guilty for spending time away from Jenny when she worked even though Jenny was going to a special school that did wonders for her. When she was at home, she felt it was imperative that she give Jenny her constant undivided attention. There were times when Jenny’s disjointed, repetitive chattering scraped her nerves raw, but she gritted her teeth and listened and responded.
It had been Jenny’s teacher, at a parent’s night, that had taken her aside and advised her to tell Jenny w
hen she had talked enough, when Isabelle needed to be by herself or enjoy a few minutes of quiet.
Isabelle had felt—and looked—a trifle shocked. “But I want her to feel that what she says is important to me. I think I should listen to her.”
“Of course you should. But not all the time. I’ve been watching you tonight, and you’re letting Jenny dominate every moment of your time. That isn’t good for her, Ms. Gray. She needs, just like every other child, to know her limits. She needs structure. You aren’t doing her any favors. It’s pity, not love. Just think about it. If Jenny were a ‘normal’ child, would you allow her to rattle on all the time? I don’t think so. You would teach her manners. You’d know that she needs to learn to let others talk, that she’s not the only person in the world. Jenny needs to learn that, too.”
Isabelle had stared at her, much struck by her words. Then she had thanked her, and ever since that day she had made it a point to now and then stop Jenny’s prattling and to take a few minutes out of her evening to be completely alone.
Prudence jumped up onto the couch and settled onto Isabelle’s stomach, letting out her low, throaty purr. The sound was hypnotic, soothing, and Isabelle felt the knots of tension gradually seeping out of her muscles. She was just drifting into sleep when Jenny came back into the room, dragging one of her dolls by the hair.
“Hi,” she said, plopping down on the couch at Isabelle’s feet. “Whatcha doing?”
Isabelle smiled. Ten or fifteen minutes was usually Jenny’s limit for leaving one alone. “Nothing. Just being lazy.”
She sat up and cuddled Jenny to her side. “Well, what do you say we watch a little TV together? Would you like that?”
“Sure.”
Isabelle picked up the remote control and flicked the television on. Jenny was immediately absorbed, staring at the screen, lips slightly parted. Isabelle bent and kissed the top of her head.
She would get past this Michael Traynor thing with all the ease and grace she could muster, Isabelle promised herself. Nothing, absolutely nothing, was going to be allowed to interfere with the tranquil life she and Jenny had created for themselves.
* * *
Michael Traynor walked over to the window of his hotel room and looked out. The swimming pool lay below amidst short palm trees, emerald-green grass and light-edged walkways. It was a landscaping work of art, but Michael didn’t even notice the view. Instead, he stared rather blankly off into the distance; his mind was on Isabelle.
He had known she was on “Tomorrows.” Truthfully—though he would not have told her that—it was one of the things that had intrigued him when his agent told him Danny Archer wanted him for the show. He had been restless, tired of “Eden Crossing,” the show on which he had been for almost four years, tired even of New York City and the opportunity of doing live theater. The money Archer offered had been a good deal better, and L.A. offered more opportunity for other acting jobs, as well as a change of scenery. Besides, the thought of Isabelle teased at his mind. What was she like now? How would he feel when he saw her?
The memories of their long-ago love had stirred within him. He could not remember ever feeling such passion before or since. It had torn out his heart to leave her. The fact that he was sure he was doing the right thing, the noble thing, hadn’t made the pain any less. There had been many times when he had given in and phoned her, ready to beg her to come to New York and be with him, but, fortunately, he supposed, she had refused to even speak with him.
Michael sighed. Apparently Isabelle still despised him just as much. He thought about the moment when he had first seen Isabelle today, standing there on the soundstage with the others. He had known that he would see her, but the actuality of her stunned him. She was beautiful. Over the years he had come to believe that he had exaggerated her beauty, but now he knew that he had not. If anything, she was even more lovely than he had remembered. Time and experience, he realized as he came closer to her, had given her perfect features a character that they had lacked when she was eighteen. His palms had started to sweat and his heart had begun to pound when Danny Archer guided him across the floor to meet her.
He turned away from the window and flopped down on his bed, linking his hands behind his head. He closed his eyes, remembering the first time he had ever seen Isabelle. Then she had been standing on the stage in Virginia, helping set up a flat of painted scenery for the background. Her black hair had tumbled down her back, and her jean shorts and cropped T-shirt had done little to hide her curvaceous figure. He had known as soon as he saw her that she was trouble: far too gorgeous and far too young. He had been right. She had been only eighteen, and she had the kind of beauty that haunted men. Within a month he was desperately in love with her.
A faint smile touched Michael’s lips as he thought about lying stretched out on his bed in his room with her that summer, naked arms and legs entwined, their perspiration mingling as they kissed and caressed and moaned. He could still remember the thrum of the ancient air-conditioning unit that barely cooled the air as their bodies moved together. He could remember the taste of her skin, warm and damp, smelling sweetly of perfume, the delicious weight of her breasts in his hands, the utter glory of being buried deep within her.
Michael groaned softly and rolled onto his side. Just recalling the moments of making love with her had been enough to arouse him. He wondered if it would still be as heavenly to go to bed with her.
Not that he was likely to get a chance, he reminded himself wryly. Isabelle obviously wished to have nothing to do with him. This morning when Danny introduced him, Isabelle had looked straight through him, her face as cold and remote as an iceberg, and greeted him as if he had been someone she had once barely known. Afterward, in the parking lot, she had told him so straight out, just in case he hadn’t gotten the message. Their love affair had been a long time ago, and she hadn’t even thought of him in years.
Michael grimaced. He didn’t know what he had expected. A woman doesn’t greet you with cries of pleasure when you’ve left them in the past, even if it was with the best of motives. And after ten years, well, it wasn’t very likely that she’d have any feeling about him one way or another. He wasn’t even sure how he had hoped she might react. He wouldn’t have wanted her to have missed and mourned him all these years; after all, one of the main reasons he’d left had been because he knew she was too young to really be sure she was in love. He’d wanted her to be able to grow up, to go to college, to meet a man and fall in love for real, forever, not be stuck with an eighteen-year-old’s infatuation. No, he hadn’t hoped that Isabelle would be sad or holding a grudge.
But he had hoped that she would not dismiss him so coolly or quickly. He had thought that perhaps she would feel the same tingles of excitement he had at seeing her again. There had lurked in him some faint, strange, unreasonable idea that when they saw each other again, sparks would be struck again. That fate might have brought them together to give them another chance.
Michael shrugged and stood up. He was, after all, too old to believe in fate or second chances. He had a job, and it started tomorrow. He better get ready for that. As for Isabelle Gray...well, she wanted to keep him at arm’s length, and that was exactly what he would do. They might work together, but that was all. He’d take care to avoid her the rest of the time.
Still, he couldn’t help but remember her kiss....
Three
Isabelle took the script Tish handed her and quickly perused it to get a sense of her scenes the following week. All around her in the lounge, other actors and actresses were doing the same thing. She sneaked a glance at Ben Ivor. He was running his forefinger down the pages, counting under his breath. She cut her eyes toward Felice McIntyre, sitting beside her. Felice, who played the sweet, perennially martyred Townsend sister, Christine, on the show, put her hand up to stifle a giggle. Ben Ivor’s obsession with the number of lines he was given per week was a running joke between them. He played one of the minor regular characters on the show, t
he resident bartender who also got up now and then to sing on the nightclub’s small stage.
“Fourteen lines!” Ivor exclaimed in disgust. “I can’t believe it. I thought last week was bad enough, but fourteen!” He jumped up, slamming the script shut and started out the door. “I’m going to talk to Karen.”
He stalked out of the lounge to find the head writer of the show. Felice pulled a cigarette out of the pack on the table before her and lit it languidly. “If Karen’s smart, she’ll have left the building already.”
Isabelle chuckled. “I heard that last week she was forced to resort to hiding in the women’s rest room to escape him.”
“I heard. Poor Ben. Since they wrote Selman out, he hasn’t had anyone to compare lines with. He has nothing else to do except harass Karen.”
Felice flipped through the pages. “Oh, God, they’re going on with this hypnosis thing. I can’t imagine what else Christine could possibly dredge up from her past. She’s had every illness and tragedy known to man.”
“There’s incest,” Isabelle pointed out. “They’ve never dropped that on her.”
“Incest? In the saintly Townsend clan? Get real. Besides, they just did the incest thing with Lena last year.”
“That’s right. I’d forgotten. Oh, well, that’s never stopped them yet.” Isabelle thumbed through her pages. “Hey, you and I get into a cat fight on Wednesday.”
“Really?” Felice looked delighted. “What page? Is there any physical stuff? I always like a real knock-down drag-out.”
“Mmm. I slap you, and you turn a bowl of soup over my head.” She made a face. “Great. Why is it that I’m always the one who gets drinks thrown in her face or food dumped in her lap?”
“Because you always have to get your comeuppance in some form, my dear. After all, Jessica always manages to slither out of the consequences for the nasty things she does.”
Once in a Blue Moon Page 3
