She shook her head. “No. No, I’m all right. I just—I just . . .” She didn’t know how to express herself. All she knew for sure was that Martin’s declaration had soothed her shattered nerves like nothing else in the world could have done.
Catching up with him, she put her arm through his. “I love you, Martin.”
He smiled down at her “I love you, too, Christina.”
Eighteen
Several days after the rock debacle, Christina relaxed. She and her grandmother, who was up and about again now that Christina didn’t need her and her cane any longer, sat in the shade of a palm tree oasis, sipped lemonade, and watched Paul Gabriel’s Egyptian army scurry about in their heavy Egyptian-style armor under the blazing Indio sunshine.
“I’m so glad it’s not me out there any longer.”
“You should have told them you wouldn’t do all of that running around in the sun,” Gran declared.
Christina said mildly, “You don’t know what you’re talking about, Gran. This is my job, and I do it.”
“Heh.”
“You’ve never had to work at a real job in your life. Ergo, you have no idea how to keep an employer happy, thereby keeping your job.”
Her grandmother turned and peered at her, her eyebrows drawn into a scowl. Christina gazed back placidly, knowing she was right whether Gran wanted to admit it or not.
The old lady gave up first. “Heh,” she said, and took a gulp of lemonade.
Christina smiled to herself.
Life was back to being pleasant again. She and Martin had talked out the Orozco affair, and Christina was no longer quite as furious as she had been the day it happened. Although they hadn’t made love that night, since both of them were totally exhausted, they’d sat and talked for a long time after dinner. Christina had bathed and changed clothes and even washed her hair after she’d returned to the resort. By this time, nearly a week had gone by since she’d bashed Orozco with the rock, and she was feeling almost human again.
The only black spot in the universe that she could see was—as it had been ever since her arrival in Indio—Pablo Orozco.
After Orozco had whined his way back to the hotel, Dr. Wetherby had been summoned. He’d looked at the wound and declared it superficial, thereby annoying Orozco mightily.
Martin had talked the good doctor into applying a bandage, even though Dr. Wetherby said it would heal faster without one. But Martin knew that Pablo Orozco would be unbearable unless there was some sort of visible acknowledgement of his wounded state.
“The man’s an ass,” the doctor had said at one point.
Tugging at his hair, Martin had said, “I know, but put on a bandage anyway.”
Dr. Wetherby had huffed, but he did as requested.’
The day after the rock incident, Orozco had commissioned one of the resort’s cars and one of the bellboys, and had commanded that he be driven to Indio. He never did tell anyone what he’d done there. Christina suspected he’d seen another doctor, the big sissy.
Today the actor was stalking around, shooting murderous glances at Christina, who refused to acknowledge his presence in any way whatsoever, and muttering to himself. That he was still angry with her, Christina knew and didn’t care. What could he do to her? If he tried anything, she’d just find another rock and hit him again.
The possibility made her grin as she sat on her comfy camp chair and fanned herself with a palm branch fan. Paul Gabriel had given her the fan along with an elaborately decorated box containing dates prepared in various ways.
“You can call these medication, my dear,” he said, handing her the box of dates. “The good folks of Indio package and sell them, and they’re quite tasty. I’m sure they’ll help wipe out the disgusting taste of that awful ham.”
So everyone knew what had happened. They all sympathized with Christina, too, which went some way toward making her feel relatively human again. She popped an almond-stuffed date into her mouth and, after she’d swallowed it, said, “I like dates, Gran.” Her appreciation of them had initially surprised her, since she was tired of Indio, Pablo Orozco, Egyptian Idyll, and everything connected with it. Except Martin.
Her grandmother said, “Heh.”
Christina wasn’t fooled. Gran had already munched down five of the delectable fruits. She seemed to favor the ones coated with coconut.
Poor Martin didn’t get to relax as she did. Christina watched him. In fact, it was hard for her to take her gaze away from him. She supposed that, given enough time together, she’d stop being completely obsessed with him, but she didn’t know it for a fact. He was so perfect in every way. She couldn’t imagine not craving him forever the way she did now.
With a sigh, she sipped more lemonade. “This is so relaxing,” she murmured.
“It’s too blasted hot,” declared Gran, fanning herself vigorously with her own fan.
Paul hadn’t given Gran a palm leaf fan, probably because he feared she’d have hit him with it. “Don’t be daft, Gran. It may be hot, but this is a very enjoyable way to spend one’s day.” She shot her grandmother a cynical glance. “Even if you’ll never admit it.
Mrs. Mayhew said, “Heh!”
Pablo Orozco, his arm still in a cast, and now sporting a white bandage on his forehead as well, stalked into view. Christina ignored him for as long as she could, but finally peered at him since he didn’t seem to be going away. Because she wanted him to know she wouldn’t countenance another assault on her person, she scowled ferociously.
He sneered at her.
Par for the course, Christina thought caustically. Anyone who didn’t succumb to his charms he considered not merely beneath him, but intolerably foolish as well. How nice it must be to have such a supremely exalted opinion of oneself. Nice for the person with the opinion, that was.
After several seconds of standing there glowering at Christina, Orozco lifted his good arm and pointed a finger at her. “You will regret what you did to me.”
Good heavens, the man was nutty. “Not on your life, Pablo.” Christina didn’t bother looking at him any longer, but interested herself in the advance of Pharaoh’s army across the desert in front of her.
“You will,” Orozco declared, raising his voice. “You’ll see.”
“Shut up, you.” Gran snarled at him.
Bother. Now Gran was getting involved again. Before her grandmother could get up and whale away at the actor with her cane, Christina snapped, “Go away, Pablo. You’ll see how sorry you’ll be if you ever lay a finger on me again.” Much less a tongue. Every time Christina remembered the incident, her insides rebelled.
“You’ll see,” Orozco repeated in a voice the Oracle at Delphi might have been proud of.
He marched off, looking very much like a knight of old might have looked after having been given a commendation by his king. Christina gazed after him only long enough to see him go into the resort. Thank God. She hoped he’d stay there for the rest of the day.
Her hope wasn’t fulfilled, but Orozco didn’t bother her again that day. Shortly after he’d declared that Christina would be sorry—for defending herself against him, for Pete’s sake—Christina saw him ride away in a motorcar. It was the car belonging to the Palm Desert Resort, and the person driving was, once more, one of the bellboys.
Glad to see the last of her costar for a while, she turned her attention back to the army scene, serenely sipping lemonade and eating the occasional date. Except for the heat, the day was delightful.
Martin saw the motorcar drive away, saw Pablo Orozco in the back seat, and wondered where he was going and what he was going to do there. This was the second time in a few days the actor had commandeered a car to drive him somewhere. Martin didn’t trust Orozco not to try to make trouble for Christina. Pablo Orozco didn’t take kindly to women who rebuffed his advances.
Shaking his head, Martin told himself not to worry about the star of Egyptian Idyll. They had to get this, the last army scene, finished today if they expected to s
tay on schedule. When the army scene was in the can, the only thing left to do for the picture was film one final scene.
Martin had intended for the very last scene in the picture to be a close-up of Pablo and Christina, madly in love, and secure once and for all from the perils of Pharaoh’s brother’s wrath. Given what had happened a few days ago, he’d changed his mind. They’d do a long shot of Christina and Martin, hand in hand, walking off into the sunset together.
Or something. Martin didn’t really care at this point. He only knew he wasn’t going to put Pablo Orozco and Christina Mayhew within pummeling distance of each other. Casting a quick peek at the oasis where Christina and her grandmother sat, Martin expanded his list of people to keep from one another to include Mrs. Mayhew—from pretty much everyone. Martin cringed at the very thought of Grandmother Mayhew and Pablo Orozco encountering each other.
What an ordeal this picture had turned out to be. Except for Christina. If he hadn’t agreed to direct Egyptian Idyll, he’d never have met her, and his life would still be empty. As it was, he had no idea what was going to become of them as a couple.
Blast it, he didn’t want to think about that now.
“Good work, Paul!” he shouted to Paul Gabriel. “You look splendid in that chariot!” He was also driving it well, thank the good Lord. Paul Gabriel, unlike Pablo Orozco, didn’t resent direction or educational opportunities given by experts. The chariot-driving instructor had only had to spend a half hour with Paul before he caught on beautifully. Too bad Orozco hadn’t been so obliging.
There he went again: thinking about Orozco. Martin scolded himself and called out, “Perfect! Now swing the chariot around and exhort your army onward!”
“Right-ho, Martin!”
Martin smiled with pleasure when Paul did exactly as Martin had directed him
“Perfect!” he yelled. “Great!”
The filming went smoothly—much more smoothly than yesterday’s, mainly because yesterday Orozco had been in several of the scenes. He’d made a fuss every time he’d had to remove his bandage and then behaved like a spoiled brat until the scene was over and the bandage was reapplied. By the time the day’s filming was over, Martin had, been obliged to take some of Christina’s headache powders and lie down for an hour before dinner. He’d sworn to himself and to Christina that he’d never work with Pablo Orozco again if he could help it. She’d given her wholehearted approval to his avowal.
Today the actors were obliging their director. Martin was exceptionally grateful for it, since he didn’t think he’d survive another day like yesterday The weather alone was enough to kill a man.
Because the filming progressed so well, Martin called a halt early so that the cast and crew could go to lunch indoors. He aimed to give them all an extra half hour to recover from their heat prostration before resuming the last of the day’s shoot.
He walked over to Christina’s oasis. Her grandmother was dozing in her chair, and Christina held a finger to her lips to keep him from speaking loudly and waking her up. Martin understood. Life was a lot easier when Mrs. Mayhew wasn’t aware of it.
“I’ll wake her up when we go in for lunch,” Christina whispered.
“That’s why I came over,” Martin whispered back. “I’m breaking early so everyone can have a good rest before the afternoon’s filming.”
“You’re such a nice man, Martin.” Her smile was both beautiful and intimate, and it made Martin lightheaded.
“Don’t make me blush.”
Christina laughed softly. “Are you ready? Shall I wake her up?”
She looked doubtful—for good reason, in Martin’s opinion. He considered the snoozing woman before replying. “I guess you’d better. If we leave her here, she’ll probably lay into all of us with that cane of hers.”
“You’re right, unfortunately.” Gently, Christina shook her grandmother’s shoulder. “Gran. It’s time to go in to lunch.”
The old woman jerked her head up and sat at attention. “What?” Lifting her cane and brandishing it, she said, “What happened? What’s wrong?”
Martin wondered what it must be like to face every awakening as one might face a fierce challenge. He hoped he’d never find out.
Christina patted her shoulder. “Nothing’s wrong. Gran. It’s time for lunch is all.”
Her grandmother blinked and rubbed her eyes. “Must have dozed off.” She shot a defiant glance at Martin. “Unusual, that. I don’t generally sleep during the day.”
Martin saw Christina roll her eyes and barely restrained a grin. “I’m sure of it, Mrs. Mayhew. Would you like to go in to lunch with us?”
“Heh. I’m full of dates.” The old lady scowled. “How can you even think about eating lunch after all those dates, Christina?”
“Easily,” Christina said with a patient smile. “In fact, I’m rather hungry.”
Her grandmother raked her with her bird-of-prey gaze. “You aren’t pregnant, are you, girl?”
“Gran!” Christina blushed crimson.
Martin only shook his head again. “You’re a plainspoken woman, Mrs. Mayhew.”
“Darned right, I am.” Gran looked proud of it.
“You’re a pain in the neck is what you are,” grumbled Christina. “And no, I’m not pregnant.”
Her cheeks still glowed when Martin offered an arm to each lady. He figured he might as well get used to dealing with Mrs. Mayhew, since they were going to be family one of these days. The notion didn’t pain him nearly as much as the notion of being married to Christina thrilled him. He took that as a good sign.
A sensation of serenity and happiness had invaded Christina’s body and mind somewhere between the day of the rock and today’s delicious dates. As she, Martin, and Gran sat down at a table with Paul Gabriel—who still sported his Pharaonic makeup—to eat lunch together, she marveled at how nice it was to have one’s problems solved.
Not that she was absolutely satisfied with the solutions she and Martin had reached, but being his mistress was still better than giving up medical school or Martin. At least they’d still be together. That was the important part. That, and attending medical school, of course. Paul smiled up at the waiter, who looked as if he were in awe of the actor. Most of the employees of the Desert Palm Resort suffered from the same reaction. Christina had noticed a certain dazzled respect directed at her, too. It seemed a silly reaction to her since actors were only people like everyone else, but there was no accounting for the effect perceived fame had on some folks.
“I’ll have the cheese soufflé and a Caesar salad.”
“Very good, sir.” The waiter bowed stiffly.
“That’s an interesting combination, Paul,” Christina commented. She’d chosen to partake of a cold cucumber soup and bread and butter. She guessed she had rather indulged herself with the dates that morning.
“I like salads,” Paul said. “I’m sure they’ll discover lettuce is good for us one of these days.”
Martin laughed. “You’re probably right, but I’ll have the Hamburg steak and potatoes. I’m hungry.”
“That’s because you haven’t been eating dates all day,” Gran said almost pleasantly. She’d ordered a chicken salad.
Christina saw the maitre d’hotel, holding a yellow telegram envelope in his gloved hand, searching the room. “Wonder who he’s looking for,” she muttered.
“Who?” Gran asked. “Who’s looking for whom?”
Christina inclined her head to indicate the maitre ‘d. “Him. Oh, look. He’s walking, toward us. I wonder what’s happened.”
Telegrams were never anticipated with any great pleasure by most people, since they usually brought bad news. Martin glanced up, too.
“Hmm. He’s coming here.” He stood and greeted the maitre ‘d, but sat again without taking the envelope. “It’s for you, Christina.”
“Me?” Startled, she stood and took the envelope being proffered. “Thank you.” The maitre ‘d bowed elegantly, and walked away again. Christina turned t
he yellow envelope over. A creeping, cold sensation began to slither up her spine. She didn’t want to open the envelope.
“What’s in it, Christina?” her grandmother demanded to know.
Christina cleared her throat. “Um, I don’t know yet.”
“Would you like someone else to open it for you?” Paul asked, trying, Christina knew, to be helpful.
“No,” she said, managing a small smile. “Thanks, but I’m fine. I’ll open it.” She still didn’t want to. She appreciated it when Martin, who sat next to her at the table, pressed her knee and smiled at her.
“Whatever it is, we’re all here for you, love.”
Paul made a noise of agreement. Even her grandmother nodded. Christina appreciated them all.
“I don’t know why I’m being so absurd about this.” She ripped open the envelope, hoping with all her heart that nothing had happened to any of her family. She took out the yellow piece of paper contained in the envelope, sucked in a breath as she unfolded it, and read. Her world tipped upside down. She felt herself go numb.
“What is it?” Martin sounded worried.
“Christina, are you all right?” So did Paul.
“Give me that thing.” Gran snatched the telegram out of Christina’s suddenly unfeeling fingers. The old lady’s mouth fell open for a second before she spat out, “Why, those monsters!”
Goggling, Paul gasped, “Good gad, what is it?” As Martin lurched from his chair, went to Christina’s side, and put his arms about her, Paul grabbed the telegram from Mrs. Mayhew. Paul read the telegram and glanced up at Christina.
“What’s this all about?” His face exhibited an interesting combination of anger and befuddlement.
Christina was too shaken to answer. It seemed to her that the only thing holding her in her chair was Martin’s embrace. If he let her go, she feared she’d slide right out of her seat and collapse onto the floor.
“Those fiends! I’ll write my congressman! I’ll write to the President of the United States. First they deny us the vote, and now these—”
Her Leading Man Page 27
