by Janet Dailey
Paula gave an absent nod. “I’ve heard the cost of even a small place is sinfully high.”
Privately Kit hoped they were right, then immediately banished the thought and its overtones of greed.
“That’s Aspen coming up, isn’t it?” Paula asked.
Through the window, Kit watched the town take shape, spilling across the narrow valley of the Roaring Fork River and onto the shoulders of the waiting Rocky Mountains.
Ski runs snaked down the slopes of Aspen Mountain where one hundred years ago black-faced miners trudged wearily home from their shifts in the silver mines. Ultraluxe, ultramodern mansions littered the mountainsides where once mining equipment stood guard over the entrances to the richest silver mines in the nation. Fashionable shops and trendy boutiques lined Durant Street, the former locale of Aspen’s red-light district prior to the turn of the century. Here the rich and celebrated came to play where silver kings, railroad barons, and European royalty once visited.
Its tree-lined streets had known the rattle of horse-drawn streetcars, the rumble of freight wagons, the glitter of fancy carriages, the bleating of flocks of sheep, the tramp of ski-combat troops during the Second World War, the swish of skis, and the purr of Mercedes Benzes.
Kit smiled when she considered the uniqueness of her hometown-from rough mining camp to silver boomtown to near ghost town to world-class resort-a story Hollywood would have called Cinderella Meets King Midas. For once, they would have been accurate.
CHAPTER TWO
A bell chimed twice. John Travis picked up the receiver to the wall-mounted phone and pushed the lighted button, opening the direct line to the cockpit. He listened for a minute, then passed on the message.
“We’ve been cleared to land. The pilot wants us to buckle up.”
Turning from the window, Kit uncurled her legs and searched for her shoes. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Chip Freeman at the bar, bolting down the remaining juice in his glass. A smile ghosted across her mouth as she silently wondered if Chip had found a new source of Dutch courage.
She located her Bally flats and slipped them on while Chip made his way to the leather chair next to Paula’s, his face pinched and white, his gaze fixed on his destination, looking neither to the left nor the right and missing the commiserating smile Kit sent him.
“Poor Chip,” she murmured to John Travis as she felt along the back of the sofa cushion for the other half of her seat belt. “He looks like he needs a tranquilizer. You should have kept him talking about the film until we landed.”
“We’ll be on the ground soon.” He cast an amused, but not unkind, glance Chip’s way. “He’ll make it. He’s a big boy.”
A particularly apt description, Kit thought. Charles “Chip” Freeman looked like an overgrown boy with his cowlicks and thin, gangly frame-something of a cross between the class genius and the class nerd with a little ninety-pound weakling thrown in. But in her estimation, he was more genius than anything else, both creative and intense.
Like her, after years of struggle, Chip was making his first major movie, complete with big-name stars and a fifty-million-dollar budget. The announcement naming him as director had stunned Hollywood. Granted, he’d written a brilliant screenplay in White Lies, incorporating both a compelling storyline and broad commercial appeal. But as a director, he was regarded as too experimental, too outré. True, his last few films had received great critical acclaim, but they’d died at the box office, an unpardonable sin in corporate Hollywood.
As far as Kit was concerned, her future in films couldn’t be in better hands than Chip’s. Of course, she had the advantage on the moneyheads at the studios. She knew his skill firsthand. Seven years ago, she’d worked under his direction in a local-theater production of The Glass Menagerie. The result had been pure drama and pure entertainment. By the end of the show’s run, she’d been playing before sold-out crowds. He was good. With this film, he finally had the chance to prove to his multitude of detractors just how talented he was and receive the recognition he justly deserved. Kit was as happy for him as she was for herself.
A whirring hum vibrated through the cabin as the wing flaps were lowered. Chip blanched at the sound and dug his fingers into the ends of the chair’s padded leather arms. Paula patted the hand nearest her reassuringly and Chip instantly grabbed it and hung on. Unable to free her fingers, Paula glanced at Kit and shook her head at the hopelessness of the man’s terror.
But the action prompted Kit to wonder again at the relationship between Paula and Chip. Sometimes they squabbled like brother and sister; at others, they seemed more like good friends; yet a few times she’d suspected they were lovers. It was odd that she didn’t know. She considered Paula her best friend in Hollywood. For the last three years, they’d worked together on the daytime drama Winds of Destiny.
John Travis leaned closer. “Will you hold my hand?”
“Why? Are you scared, too?” She smiled, knowing better.
“I could be,” he replied, much too drolly.
“And pigs have wings.” But she slid her hand in his just the same. Oddly enough, she was the one who felt reassured by the contact, strengthened by the sense that she wasn’t alone.
At the table, Yvonne Davis shoved the last of her notes into her black crocodile case and clicked it shut. Maury Rose scooped some jelly beans out of the candy dish and settled back in his seat, his short legs barely long enough to let his feet touch the floor. A toupee of nut brown hair, sprinkled with gray to match the rest of his graying hair, covered the crown of his head. As usual, he wore a three-piece suit; he had a penchant for them, preferably made out of a fabric with a shine to it, like sharkskin. But the snug-fitting vest couldn’t conceal that he was some thirty pounds overweight. Instead, it acted as a girdle, straining to hold in his spreading paunch.
“Don’t forget to mark down that reporter from People magazine,” Maury admonished, his rapid speech pattern and faint accent betraying his New York origins. “I don’t want him mistaken for a paparazzo. You got that?”
“He’s already on my press list, Mr. Rose.” The Texas-born publicist peered at him over the top of the flame red frames of her half glasses, a thinly veiled irritation in her voice at his insinuation that she didn’t know her job. “In fact, I believe I arranged for him to come tonight.” But Maury was too thick-skinned for her cloying barb to register. Recognizing that, she turned toward Kit. “How long since you’ve been back to Aspen?” she asked, making an obvious bid to change the subject.
“If you mean for more than a long weekend, it’s been years,” Kit admitted. “I always planned to, but invariably, time, money, or circumstance worked against me.”
“I know what you mean,, honey.” Yvonne nodded. “When I left Houston, I thought I’d be back every year to visit my family in Tomball. And in the last sixteen years, I’ve been back maybe four times. You get so busy with your new life, you just seem to forget about your old one. I hate to think how many friends I’ve lost track of over the years. But it can’t be helped, I guess.” She set her case on the floor next to her chair.
“I guess it can’t.” Kit thought about Angie Martin, her best friend in high school, and felt a similar regret. Once they’d been notorious for their marathon phone conversations. They’d kept in touch off and on after Kit had moved to L.A., but lately it had been more off than on. Angie had attended the funeral for Kit’s father, but they hadn’t had time to exchange more than a few words. This time, this trip, it was going to be different. She and Angie were going to have one of their famous gabfests and harangue about Angie’s horrible ex-husband, maybe even giggle over her new one. Good Lord, what was her last name now that she’d remarried? Kit couldn’t think of it.
“Do you realize, Kit,” Yvonne’s voice broke into her thoughts, “that you are living everybody’s dream-returning to your hometown a big success? Kit Masters, Hollywood’s hottest new star.”
Kit laughed. “That’s very flattering, Yvonne, and very prematur
e. We haven’t even started shooting yet.”
“That may be, but-honey-I’ve read the script and I’ve seen the screen test you did.. You were more than fantastic, Kit Masters.” Tipping her head down, the publicist regarded Kit over the top of her glasses. “That’s no hype either. When this movie hits the theaters. your name will be on everyone’s lips.”
Kit stared, more than a little taken aback by that proclamation. She remembered John’s producer, Nolan Walker, had said something similar after the screen test, but she’d shrugged it off as nothing more than normal enthusiasm for the project itself. She certainly hadn’t taken him seriously.
Looking back, she was surprised that she had never once thought in terms of becoming a star. Acting was something she loved to do–and felt blessed that someone would actually pay her to do it. Success didn’t excite her; playing particular roles did–like the part of Eden in “White Lies.”
She remembered that moment when she had first read the script. She’d been at the studio, taping an episode of the hour-long Winds of Destiny, set in a fictional southern town outside Atlanta, Georgia, a place Kit had laughingly called a mix between Peyton Place, Twin Peaks, and Mandingo.
With another scene down and only one more to do before she was through for the day, Kit moved off the pillared gallery of the Great Oaks plantation set, past the pots of fake shrubbery to the floor of the soundstage. She carefully stepped over the cables in her path and headed for the exit, her thick blond hair turned into a smooth, simple style that suited the quiet, genteel character she portrayed. A layer of makeup concealed the sprinkling of freckles across her nose and gave her complexion that pate, dewy soft look of a Southern woman.
As she passed the set for the Riverside Restaurant, the new center of all the clatter and confusion on the soundstage, one of the gaffers gave her a thumbs-up sign. “You looked great, Kit.”
“Thanks.” She flashed a smile.
“You need to talk to those writers, though, about giving you some backbone.”
“Now, what would a little ole Southern girl like me need with that ole thing,” she declared in her best simpering voice and continued on her way, sailing out the stage door.
She managed to ignore the temptations of the caterer’s table and entered the maze of corridors beyond. Minutes later, Kit breezed into the dressing room she shared with Paula Grant. With few exceptions, shared dressing rooms were a common practice for most daytime-drama productions.
“You’re up next,” Kit announced and immediately stepped out of the high heels, kicking them out of the way. “Time to do your next dastardly deed.”
“What fun,” Paula drawled, lounging in the room’s sole armchair, her script open on her lap.
Kit peeled off her character’s requisite gloves and longed to shed the rest of her costume as well, but she had to wear it in her next scene. She dropped the gloves on the tweed sofa and began picking through the pile of clothes scattered over the back of it.
“Have you seen my smock?”
“On the floor behind the couch,” Paula replied. “Don’t you ever hang anything up, Kit?”
“Not often,” she admitted, donning the sprigged cotton dress. “A fingering rebellion from being raised by a fastidious mother. The original neat freak. Everything was always put back in its proper place. Our floors were so clean you could literally eat off them.” When Paula raised a skeptical eyebrow, Kit asserted, “I’m serious. She used a toothbrush to scrub around the floorboards. She even used to iron Dad’s shorts. Which is probably why he switched to briefs.” She walked over to their tiny, apartment-sized refrigerator for some apple juice and spotted the script on top of it. “What’s this?”
“A screenplay Chip wrote.”
“White Lies,” Kit read the title. “This is the one John Travis bought, isn’t it?”
Paula made an affirmative sound and rose from the chair to cross to the vanity mirror and check her makeup.
“Have you read it?”
“Yes.” Paula fluffed her fiery auburn hair with the tips of her fingers. “There’s absolutely nothing in there for me. What’s the point of getting involved with a director who’s a writer if he never writes a part for me in his scripts?”
“You like him, that’s why.” Kit smiled at that much-too-cynical remark.
“That has nothing to do with it.” She surveyed her reflection. “This hair is a curse. In this town, a redhead is allowed to play either a hooker or a bitch. Do you know I have actually been to auditions, sat and waited my turn, watching brunettes and blondes go in to read. I walk in and the casting director stares for a full second, then accuses, ‘My God, you’re a redhead,’ as if that automatically disqualified me for the part. I’ll bet they never looked at a brunette and said ‘My God, you’re a brunette.’” Paula leaned closer to the mirror and checked her teeth for lipstick smudges. Satisfied, she straightened. “I’m off.”
“Do you mind if I read this?” Kit held up the script.
“Be Chip’s guest.” Paula waved a hand in permission and crossed to the door.
Alone, Kit settled into the armchair Paula had vacated, and opened the script. Within the first few pages it was obvious the female lead, Eden Fox, was a scheming blonde who had married a much older man for his money and position, then killed him to have them for herself. A few pages farther, Kit wasn’t so sure. Another ten pages and she was completely captivated by this complex and fascinating character.
“She didn’t do it,” Kit murmured in astonishment, the closed script in her lap. “This isn’t some jazzed-up rewrite of Witness for the Prosecution, Body Heat, or Black Widow.”
She threw back her head and laughed at how thoroughly she’d been fooled. Why? Because the character of Eden was so believable, so full of contradictions. Paula walked into the dressing room and Kit bounded to her feet, excited by the story, the characters, everything.
“Why didn’t you tell me how fabulous this is? My God, Paula, this script is gold. And Eden-she’s far from being an angel, but she’s not all bad either.” She stopped, spinning in a circle. “God, I’d love to play this part. I’d kill for it.”
Paula threw her a sideways look as she unfastened the rhinestone buttons on the cobalt blue cocktail dress she wore. “I always knew killing and loving could be very close together sometimes.”
“Who’s playing Eden? No-don’t tell me.” Kit waved off the question with her hand. “I don’t want to know. It’ll just make it worse knowing I can’t have it.”
“They haven’t cast anyone in the part yet.”
“They haven’t! Are they still holding auditions?”
“The last I heard they were.”
Kit didn’t wait to hear more. She raced out of the dressing room and flew down the hall to the telephone. “Maury, you’ve got to get me an audition for the role of Eden in John Travis’s new film White Lies,” she rushed the minute he came on the line.
“Who’s the casting director?”
“I don’t know. I forgot to ask Paula.”
“Travis, you say. It won’t be hard to find out.” He paused a moment. “That’s moving into the big leagues, Kit.”
“I’m going to get this part, Maury.”
“Sure you are, Kit,” he agreed absently. “If I’m not mistaken, Travis has a film deal with Olympic Pictures, Lassiter’s company. He’s throwing a big party, I heard. If I can get you an audition, I’ll see if I can wangle an invitation to the party as well. You gotta work all the angles, Kit. Charm. Flirt. Whatever it takes.”
“Just get me an audition and I’ll take it from there.” She hung up, still hugging the script.
Barley two weeks later the contract was signed. The role of Eden Fox was hers. She was still thrilled over that. But the prospect of stardom? That was something else entirely.
The grinding whine of the jet’s hydraulics signaled the lowering of the landing gear. A second later Kit felt the sudden drag on the plane, reducing its speed. Chip Freeman sucked in a breath
and squeezed his eyes shut. Within minutes, the wheels skipped, then rolled onto the runway at Sardy Field, west of Aspen.
“I think it’s safe to let go of my hand now, Chip,” Paula murmured dryly. “We’re on the ground.”
“Right. Sorry.” He released it and dragged in his first easy breath as the plane taxied off the runway toward flight-base operations. “God, I hate flying,” he said to no one in particular.
“You’re kidding.” Paula gave him a deadpan look.
“Paula,” Kit chided, biting back a smile.
“It wasn’t your hand. Look, he snapped off a nail.” She examined the damage. “Now I’ll need a manicure before the party tonight.”
“No problem.” Maury inserted. “I’ve arranged for a hairdresser and manicurist to be at John’s place at six to help Kit get ready for tonight’s bash. When they’re through with her, you can have the girl fix your nail.”
“You never said anything to me about this, Maury,” Kit began. “I don’t need-”
“Yes, you do. You’re my star.” He beamed at her, a warmth softening the usual shrewd look of his face, “I want you to look like a million dollars tonight-even if Travis refused to let his production company pay you that much,” he added, sending a sly look at the man beside her.
John Travis coolly returned it. He didn’t think much of Maury as an agent. He never had and he never tried to hide it. “We both know she isn’t in a position to command that high a price.”
Maury quickly qualified that by saying, “Yet.”
“It’s crass to talk about money.” Chip was out of his seat the instant the plane came to a stop.
“If you think the movie business is about art, you’d better wise up, kid,” Maury warned.
Chip swung back to face him. “You’re right, Rose. You’re dead right. For most of you, it’s all about greed, grosses, and glory. But for some of us, it’s still about the film. And without us, you’d be up shit creek.”
