The Cherry Pages

by Gary Ruffin

  “Oh, no. Please don’t tell me you’re like every other actor on the planet. You feel the need to direct.”

  “Nope.”

  She thought for a second, and then said, “Oh, right. Silly me. Control freak. You want to produce.”

  “Nope.”

  “Well, what then?”

  “Craft service.”

  She rolled her eyes, and said, “That will never do. You’d devour all the profit.”

  “Hmmm. Never thought of that. Oh well. I guess I’ll have to give up show business after all.”

  Cherry watched as I sat on my suitcase again and continued the fight to close it. It was nice that the mood was light, and it made us both feel better. We talked as if all of the bad stuff had never happened.

  Cherry said at one point, “I have a couple of confessions to make, Cooper.”

  “Oh, no. Don’t tell me you were born a man. Oliver.”

  “Not hardly. But I’m afraid I did mislead you in some matters.”

  “Do tell.”

  “Well, remember at the beach? When Penny and I were wrestling and playing in the ocean?”

  Remember? Do I remember when Cherry and Penny were wrestling and playing in the ocean? That little show was forever burned in my memory, on my brain, and on both of my retinas. For all time, throughout all eternity, till death do I part. I said, “Uh, yeah, I vaguely recall somethin’ about you and Penny wrestling in the ocean.”

  “Do you recall that the top of my bikini came off, and that I was half naked to the world?”

  “Let’s see. You say your bikini top came off? Hmmm. Wait. It’s coming back to me now. Yes, I recall that. Bikini top. Off. Half naked.”

  “I’m glad you remember,” she said. “My first confession is this: I took the bikini top off on purpose.”

  Gulp. “You did not.”

  “Yes, I did. It was a brazen attempt to get your attention.”

  “Well, it definitely worked, you brazen-attempting hussy. You got my attention, all right. You also got my undying appreciation and devotion.”

  That got a good laugh, and she said, “Right. It worked, then. Good to know. One more confession, and I can let you go with a reasonably clear conscience.”

  “Okay, shoot.”

  “Remember again. At Neal’s? When I called Sally and asked her to get you a seat on the studio plane?”

  “Yeah …”

  “Now, don’t get cross with me, Cooper. Promise?”

  “Promise.”

  “The phone call I made to Sally was an exercise in deception. It was a case of me using my acting skills to good advantage. I actually instructed her to get you on the plane tonight, so I could try one last time to woo you, and charm you with my ways.” She fluttered her eyelashes like a floozy and continued, “Sally protested strongly, but went along after I begged and pleaded. Furthermore, it was I who requested that she reserve the restaurant, not the studio. I wanted you all to myself. Yes, I know, it was selfish of me. But, all that aside, think about this: did you really believe that Sally Allen would be unable to get you—or anyone else, for that matter—a seat on the studio plane within an hour or two? Sally could get any thing, any time, for any one.”

  I had to smile at my naïveté. “My word, Miss Page. You’re incorrigible.”

  “I know.”

  At that moment I was struck by exactly how much I was going to miss Cherry Page. A lot more than I had any real reason to, in fact. I once had a similar feeling as a teenager: when I was fifteen, I went with a national youth organization to Colorado over the Christmas holidays on a four-day skiing junket. I won the trip by having bought the winning ticket in a church raffle; otherwise, I wouldn’t have been able to go. While in Colorado, I had a classic whirlwind teen romance with an older woman; a pretty sixteen-year-old babe from Indiana named Vicky, who was there with her group. It was an innocent affair by today’s standards, but I was completely nuts about her. We spent our days avoiding the slopes, since neither us could ski, and spent our nights by the big fireplace in the great room.

  Anyway, when we both returned to our homes after four days in teen heaven, the romance naturally came to a crashing halt, and I was devastated. I missed Vicky in a way that was way over the top, especially since we had barely spent any time together. I missed not having her as if I actually had had her, so to speak, and it was crazy. That’s the way I was suddenly feeling about Cherry: already missing her as if we had been in an actual romance together. Stupid, but there it was.

  Naturally, after I’d been home for a while after my fling with Vicky, I forgot all about her; she became just another sweet memory. I knew it would be that way with Cherry, too, but I was feeling that twinge of genuine sadness yet again at that moment.

  While I had been thinking about Vicky, I had also been stuffing my suitcase, avoiding talking for the time being. With a mighty thrust, punctuated by a final loud grunt, I finally got it to close. As usual, there were a couple of shirts and some socks that wouldn’t fit inside, so I stuck them in a plastic bag I had kept for just that purpose.

  Cherry jumped up from the sofa, grabbed the bag, and ran into the bedroom. “These are staying with me,” she called out. “I must have something to remember you by.”

  She didn’t know it, but she had something else coming to remember me by: the set of teacups and saucers with the cherries on them. The last favor I had asked Sally for was about the rugby jersey and the single cup and saucer Daphne had put aside for me at the British store. Sally assured me she would mail me the jersey, purchase the complete cherry teacup set from Daphne, surprise Cherry with it tomorrow, and send me the bill. Sally also promised to give Daphne an autographed picture of Cherry, plus a personal item as well. The teacups would be a nice surprise for Cherry, and would guarantee she would remember me fondly. Besides, I could afford it, now that I was a half millionaire. Before taxes, anyway.

  While Cherry was out of the room, I placed my suitcases on the luggage cart, and answered the phone when it rang. The limo was downstairs waiting to take me to the studio jet, so I had only one last moment to reflect.

  After the incredible ups and downs of the past week, it all came down to this: me and Cherry were both going back to our normal, everyday lives. Okay, so Cherry’s life isn’t normal or everyday, but the more I thought about it, the more my boring life in Gulf Front looked pretty damn good. In fact, I realized that I couldn’t wait to get home and pick up my dog from Adam, see all my friends, and get back to a routine that didn’t include daily danger. Most of all, I wanted to get my hands on the acting chief of police in Gulf Front, one Penny Prevost. I also wanted another bottle of champagne, the crushed-velvet bedspread, a sand dune, and a bunch of stars overhead. Another beach bash like the one we had a few nights ago, and who knows what might happen?

  I mean, everybody’s always telling me how I should marry Penny, and I’m sure that once they find out I’m a wealthy man, the voices will only get louder. I’ll have to come up with a dozen new reasons to explain why I will remain unmarried, and express them quickly and continuously. That being said, nuptials are certainly not off the table of discussion in private. The problem is, I’m still not convinced that I’m marriage material.

  I pushed the luggage cart over by the door, and walked back and sat on the sofa arm, now truly ready to go. When Cherry came out from the bedroom, she looked me in the eye, and seeing that our time together was finished, came over and took my hand. She squeezed it gently, then slowly led me to the door, and opened it wide.

  I said, “Is there anything you need before I go, boss lady?”

  “No thank you, sir.” She looked at the floor, then back at me, and said, “For the last few hours, I’ve been trying to think of some clever way to express my feelings, some word or words that would bring our little tale to a proper end. I suppose if we were in one of my films, this would be the final scene where I would say, ‘I only need you.’ But this script has a different ending.” She paused for a moment, an
d then said, “Lord, that was a corny thing to say, was it not?”

  “No, it was a very sweet thing to say. And if the circumstances were different—well, I wish I had something unforgettable to say too, but I guess dialogue isn’t my strong suit.”

  Then in one very last attempt at a British accent, I said, “I will say this, though, Cherry Page: I shan’t forget you.”

  Cherry’s eyes misted a little, and she said softly, “Oh, but you shan.”

  “Shan’t,” I said, willing my eyes to stay dry.

  Cherry smiled, leaned in, and whispered, “Shan.”

  And with that last dumb joke, we hugged and gently touched lips in a final kiss between friends.