The Spiral Path

by Mary Jo Putney

  The consequences were higher for him, and they both knew it. Even if he made it through the evening without disgracing himself, this might be the last performance he ever gave. Acting had sustained him for years, but he was no longer the same man. Luckily, he could get through tonight's performance with skill, even if passion was missing. Dame Judith and the people who paid their hard-earned money for tickets deserved at least a competent performance.

  None of his rationalizations prevented his muscles from knotting.

  Rainey sat up and swung over to straddle his lap, her long skirt pooling around her. Cupping his face between her hands, she said, "I have a really good idea for dealing with opening night jitters." In case he didn't get the idea, she wriggled against him.

  He had to laugh. Catching her around the hips, he asked, "Are you sure this is good for you?"

  She leaned forward and kissed him, her lips warm. "I really do like your beard. It's so lovely and male. As to your question, one of the books on pregnancy I read said that basically, there are two kinds of people when it comes to sex during pregnancy: those who like sex more, and those who like it less. I've figured out that I'm the former type. How about you?"

  "I certainly find you sexy." He slid his hands under her skirt, caressing her thighs. "Good grief, when did you abandon your underwear?"

  "Advance planning." She kissed him again. doing interesting things with her tongue. "I figure we have half an hour before we need to shower and do costumes and makeup."

  "Less if we shower together." He began moving against her.

  "Excellent improvisation," she murmured.

  Rainey was right. This was a terrific way to deal with opening night jitters.

  There was an absolute aloneness before stepping on stage. Kenzie waited in the wings, and wished he'd had the sense to refuse Rainey's pleas. If he wasn't so close to being physically ill, he might have walked out of the theater.

  Onstage, Rainey as Beatrice, Dame Judith in a false beard as Leonato, young Hero, and a Messenger were tossing the opening lines back and forth. Dame Judith was marvelous, of course, her trained voice pitched to a convincing tenor.

  Rainey, a consummate pro, gave her opening line perfectly, her question about Benedick's survival betraying how much she cared for him even though their prior affair had come to nothing. Flanked by experts, Hero gulped, and spoke well.

  Then it was time for Kenzie to enter with the Prince of Arragon and three of the other main male players. As he stepped out, he felt the pressure of all those eyes staring from the darkness. Dame Judith had announced to the audience before the performance that food poisoning had required numerous substitutions. She hadn't mentioned any names, promising to introduce her performers at the end of the play.

  The audience began murmuring, and he saw people looking from him to Rainey and back again. A piercing whisper said, "It's Raine Marlowe and Kenzie Scott!"

  The murmuring intensified, completely paralyzing poor Don Pedro. Under his breath, Kenzie prompted, "'Good Signor Leonato, you are come to meet your trouble: The fashion of the world is to avoid cost, and you encounter it.'"

  After a panicky glance at Kenzie, the prince managed to croak out his line. Leonato responded, and suddenly the play began to fall into place.

  Kenzie had always loved Benedick, who hid his feelings behind banter, and the role fit like a well-worn glove. Rainey tossed her first teasing dart at Benedick, Beatrice doing a preemptive strike. At the same time she was his wife, who'd had as much trouble trusting as the character she played.

  As the play unfolded, slow joy began to move through him. He'd forgotten the electric intensity of a live performance, the excitement of being fueled by the emotions of the people who watched so raptly. What actors and audience created tonight would never be repeated in quite the same way. This night was unique and intimate, immediate in a way that film could never match.

  Inspired by Kenzie, Rainey, and Dame Judith, the rest of the cast members surpassed themselves. Kenzie wanted to laugh out loud at the sheer pleasure of performing. This was what he'd been born for, but had forgotten amidst the pressures of Hollywood fame, the unnatural stop-and-go nature of filming.

  Beatrice, like Rainey, must be won by a man who was her match. At the end, when Benedick had accepted his fate and proclaimed, "Strike up, pipers," Kenzie caught Rainey around the waist and swept her high in the air, holding her over his head like a dancer. Time slowed while he revolved in a circle, looking up into Rainey's laughing face as her gauzy skirts floated around her slender figure. "Thanks for making me do this, Rainbow," he whispered.

  As thunderous applause threatened to blow the windows from the playhouse, she gave a smile more intimate than a kiss. "You're welcome, my love."

  There was no exhilaration quite like that of taking bows in front of an audience giving a standing ovation. The clamor was beginning to subside when Kenzie stepped forward and raised one hand for silence.

  When the crowd quieted, he said in his most resonant voice, "Thank you for being here tonight, and reminding me why I became an actor." He caught Dame Judith's hand and pulled her forward. "Thanks also to Dame Judith, one of the grandest ladies the British theater has ever known, who took a chance on bringing in two Hollywood hacks for tonight's performance."

  As the audience rumbled with laughter, he drew Rainey forward. Her apricot hair was trailing wisps and her cheeks were flushed with exertion. "Most of all, I want to give thanks to Raine Marlowe. My wife, now and forever." He bowed and kissed her hand. His gesture brought down the house again.

  Charles Winfield would have been proud of him.

  * * *

  EPILOGUE

  Rainey shifted restlessly in the backseat of the limousine. It had been weeks since she'd been able to get comfortable anywhere, and tonight she was as twitchy as a bored two-year-old.

  "Are you sure you're up to this?" Kenzie gave her the worried glance of a man about to become a first-time father. She rather missed the beard, but he did look gorgeous in a tuxedo.

  "Pass up the Academy Awards ceremony when my movie is up for nine Oscars?" she said with a grin. "This is never going to happen again." She glanced down at her flowing black evening gown, trimmed with black sequins and designed to take advantage of her cleavage, which was pretty impressive at the moment. "No way will I miss it even if I do look like a high-fashion version of the Goodyear blimp."

  He took her hand. "You look beautiful." A charming lie, since it had taken massive efforts to get Rainey up to looks - pretty - good - for - a - woman - in - her - ninth - month.

  She relaxed into the leather upholstery, thinking about the amazing months since The Centurion had opened. The gods had smiled, and the movie became a critical and popular hit. Reviewers raved about the wrenching, nuanced portrayal of trauma and healing, the luminous cinematography, and what a wonderful alternative the film was to the holiday crop of high-tech, big-budget thrillers.

  Success had been sweet, especially when viewed from the safe distance of New Mexico, where it was easier to keep a sense of perspective. They'd decided that Cibola would be their primary home, though they kept the Broad Beach house for when they needed to be in L.A. Rainey sold her canyon home to Emmy Herman and her husband. With their baby boy, they needed more space.

  Over the winter, she and Kenzie had worked out a map for the future. The ground rules were spending at least ninety-five percent of their time together, and doing only work they truly loved. Their new production company had several projects in different stages of development, and working together was an unending source of pleasure.

  Dame Judith Hawick was going to direct a West End revival of Wilde's The Ideal Husband, and Kenzie had agreed to play the lead with Rainey as the blackmailing Mrs. Chevely. They'd bought a handsome West End town house, since in the future they would be spending more time in England.

  Even better than their creative partnership was their personal life. Playing Benedick in Santa Fe had been a catalyst for Kenzie, and
ever since then he'd been his best and happiest possible self. Their relationship had reached levels of intimacy and trust Rainey had never dreamed possible, since trust had never been her strong point.

  Rainey's grandparents were happy, too. Though they refused her offer to fly them out for the Academy Awards, they'd promised to come when the baby was born. Virginia sounded downright giddy at the prospect of a great-grandchild.

  The limo halted, and it was their turn to step onto the red carpet. Kenzie helped Rainey out as the crowd roared with excitement. "You're Hollywood's darling," he said quietly. "The woman who fought to bring her vision to life, and succeeded beyond anyone's wildest dreams. It's the recipe for winning a tribe of Oscars."

  "The nominations are a mark of respect, but we're not going to win many of them," she said pragmatically. "Note that I'm a woman who fought to bring her vision to life. It's males who actually get declared winners when they do the same."

  "Good box office creates jobs, and the rank-and-file crafts-people who make up a large part of the academy love you for that." He tucked her hand in the crook of his arm and they proceeded into the huge theater, collecting hugs all the way.

  Their aisle seats were in front of Marcus and Naomi, both of whom were beaming. She and Marcus were cautiously developing a new kind of relationship. Though it was never referred to openly, the knowledge was a warm bond between them.

  Across the aisle Greg Marino sat with Val, who had flown out to California to be his date and keep him from going nuts as he waited to learn if he'd won the Oscar for best cinematography. Val looked fabulous in what appeared to be a vintage flapper dress that sparkled with black jet bugle beads and set her red hair off splendidly.

  As the ceremony began, Rainey found that under her excitement was a curious sense of peace. The time she'd been up for the Best Supporting Actress Oscar, she'd wanted desperately to prove to the ghost of Clementine that it was possible to be talented and successful without self-destructing. Tonight, she had nothing to prove.

  Which didn't mean that she didn't want to win, of course. She clamped her teeth tight when Sharif didn't win for Best Supporting Actor. He deserved it, dammit! He gave her a philosophical glance from his seat. He might not have an Oscar, but his role had put him on the cover of People magazine, and brought piles of scripts to his door.

  She shrieked when the composer of the Centurion music won for best score, sighed when her art director didn't win. Then it was time for cinematography. The presenter opened the envelope. "And the Oscar for Cinematography goes to--Gregory Marino, for The Centurion!"

  Ponytail flying, Greg leaped into the aisle and strode up to the stage wearing a smile that threatened to split his face in half. The Centurion gang howled their support. He gave the usual thanks, ending with, "Most of all, I want to thank Raine Marlowe, a terrific director who knows when to let her DP have his head." Amidst laughter, he left the stage to be photographed and interviewed in the press room.

  Then it was time for the adapted screenplay award, for which Rainey had been nominated. Her fingers locked around Kenzie's hand like claws, though she kept her face carefully impassive. It wouldn't do to look disappointed on camera.

  When her name was announced, for a moment she was so stunned that she almost didn't believe it. But Kenzie stood and helped her from her seat, beaming as he hugged her. "Way to go, TLC! You earned this one fair and square."

  With his firm hand holding hers, she climbed the wide steps to the stage, wondering dizzily how many hundreds of millions of people worldwide were watching her waddle to the podium. Her mind blanked on the remarks she'd prepared, so she kissed the Oscar and said, "Actresses work hard to be beautiful, but what they truly love is being appreciated for their brains!"

  As the audience roared, she thanked the Gordons and gave credit to George Sherbourne for writing a novel whose deeply human story still resonated in the twenty-first century. She moved through the press room as quickly as possible, wanting to get back to the audience to watch the other awards.

  Rainey felt only a pang when she didn't win for best actress. She had her Oscar, and no matter what happened in the future, when the time came her obituary would read "Academy Award--winner Raine Marlowe..."

  But she truly, desperately wanted Kenzie to win for best actor. He deserved it hands down. Seeing her expression, he said quietly. "It's okay if I don't win, Rainey, and I probably won't. It's not exactly a heroic role."

  "Which is exactly why you should win!" she said fiercely. "How many actors would be willing to bare their souls the way you did?"

  He just smiled, but the hand clasping hers was cold. The list of finalists and clips was interminable. Finally the presenter, the glamorous winner of the previous year's best actress award, opened the envelope and blinked near-sightedly at the slip inside. "The Academy Award for best actor goes to ... to ... Kenzie Scott for The Centurion!"

  Rainey shrieked as she hugged him, but Kenzie was coolly composed as he squeezed her hand, then rose and headed to the stage. He was a popular choice, and the applause was slow to die down. His gaze went across the audience, and Rainey knew that a billion people across the world would think he was looking right at them.

  When there was silence, he said reflectively, "Truly great roles don't come along very often, but John Randall is one of them. The Centurion is a story of survival and growth, second chances and redemption. Too many people have helped along the way to mention them all, but I must give special thanks to the memory of Charles Winfield, my mentor and my friend."

  He mentioned some other names before his gaze went to Rainey. "Most of all, I must thank my wife, Raine Marlowe, who bullied me into taking this part"--laughter--"and in doing so, gave me the most profound experience of my life, and a second chance." His voice became intimate, as if they were alone together. "I love you, Rainey." He raised the Oscar to her in a salute.

  Even knowing that a billion people would see her crying on camera, she couldn't control her tears. Damned hormones.

  When he returned to his seat, she put her arms around him and rested her head on his shoulder. She felt equal parts sick, exhausted, and happy, but having Kenzie's arm around her was so comfortable that she half-dozed despite the strange, wired excitement that pulsed through her.

  Then she heard her name. "Raine Marlowe, for The Centurion!"

  Her head shot up and she stared at Kenzie, stunned.

  "You're not dreaming--you've just won the Oscar for best director." He helped her rise, offering an intimate smile. "I am so proud of you, love."

  He escorted her to the stairs and was going to retreat, but she hung onto his arm. "Come with me! I may freak out and need help."

  He climbed the wide steps with her, staying out of camera range when she went to the podium. In contrast to her exhilaration when she won for adapted screenplay, Rainey found that this time she was eerily calm.

  "This is going to be a really tough act to follow with my second movie," she quipped. "Making a movie is a job of incredible complexity that requires immense hard work by an army of dedicated people. When everything comes together, the result is magic. If I listed the names of everyone who worked to make The Centurion what it was, the Academy cops would come and haul me off the stage.

  "But I must mention my friend Val Covington, who told me I could do this when I didn't believe I could. This rates the world's biggest hot fudge sundae, Val." She smiled toward her beaming friend. "Thanks also to Marcus and Naomi Gordon, the producers who took a chance on an untried director because they love this business as much as I do. And most of all, to Kenzie Scott, a great actor, and an even better husband."

  Would it be just too corny to say how much she loved him? Before she could make up her mind, a fiercely painful contraction swept through her. Dear God, it hadn't been just excitement making her feel so strange! Dizzily she grabbed the podium as the Oscar dropped to the stage and bounced. "I think I'm going into labor," she gasped, "but I'd never write a scene like this. It's such a cl
iche!"

  "You can do the rewrite later." It was Kenzie's voice, Kenzie's arms sweeping her off her feet. She clung to him as he carried her from the stage past startled, excited faces. She knew from all the pregnancy books she'd read that some women did go into labor this fast, but why her, and why now?

  Because there was a God, and She had a wicked sense of humor.

  The Academy had an ambulance standing by just for her. Refusing assistance, Kenzie carried her into the vehicle and gently laid her on the bed inside. "Don't worry, TLC, this baby is a born performer, and will play its part flawlessly." He knelt beside her as the ambulance began to move. "'All the world's a stage...'"

  She smiled, then crushed his hand as another contraction ripped through her.

  What could be better than going forth with Shakespeare?

  Even though he was wrung out as if he'd run a marathon, Kenzie couldn't take his eyes off Rainey and their brand-new, redheaded daughter. "Not only did we get the best prize of all, but your timing gave us a perfect excuse to skip all the post-Oscar parties."

  Rainey chuckled. She was tired and there was smudged makeup around her eyes, but she looked beautiful and vastly content, her apricot hair tumbling over the white hospital linens. "There's no way I could have managed the parties, but I'm kind of sorry I missed seeing Marcus and Naomi accept our Oscar for best picture of the year."

  "We can watch it later on videotape." He hesitated. "Is it all right if I hold her?"

  "Of course. She's half yours." Carefully Rainey handed over the baby.

  Terrified that he'd break her, he cradled the infant in one arm, studying the tiny hands and dozing red face with awe. His daughter. His daughter.

  She opened her eyes and blinked at him. His heart somersaulted. He had not known that such instant, profound, unconditional love existed. He was still terrified, but dimly he recognized that terror was a normal condition of parenthood.