Stormy Vows/Tempest at Sea

by Iris Johansen

  “Stanislavski? Method acting?” she asked dazedly.

  “Precisely. I forgot for a moment that you are a protégée of Wilkes'. You're aware that method acting endorses using your own emotions and experiences as the basis for your performance. Angie Linden is a woman who has lived life to the fullest, despite her youth. She's had lovers by the score, and has suffered disillusionment and cruelty.” His eyes lingered on her face. “You look as if you still have the morning dew on you, Miss Sloan,” he said. “Angie Linden is definitely midnight lace and French perfume.”

  Brenna could feel a slow anger beginning to build. “Let me understand you, Mr. Donovan,” she said carefully. “It's not because I'm not a good enough actress to play the part. You're refusing to give me the role because I don't have a torrid past to draw on for Angie's character?”

  His vivid blue eyes were curiously watchful. “That's quite right,” he said silkily. “I'm sure you would do very well in ingenue or Juliet roles, Miss Sloan.”

  “That's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard in my life,” she said flatly, ignoring Hernandez’ hastily drawn breath at her insolence. Her anger had leaped to full blaze, and the usual limpid brown eyes were sparkling with feeling. In just a few minutes, she had been moved from hope to bewilderment to disappointment by this arrogant dictator, and now he was denying her a chance that might mean her whole future… and denying it on the flimsiest pretext imaginable!

  “You think so?” Donovan asked idly, his eyes still observing her as if she were an interesting new specimen at the zoo. “I take it you don't agree with Stanislavski, Miss Sloan?”

  “An actress can work with any number of tools that help her perfect a characterization. Theories, like method acting and sense memory, are just that—tools. But they are far from the only tools, if you're to be any good at all. A creative imagination, sensitivity, and just plain hard work are much more important. To subscribe so fanatically to one aspect of a complex whole is utterly absurd.” She tossed her hair back from her face, and said emphatically, “To deny me the part because you think I lack sex appeal is totally and completely asinine.”

  Donovan's eyes were amused as they moved over her lazily, causing a flood of heat to envelope her body. “I never said you lacked sex appeal. Merely experience.” Blue devils gleamed in his eyes as he continued softly. “A lack that I would be more than happy to supply.”

  She could feel the blood rush to her face in a burning blush that was due as much to anger as embarrassment. The knowledge that he was toying with her increased her rage. Donovan's affairs were legion. He was reputedly as sexually active as a tomcat, and with some of the most sophisticated and beautiful women in the world, if the gossip columns were correct. The possibility that he would find a twenty-year-old “ingenue-type” attractive was ludicrous. No, he was merely revenging himself for the insults she had hurled at him by teasing her as a cat would a mouse.

  “I don't deserve that,” she said quietly, lifting her chin defiantly. “I know you're annoyed with me, but don't descend to that sexist casting couch routine to put me in my place, Mr. Donovan. I have a valid argument and I'm sorry you're too blind and pigheaded to appreciate it.” She turned and stalked majestically off the stage, leaving the two men staring after her. She paused at the door, and turned to meet Donovan's narrowed eyes. “You're wrong, Michael Donovan,” she said with serene conviction. “I could have made something very special out of Angie Linden.” Her mouth twisted wryly. “And if my memory serves, Juliet was a very sexy lady,” she said softly. “So you're wrong there, too.” She strode from the theater.

  two

  A WHITE CORE OF ANGER BURNED LIKE A piece of molten steel in Brenna as she went through the motions of driving home, picking up Randy from Vivian's, and taking him back to their apartment. Once home, Brenna put Randy down for his afternoon nap. She scrupulously removed all the toys from his bed, knowing that if there was even one distraction, Randy would find it and refuse to go to sleep. She ignored his pleading eyes, turned him over on his stomach, tucked his blanket around him and, patted his round bottom. “Sleep,” she said firmly, and closed the door decisively behind her.

  She leaned wearily against the door, feeling as if the violent emotions of the morning had savaged her and left her weak and drained. She moved slowly to the couch, and curled up in the corner, leaning her head on the arm. Unexpectedly a drop of moisture coursed down her cheek, and she brushed it aside angrily. Tears? No, dammit, she wouldn't cry. She wouldn't give Michael Donovan the satisfaction of upsetting her that much. She was tougher than that. Hadn't Janine said that, she thought suddenly, her throat tightening. She could remember her sister kneeling beside her bed, her ash-blond hair wild around her white face, tears streaming down her cheeks. “You're strong, Brenna,” Janine had gasped. “You've always been stronger than me, even though I'm older. Help me, Brenna. Help me!”

  Brenna shook her head, her eyes filling helplessly at the poignant memory. “Damn you, Michael Donovan,” she whispered huskily, her hands balling into fists. Usually she could keep the memories at bay with her customary determination, blocking out the still raw emotions that had torn her apart and left her defenseless in their aftermath. Now they came flooding back, tumbling over each other in a chaotic eruption brought on by her distressing experience with Donovan.

  Janine had been right: Brenna had always been tougher than her older sister, though heaven knows how much was integral, and how much a result of her upbringing in the orphanage that had been the only home they had known since Brenna was four and Janine eight. Their father had deserted their mother shortly after Brenna was born, and, as their mother had had to work long hours to support the three of them, she had not had the time to give her younger child the love and attention she had lavished on Janine. Consequently, when their mother died of pneumonia shortly after Brenna's fourth birthday, Brenna was not as devastated as she might have been. Janine, on the other hand, had been struck down by the second catastrophic blow of her young life, and she never quite recovered. They had been sent to the John Harris Memorial Home when an investigation by the welfare department had uncovered no relatives. Brenna had adjusted quickly to her new circumstances, but Janine had retreated behind a wall of shyness, developing a finely balanced sensitivity that shut away the present, letting in only the familiar figures of the past. Always an imaginative child, she lived in a world of her own making, and clung to Brenna with an almost fanatic need and devotion.

  When she had been released from the home at seventeen, Janine had obtained a secretarial position at Chadeaux Wineries in Los Angeles. She had worked hard, and soon had been promoted to the executive offices. When she rented her own apartment, she persuaded the home to release fifteen-year-old Brenna in her custody. Brenna had been as happy as Janine at the move. Though not dependent on her sister for affection, she loved the fragile Janine with a deep, fierce protectiveness that was a result of fighting a hundred battles in her defense with the other children at the home.

  That first year had been full of contentment and independence, with Brenna continuing her education at a local high school and becoming increasingly involved in drama classes and high school plays. Absorbed with her first taste of the exhilarating art of acting, she had not noticed, at first, Janine's own infatuation with Paul Chadeaux, the heir apparent to the Chadeaux Wineries. She had met the sleek blond young man when he had picked up Janine for dates, but he had not really registered other than causing her to wonder absently what on earth Janine saw in him. Then, with a knowledge beyond her years, Brenna realized he had an assurance that would inevitably attract an insecure girl like Janine. His aura could be obtained only from growing up with money, the right schools, and a solid family background.

  Janine continued to see Paul Chadeaux, and Brenna noted the transformation that manifested itself in her delicate sister. Janine glowed with an almost incandescent radiance, hopelessly infatuated with the man. When that realization came home to her, Brenna began to
watch Chadeaux with critical eyes and what she saw filled her with alarm. Paul Chadeaux treated her sister with a selfish unconcern that made Brenna react with fierce indignation. He broke dates without notice, and often spoke to Janine with such impatient cruelty that Brenna wanted to wring his neck. She knew better than to speak to Janine. Paul could do no wrong in her eyes. So she watched helplessly while Janine continued blindly on her path to destruction.

  Janine was almost three months pregnant when she confided in Brenna. She had been childishly happy, as she prepared to go out that night with Chadeaux. Brenna's face had whitened with shock when Janine confessed quite simply that she was pregnant with Chadeaux's child. Brenna had been doing her homework on one of the twin beds, idly watching as Janine put on her makeup at the vanity. Janine had dropped the information into the conversation almost casually.

  “Does he know?” Brenna asked numbly.

  A secret smile curved Janine's mouth as she brushed her hair slowly. “Not yet,” she said dreamily. “I've just found out for sure today. But he'll be glad. I know he will. It'll just mean we'll be married sooner than we expected.”

  “He's asked you to marry him?” Brenna asked with relief. Perhaps Chadeaux wasn't the swine she suspected.

  “Of course he has,” Janine said serenely. “There are just some minor problems with his family. Paul's just been waiting for the right time to tell them.”

  “How long have you been engaged?” Brenna asked grimly.

  “About four months,” Janine said vaguely, her eyes taking on a glow that lit up her delicate features. “A baby, Brenna!” she said breathlessly. “I've always wanted someone of my very own, and now I'm going to have a husband and a baby. It seems too good to be true.”

  It seemed too good to be true to Brenna, also, but she couldn't puncture the lovely dream world that her sister was living in. “That's wonderful, Janine,” she said gently.

  “I'm going to tell Paul tonight,” Janine said eagerly. “I can hardly wait.”

  Brenna watched her leave that night with the feeling of helplessness that had plagued her sharpened to a positive dread.

  Janine had awakened her in the early hours of the morning, her face a mask of suffering, almost hysterical with grief, pleading with Brenna to help her.

  “I was wrong, Brenna,” Janine had sobbed. “He doesn't care anything about me.” Her eyes were wide, as if she were in shock. “He wants to kill my baby. He wants me to get an abortion.”

  Brenna had cradled Janine's slender body, and rocked her in an agony of sympathy. “It'll be all right, honey,” she had whispered huskily.

  “He doesn't want to see me anymore,” Janine had cried, her eyes wild. “He said I was a stupid fool not to protect myself. He said if I caused any trouble, he'd say the baby wasn't his… that I should get rid of ‘the little bastard.’” She shuddered convulsively.

  Brenna felt a rage so terrible, that if Chadeaux had been in the room she would have killed him. “Forget him, Janine,” she'd said fiercely. “He's not worth another thought.”

  “He's so evil,” Janine had said with childlike wonder, “I've never known anyone so evil. He wants to kill my baby. I can't let him do that, Brenna.”

  “No, I know you can't, honey,” she'd said slowly, a chill running through her at the pathetic expression on Janine's face. Always balanced on the thin edge of reality, had this blow been too much for her? “We'll work something out. I promise you. Why don't you go to bed now?”

  Janine rose obediently to her feet. “You're so strong, Brenna. You'll help me keep my baby.”

  In the following months, the thought of the child growing inside her seemed to be the only thing that kept Janine from a complete breakdown. It would have been impossible for her to continue at Chadeaux Wineries, so Brenna insisted that Janine quit her job, and let Brenna assume the burden of responsibility for both of them. Janine obeyed with the docility of a child, and didn't even object when Brenna dropped out of school, and took a job in a neighborhood pharmacy. Brenna had some clerical skills that probably would have paid better, but it would have meant searching further afield for a job and leaving Janine alone too long.

  Janine's obsession that Paul would harm her child continued. No amount of gentle persuasion on Brenna's part could convince her that Chadeaux would not suddenly appear and take the child away from her.

  It was only after receiving a bill from the prenatal clinic in Janine's eighth month of pregnancy that Brenna realized the full extent of her sister's fear. The bill was for services to Brenna Sloan not Janine Sloan. When confronted with the bill, Janine had smiled tranquilly. “I had to do it, Brenna,” she'd said calmly. “It's the only way to protect my baby. I've thought it all out. I've been very clever.”

  “What have you done, Janine?” Brenna had asked tiredly. “Why is my name on this bill?”

  Janine had leaned forward and whispered confidentially, “Don't you see, we're going to pretend the baby is yours. Then Paul will have no legal right to the baby. It'll be your name on the birth certificate as the mother, not mine.”

  “Janine, it won't work,” Brenna had said hopelessly, knowing her protests would do no good.

  “Of course it will,” Janine had insisted serenely. “You'll see, Brenna. Everyone will think the baby's yours.” Her eyes clouded. “But the baby will really be mine, you know,” she had said jealously. “It's just pretend, like when we were children. You won't try to take my child away from me too?”

  Tears had closed her throat as Brenna leaned forward to stroke her sister's thin cheek. “No, it will be just pretend, Love,” she'd said huskily.

  Janine had never lived to enjoy her baby. Three days after giving birth to Randy, she had died of complications.

  An indignant yell caused Brenna to sit bolt upright on the couch, dabbing quickly at her eyes. She was on her feet and into the other room with lithe swiftness. Randy broke off a yell and stretched out his arms invitingly. “Mama carry?” he wheedled, smiling angelically.

  “Some nap, young man,” Brenna said sternly. She lifted him from the bed and held him close for a brief moment. He felt so good.

  “Too tight, Mama,” he protested, wriggling vigorously.

  In the two years since Janine's death she had never tried to deny the natural assumption that she was Randy's mother. Somehow she had felt that she owed it to Janine that Randy have a real mother of his own, not just a loving aunt. The only people she cared about, Vivian Barlow and Charles Wilkes, had tactfully avoided probing her relationship with Randy. As for the others, she couldn't care less what they thought. It had not taken her long to find that the suggestion that she was an unwed mother still carried a stigma even in these “liberal” times. Brenna's mouth curved bitterly. After two years of being looked upon as a fallen woman, it was ironic that she should lose her greatest career opportunity to date because Donovan had judged her to be too innocent.

  Charles Wilkes was getting out of his Volkswagon Rabbit when she pulled into the parking lot at the rear of the theater that evening. He smiled broadly and waved, as she parked in the spot next to him and turned off the ignition.

  In his late fifties, Wilkes looked older than his years. His snow-white hair, gray-white beard, and rotund figure made him look like an intellectual Santa Claus. This look was augmented by the gray tweed suit and horn-rimmed glasses perched on his nose.

  He was beside her in a moment, and took the sleeping Randy from her as she opened the door of the Honda. He handled the baby with practiced ease, wrapping the blanket more tightly around the small body.

  He stood there, his face as eager as a child's.

  “How did it go?” he whispered over Randy's head.

  She made a face, as she opened the rear door and pulled out Randy's playpen. “It was a complete disaster,” she said gloomily. “The Titanic was a success story in comparison.”

  Profound disappointment flooded Wilkes' face. “Hernandez didn't like your reading?” he asked, as they walked toward the s
tage door.

  “Mr. Hernandez liked it,” Brenna said caustically. “It was your old pupil that found me wanting.”

  “Michael was there?” Charles asked incredulously, a pleased smile on his face. “It was kind of him to give the audition his personal attention.”

  “I assure you I would have been a thousand times more fortunate if he hadn't been so ‘kind.’” Brenna bit her lip, then confessed miserably, “I'm sorry, Charles. I let you down. I not only fouled up my chance of a part, but I lost my temper with Mr. Donovan.”

  A grin creased his face, making him look more cherubic than ever. “Don't worry, Brenna,” he said genially. “I imagine it was an interesting experience for Michael. He's so used to being kowtowed to these days, it must have been quite refreshing to have someone stand up to him.”

  “I'm glad you think so,” Brenna said dryly. “Somehow I don't think he felt the same way.”

  They had reached the backstage door and Charles deftly balanced Randy on one arm while he held the heavy metal door open for Brenna.

  The Rialto was actually an old renovated movie house, one of many small neighborhood theaters that had closed after the advent of television. It had remained a boarded-up derelict until Wilkes joyously discovered it among the property listings of a small real estate company. With boundless enthusiasm, he had enlisted the aid of the students of his classes at the university to make the theater a habitable home for his own community theater. Brenna had learned later that Charles had been amazingly fortunate in his find. Los Angeles was the possessor of innumerable amateur theater groups looking for a showcase for their talents in the optimistic hope that one magic night a talent scout or agent would discover them. Shabby and antiquated as the Rialto was, it had become dearly familiar to Brenna in the last two years.

  The play they were rehearsing now was an original work of one of Charles' more talented students. Brenna's role was small but important to the production. After playing the lead in the last play, she was enjoying the lighter responsibility that was hers in this charming romantic comedy.