“This was a great idea.” He looked pleased, and they both dove into the breadsticks. They were starving.
“It's so wonderful not to have to worry about going to work at four o'clock in the morning tomorrow It really makes a mess of your social life sometimes. Most of the time I'm too tired to go anywhere at night, except home to bed. I take a bath, and then I crawl into bed with the next day's script, and by nine o'clock I'm out cold with the lights out.”
“What about all the famous Hollywood parties?”
“They're for morons. Except the duty calls like tonight. The rest of them you can have. The ones like the one tonight are dangerous not to go to. You don't want to get anyone mad at the network.”
“So I've heard. Is it really as tense as all that?”
“Sometimes, if your ratings aren't great. This is a lousy business.” And then she laughed. “But I love it. I love the excitement of it, the hard work, the challenges of doing difficult scripts. There are other things I'd like to do more, but this has been a terrific experience.” She had been doing the show for two years.
“What would you rather do?”
“Professionally?” It was an interesting question. “Shakespeare probably. I did a lot of repertory in college, and summer stock after that, when I couldn't get any other work. I like live theater. The pressure of it. The demand that you remember all your lines and do it right night after night. I think the ultimate, for me, would be a Broadway play.” He nodded, he could see that. It was kind of the pinnacle of the art form, but what she did had merit too. He admired her a lot for what she did. And it was harder work than it appeared. He knew that much.
“Have you done any films?”
“One.” She laughed. “It was a disaster. The only person who saw it and liked it was my grandmother, in Nebraska.”
They both laughed and their dinner arrived then, as they chatted on endlessly about their work, his kids, the pressures of their jobs, and how he felt about suddenly running the L.A. office. “Advertising must be rough. You screw up once, and you lose the client.” She had heard horror stories for years, but he looked surprisingly calm considering the kind of pressure he worked under.
“It's no different from what you do. They don't give you much leeway either.”
“That's why you need something else, so you never really care too much. There has to be something else that matters in your life.”
“Like what?”
She answered without hesitation. “A husband, marriage, kids. People you love, something else you know how to do, because one day, the shows, the autographs, the hoopla, it's all gone, and you have to watch out you don't go with it.” It was an intelligent way to look at what she did, and he respected her for it, but what she had just said suddenly made him wonder.
“Is there something you're not telling me, Miss Sampson? Is your husband about to walk through the door and punch me in the nose?” She laughed at the thought and shook her head as she dug into her pasta.
“No chance of that, I'm afraid. I was married once, a long time ago, when I was twenty-one. It lasted about ten minutes after I got out of college.”
“What happened?”
“Simple. He was an actor. Instant death. And I've never met anyone else I wanted to marry. In this business, you don't meet too many men you'd want to spend the rest of your life with.” She had also gone out with a producer for several years, but that had never come to anything. And after that, she had gone long periods without anyone, or dated people who weren't in the business. “I'm too choosy, I guess. My mom says I'm over the hill now.” She looked at him soberly, but there was a twinkle of mischief. “I'll be thirty-four next month. Getting a little ripe for marriage, I guess.”
He laughed openly at the remark. She looked about twenty. “I wouldn't quite say that, or is that how they look at it out here?”
“If you're over twenty-five, you're dead. By thirty you've had your first face-lift. At thirty-five, you've had two, and your eyes done at least once. Maybe twice. At forty, it's all over. See what I mean, you've got to have something else in your life.” She sounded as though she meant it as he listened.
“And if not a husband and kids, then what?”
“Something to occupy your mind. I used to do a lot of volunteer work with handicapped kids. Lately, I haven't had much time though.”
“I'll lend you mine.”
“What are they like?” She sounded interested and he was touched. It was hard to believe she was successful and famous. She was so real and so down-to-earth, and he liked that a lot. He liked everything he had seen so far. It almost made him forget the way she looked. Her looks seemed unimportant suddenly compared to the rest. She was beautiful inside, and he liked that even better. And as he thought about it, he tried to answer her question about his children.
“Mel is intelligent and responsible, and she desperately wants to be an actress. Or at least that's what she thinks now. God knows what she'll want to be later. But she wants to major in drama at college. She's a junior in high school. She's tall and blond, and a nice kid. I think you'll like her.” He suddenly assumed that the two would meet, and then wondered if he was assuming too much, but Charlotte didn't flinch when he said it. “And Sam's a cute kid, he's ten, and a little fireball. Everybody seems to love him.” And then he told her about Benjamin and Sandra and the baby.
“That sounds like a heavy trip. And it must be very rough on him.”
“It is. He's determined to do the right thing, if it kills him. He doesn't seem to love the girl, but he's crazy about the baby.”
“So you're a grandfather then.” She suddenly looked at him with mischief in her eyes. They were the same green as his, though neither of them had noticed. “You didn't tell me that when we met.” Ollie laughed at the way she said it.
“Does that make a big difference?”
“Tremendous. Wait till I tell my folks that I went out with a grandfather. They'll really wonder what I've been up to.” It sounded as though she was close to them, and he liked that about her. He even told her about his father and Margaret.
“They're coming out in January to see the kids. She's the best thing that ever happened to him, although I didn't think so at first. It was a hell of a shock when he married her so soon after my mother's death.”
“It's funny, no matter how old we are, where our parents are concerned, we're still children. Don't you think?”
“I do. I resented the hell out of her at first. But he has a right to some happiness in his last years.”
“He could live to a ripe old age.” She smiled.
“I hope he does.”
“I hope I meet them,” she said softly.
They finished dinner then, and chatted on for a while over coffee, and then they went back to her car, and on the way out two people stopped her for autographs. But she didn't seem to mind. She was friendly and kind, and almost grateful. He commented on it as they got back in her car, and she looked at him with her wide green eyes and a serious expression.
“You can never forget, in this business, that those people make you what you are. Without them, you're nothing. I don't ever forget it.” And the beauty of it was that it hadn't gone to her head. She was amazingly modest, and almost humble.
“Thank you for having dinner with me tonight.”
“I had a wonderful time, Oliver.” And she looked as though she meant it.
She drove him back to the house in Bel Air and when they got there, he seemed to hesitate, not sure whether to ask her in or not, and then finally he did, but she said she was really tired, And then, suddenly, she remembered something.
“What are you doing over the holidays, with your kids gone?”
“Not much. I was going to catch up on my work at the office. This'll be my first Christmas without them.”
“I usually go home too. But I just couldn't this year. I'm shooting a commercial next week, and I wanted to study the next scripts. We have a new writer. Would you like
to do something on Sunday?” It was Christmas Eve, and he was trying not to think about it, but her offer sounded much too appealing to decline.
“I'd love it. We could have dinner here.” Agnes was around, even with the children gone, but Charlotte had a better idea.
“How about if I make you a turkey? The real thing. Would you like that?”
“I'd love it.”
“We can go to church afterward. And there are some friends I always go to visit on Christmas Day. Would you like to join me for that too?”
“Charlotte, I'd love that. But are you sure there isn't something else you'd rather do? I don't want to intrude. I'll be fine, you know.” Fine, but very lonely.
“Well, I won't,” she said with a soft smile. “I'll be really disappointed if you don't come. Christmas is very important to me, and I like spending it with people I care about. I'm not into fake Christmas trees sprayed silver and all the garbage that goes with it. Your typical Hollywood Yule.”
“Then I'll be there. What time?”
“Come at five o'clock. We can eat at seven, and go to church at midnight.” She scribbled the address down for him, and he got out of the car, feeling dazed, as she thanked him again, and drove off with a wave. He stood for a long moment watching the little red car disappear down the hill, wondering if it had really happened. It was all like a dream. But Christmas with her was even more dreamlike.
She was waiting for him in a white hostess gown. The house was decorated beautifully. It was in the Hollywood hills, on Spring Oak Drive. And it had the cozy look of an old farm. And she laughed and said it reminded her of Nebraska. There were rough-hewn floors, beam ceilings, and huge fireplaces, one at each end of the room, and in front of them huge, overstuffed couches. The kitchen was almost as big as the living room, with another fireplace and a cozy table set for two. And there was a Christmas tree blinking brightly in the corner. And upstairs there were two handsome bedrooms, one which was obviously hers, done in pink and flowered chintzes. The other a cheerful yellow guest room, where her parents stayed when they came, which she said wasn't often enough. It didn't have one-tenth the sophistication of Megan's penthouse in New York, but it had ten times the warmth, and he loved it.
She had chilled a bottle of white wine for him, and the turkey was roasting happily in the oven. She had made chestnut puree, mashed potatoes and yams, there were tiny peas, cranberry jelly, and lots of stuffing. And when they sat down to eat, it was a royal feast, which reminded him in a comfortable way of the Christmases he had shared at home with Sarah and, long before, his parents. He had expected to eat a pastrami sandwich in his office, or stop at Hamburger Hamlet on the way home. He had never expected this, or to be with Charlotte Sampson. It was as though she had fallen into his arms, like a gift from heaven. And as he sat down at the table, he put a small gift on the table for her. He had been so touched by her invitations that he had wanted to get her something nice for Christmas. And he had stopped at Cartier the day before to buy her a simple gold bangle. And she was deeply moved by it, and embarrassed that she hadn't gotten him a present.
“This is my gift, silly girl. A Christmas dinner right out of a fairy tale.” She looked pleased that it meant so much to him, and they chatted and laughed, and after dinner he used his credit card and called the kids at Sarah's. It was odd speaking to them, and not being there, but they sounded as though they were having fun. There was a lot of laughing and squealing and passing the phone around, and it wasn't even awkward when he talked to Sarah. He wished her well, and then got off the phone. He called his father, too, and his father sounded happier than he had in a long time. It was amazing, too, to realize that Sarah had left them exactly a year before. And he said as much to Charlotte. It was easy talking to her. And she had made mince and apple pie for dessert, which she smothered with whipped cream and hard sauce.
“Do you still miss her, Oliver?” she asked as they sat looking out at the view and finishing their Christmas dinner.
But he shook his head, honest with her. “Not anymore. It's weird even remembering being married to her. She seems like a stranger now, and I guess she is. But it was brutal at first. I really thought I wouldn't survive it. But I had to for the kids. I think they were what kept me going.” She nodded, it made sense to her. And she thought he was lucky to have them. “I guess we never wanted the same things, and I tried to ignore that for all those years. But she never forgot what she wanted.”
“Funny how sometimes that kind of persistence is a real virtue, and other times it's a real sin, isn't it?”
“In her case, I guess getting married was just a big mistake, but I'm glad we did, or we wouldn't have had the children.”
“They mean everything to you, Oliver, don't they?”
“They do,” he admitted to her, “maybe too much so. I haven't done much else with myself for the last year.” With the exception of Megan, and that had been a momentary aberration, a month of utter, total, and delicious madness.
“Maybe you needed the time to think, to figure out what you want now.”
“I suppose so. I'm not sure I have the answer to that yet, but maybe I don't need to figure that one out for the time being.” He smiled at her, and she poured him a delicious cup of steaming coffee. He felt as though he were going to explode, which was exactly what Christ- mas dinners were meant for. He was happy and sated, and totally enjoying being with this woman. He felt as though she had been made for him, except for the fact that she was Charlotte Sampson. “What about you?” He turned to her then. “Do you know what you're after, Charlotte?”
She grinned at him, “You know, I wish you'd call me Charlie. All my close friends do.” It was amazing to be considered one of them, but he had to admit that he liked the idea. “I always think of that at year end … where I'm going … where I want to be next year, and what I want to be doing. The same thing, I guess, as long as it works,” they both knew she meant the show, “and for the rest, whatever comes, whatever's right. I have my dreams, like everyone else, but a lot of them have come true already.” She seemed perfectly content with her life. She wasn't seeking, or striving, or wishing she had more than she did. “I'd love to be married and have kids one day, but if that's not in the cards, then I guess it was never meant to be. You can't make yourself crazy over things like that anyway, and they only happen if they're meant to.” She was strangely philosophical, and wonderfully peaceful.
He helped her clean up, and at ten o'clock they had another cup of coffee, and shortly before midnight, he drove her to Beverly Hills, to the Church of the Good Shepherd, and they sat very close to each other during the midnight service. It was exactly what it should have been, and at the end, with the lights, the trees and the incense, they all sang Christmas carols. It was one-thirty when they got out, and he drove her slowly home, feeling happy and warm and complete. So much so, he almost didn't miss the children.
He was going to drop her off when they got back, but when they got to her place, she suddenly looked at him strangely.
“I know this may sound weird to you, Oliver, but it's so lonely going home alone on Christmas Eve. Would you like to spend the night in my guest room?” They had met only two days before, and he had just shared Christmas with her, and now she was inviting him into her home, as a guest, not with the lust that Megan had shown, but with kindness and warmth and respect, and he suddenly wanted to stay more than anything in the world. He wanted to be with her, for tonight, for a week, for a year, maybe even for a lifetime.
“I'd love that, Charlie.” He leaned over and kissed her then, but it was a chaste, gentle kiss, and they walked into her house hand in hand, as she led him upstairs and turned the bed down. The room had a bathroom of its own, and she kept nightclothes and a robe for friends who stayed, and fussed over him like a mother hen, and then finally left him alone with a warm smile and a “Merry Christmas.” And he lay in her guest room bed for a long, long time, thinking of her and wanting to go to her, but he knew it wouldn't be fair
to take advantage of her kindness now, and he lay there like a child wishing he could climb into bed with his mother, but not quite daring.
And when he awoke the next day, he could smell pancakes and sausages and hot coffee. He brushed his teeth with the new toothbrush she had left, shaved, and went downstairs in the robe, curious to see what she was up to.
“Merry Christmas, Oliver!” she called as he came through the kitchen door, and he smiled, watching her work, and two minutes later, she had a sumptuous breakfast ready. There were all the things he had smelled, and more, bacon, eggs, freshly squeezed orange juice, and coffee.
“Merry Christmas, Charlie. You may never get me out of here if you keep feeding me like this. This is some hotel you run.”
She laughed happily at him. “I'm glad you like it, sir.
And then, without warning, he leaned over and kissed her. But this time the kiss was more fervent than he had dared to let it be the night before. And when she pulled away at last, they were both more than a little breathless. “My, my, Oliver, that's quite a good morning.”
“It's in keeping with the quality of the breakfast.” He took two bites of the eggs, and then reached for her again, suddenly unable to stay away from her any longer. She was too good to be true, and he was afraid she'd disappear before his very eyes if he didn't grab her.
“Be a good boy, Oliver,” she scolded with a smile, “eat your breakfast.”
“I'm not sure what I want more,” he suddenly grinned like a kid in a toy shop at Christmas, “this breakfast, or you.” He looked up at her again with a broad smile. “For the moment, you're winning.”
“Behave yourself, or Santa won't bring you anything. Eat up.”
“Yes, ma'am.” Actually, he still thought Santa had put her in his stocking, and the studio head had been right, without makeup, with her hair pulled back, fresh-faced and clean, she looked absolutely gorgeous in the morning.
And after they were through, she disappeared, and came back with a little blue velvet box and set it down next to him, She had remembered it after church late the night before, and now she watched him open it with pleasure. It was a beautiful antique pocket watch, with a smooth, elegant face and roman numerals, and he stared at it in amazement.
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