by Tracy South
“That’s not a bad idea,” he said. He was beginning to have a budding admiration for Claire’s talent for deception. Too late, he saw that he had misread her.
“Don’t you dare,” she said. Her eyes were angry, and her cheeks were flushed. She wasn’t teasing.
“Claire, calm down.” He took her hand and gave it what he hoped was a reassuring squeeze. “I was only kidding. You know I would never betray you.” Having taken her hand, he didn’t want to let it go. He held on to it firmly, hoping she wouldn’t pull it away.
She didn’t. “Anyway, I’d say that Miranda feels better with me not embracing her with open arms. I think it makes her feel like she’s paying her dues.”
He opened his mouth to disagree with her, but felt her soft hand in his and reconsidered.
“All in all,” Claire continued, “I think it’s going pretty well. This lying stuff isn’t as difficult as I believed it would be.”
That was an understatement. Claire was so good at it, in fact, that he wasn’t sure she hadn’t been a con artist in another life. No need, though, to let her get too overconfident. “You spun some elaborate tales, all right. You had my family trading gemstones back and forth so fast that I was considering opening up my own jewelry store.”
She looked at their two hands joined together and said, “Aren’t there some pearls or opals stashed at the family manse somewhere?”
“The closest thing we have to a family manse is the mining camp where my great-grandparents lived before they moved to town. My great-grandfather might have brought my great-grandmother a lump of coal and a celebratory bottle of moonshine, but that’s about it for the finer things in life.”
He wished he could read the look she gave him. “I thought you were some snotty-nosed rich kid, someone who took privilege for granted.”
He didn’t tell her that he had spent most of his life cultivating that air. By some fluke of public school zoning, he’d gone to school with rich kids, and had just naturally fit in with them, adapting their habits, acquiring their tastes. He’d never deliberately tried to pass himself off as someone with money, but he hadn’t tried to correct that impression, either.
Claire continued. “So if you aren’t from some swanky family, then why are you so hard-hearted about my land? Where’s your populist edge?”
“I don’t have one of those,” he said. “I believe in progress. Let that area develop the way it’s going, rather than sitting on your property yelling about being poor but proud.”
Playing devil’s advocate came so naturally to him that he had opened his mouth and challenged her to an argument without even thinking about the immediate consequences. It was at that moment she seemed to realize there was something very strange about two people who were always at odds with each other sitting cozily on a couch holding hands. In an instant, she had jerked her hand away from him.
Rather than call attention to her action, Alec continued the debate by himself, trying to draw Claire in. “You didn’t stay here your whole life. You moved away…went to graduate school, if I remember correctly. What’s that if not trying to make a little progress with your life?”
She laughed. “Oh, that. Believe me, graduate school had nothing to do with progress. I wanted to go somewhere where I could get paid to read while I decided what I wanted to do with my life. After a while, I figured out I didn’t ever want to be a teacher, and I couldn’t see any other career use for an encyclopedic knowledge of the Victorian poets. That’s when I started free-lancing for the local papers. I realized I was good at it, and I decided I wanted to follow that career when I moved back to Ridgeville.”
It had never occurred to him to ask why Claire had moved back to town. He had never been interested before. “Is the house the only reason you moved back? So your family wouldn’t sell it?”
She shrugged. “That, and besides, if you’ve seen one college town, you’ve seen them all. There’s always one good bookstore, one good health food store, one arty movie house. I thought, I might as well be home.”
He had this strange need to keep her talking, maybe because of all the times he’d ignored her or treated her rudely. It was almost as though this room were a sort of magical place, one that let the real Claire shine through in such a way that he could see and appreciate her. “Victorian poets?” Alec reached way back into the recesses of his brain for information from sophomore English class. “Robert Barrett?” he ventured.
Her smile was real and warm, and if it was a bit at his expense, that was all right. “Robert Browning,” she said. “You were close. Actually, my master’s thesis was going to be on Ernest Dowson.” At his raised eyebrows and shrug, she said, “You might not know the name, but you know the poem.” Leaning back on the couch, one leg crossed over the other and her hands clasped over her knee, she began to recite. “Last night, between her lips and mine there fell a shadow…and I was desolate and sick of an old passion. I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion.”
Alec knew a few things about himself. He was cynical, and he was practical. He had never wept over a television show or a book, and he hadn’t cried at the movies since his aunt took him to see Old Yeller. Even the telephone company commercials that got everybody else left Alec cold. So how was it that this sentimental poem, written by a guy who’d been dead for a hundred years, could bring a lump to his throat?
Claire. Seeing her, so close to him, he was suddenly grateful that they weren’t holding hands any longer. If they had been, then it would have been the most natural thing in the world for him to kiss her. Only later would they have remembered that the two of them being together was the most unnatural thing in the world. Wooed by the luxury around him, the congenial atmosphere, Alec was letting himself slip into a daze. He’d almost forgotten that he’d come here to work, not to get all mushy and dewy-eyed over a woman who was his polar opposite.
“I’ve got to go,” he said, jumping up. “Lovely poem, really.”
She stared at him with wide eyes. “Alec,” she said. “We aren’t expected at dinner till six.”
“I know. That only leaves me a few hours to track down Miranda and start to work on this right away. First, I have to soften her up about the paper. Then the real work starts.” He rummaged through the desk drawer, looking for a pen, and came up with one on the first try. Paper, however, was another story. The only type he could find in the desk was heavy, scratchy and expensive—suitable for writing thank-you notes to sorority sisters and starlets, but nothing any self-respecting reporter would carry around. He turned to Claire. “You don’t have a notebook I could borrow, do you?”
She opened her purse and took out a fresh one. “Good luck. And remember, don’t ask her about what I said.”
If she was sorry to see him go, she didn’t say so. Probably she was as eager as he was to nip this hand-holding and secret-whispering in the bud and get their relationship back on its usual troubled and bumpy track. Thinking, though, that he ought to say something more to her than a casual “See you later,” he thought for a second, then said, “You know, sometimes I like to argue for the sake of arguing. I don’t really have a lot of feelings on a subject one way or the other. You know that, don’t you?”
She grinned. “I do now.”
With the distinct feeling that he had just given solace and comfort to the enemy, Alec headed out in search of Miranda.
A TIME WARP or a parallel universe? Claire wished she were up on her science-fiction terminology. Which could better explain the phenomenon that had just happened in this room? She and Alec, holding hands. She and Alec speaking to each other as reasonable adults.
She looked down at the dress, then cringed a little, thinking of all the times that day she’d forgotten how low-cut it was. Surely that wasn’t the sole reason for Alec’s change in attitude about her? Probably not. After all, he was so handsome that he didn’t have to wait around for ugly ducklings. He always had his choice of swans.
Like Miranda? No way, she thought to
herself. Alec may be handsome, but Miranda was way out of his reach. Everyone knew that glamorous Hollywood types sought out other glamorous Hollywood types. But, argued a nagging voice, what about all those starlets who are married to lawyers and restaurant magnates and CEOs? You see them in the magazines. Restaurant magnates, maybe, she thought, but not the editor of a middling weekly paper. With his skills though, the impudent voice continued, she could swing him some cushy job as a screenwriter’s consultant. But why would she want him? Claire asked herself again. The answer came immediately. Because you do.
Maybe getting down to work would shut off all these niggling thoughts in her head. Occupy her subconscious, make it work for her and not against her. Claire slipped out of her room, and headed for a stairwell opposite the end of the hall that led out to the pool. There had to be a way for her to get out without having to go through the torture of watching Alec fall at Miranda’s feet.
But why was it torture? Let’s face it—by bringing him along and labeling him her fiancé, she might as well be hanging a sign over his head saying Fresh Bait! Hadn’t she told Lissa that if she had real feelings for Alec, she’d be happy to bring him along with her, just to show how deeply she trusted him? How had Lissa ever listened to that lie with a straight face? If Claire had any real feelings for Alec, she’d be ready to shove him in the car and hightail it back to Ridgeville. Which was exactly what she wanted to do.
She crept up the steps and found herself in a large foyer. A sunny, Southwestern weaving hung from one wall, and a rough butcher’s block held a green glass jar full of flowers. Mrs. Craig had always liked the rustic look, and Claire was glad to see that her home still reflected her tastes, even if the house did cost about ten times as much as her last one. Hoping against hope that she wouldn’t set off some kind of security alarm, Claire opened the front door and crept out toward Alec’s car.
Even though she had him pegged as the type who kept his doors locked everywhere he went, she was pleasantly surprised to discover that the car was open. Bad manners, she suspected, to lock up your possessions at a house full of rich people and guarded by a security man. While she was trying to decide between the typewriter and one of her suitcases, she heard a car pull up and saw it park two spots away from Alec’s. She had finally decided to try carrying both, and was lifting the typewriter out of the trunk when she heard a voice shout, “Wait. Let me give you a hand.”
The voice sounded familiar. She turned, nearly losing the typewriter in the process, and feasted her eyes on Josh, the redeeming spot in an otherwise terrible movie about teenagers and the teachers who try to civilize them. “You’re Josh,” she said. “From Looking In On the Outside.”
He swung the satchel he carried onto his back, then took the typewriter from her hands. He said, “I can’t believe you saw that movie. It grossed around fifty dollars.”
She leaned against the open trunk. “I review movies for a living, so unfortunately I can’t claim to have been a paying customer.”
“Fortunately,” he told her.
“You don’t have to feel embarrassed about your performance. You really stood out in that movie.” She started to close the trunk but he stopped her.
“Do you want some help carrying in the rest of this stuff?” he asked, peering in at the other suitcases.
“Oh, no, that’s okay, really. Alec will get it.”
“Who’s Alec?”
“He’s my ed…um, my fiancé.”
He grinned at her. “Are you sure?”
“Fairly sure,” she said. “I’m sorry, I can’t remember your real name.”
“Roger Walker. And you’re?”
“Claire Morgan.”
“Oh, Miranda’s friend.”
Claire wondered if Christine and company had made some sort of announcement to that effect. Step right up and see Miranda’s chump of a friend. She pointed in the direction of the pool, still clogged up with poor relations. “A lot of people are there, if you want to socialize. I don’t see Miranda anywhere.”
“Oh, I do,” he said. He pointed beyond the pool, down to the rolling pasture and the man-made pond. Claire squinted mightily, but without her glasses, she couldn’t see anything more than a group of random little blurs, walking around as if in one mass.
“Where’s your fiancé?” he asked.
“I don’t know. He went to find Miranda, to talk to her about doing an interview for the paper we work for. But if he isn’t out there with her, I don’t know where he is.”
Roger looked toward the field again. “There’s a guy with brown hair and a white shirt trailing around after the group, bouncing from here and there to try to get closer to Miranda.”
“That’s him,” Claire said.
Roger smiled at her. She saw that although playing a teenager had been a bit of a stretch for him, he was still a good couple of years younger than she was. “Are you going to the pool?” he asked.
“I don’t think so. I think I’m just going to go rest until dinner,” she said.
She walked around to the front door, with Roger following her. “I guess I should check in with Mrs. Craig and find out where I’m staying,” he said.
“Do you know the Craigs?” she asked.
“I met them once a few months ago,” he said. “Miranda had them flown to Hollywood to celebrate their wedding anniversary, and I tagged along.”
It clicked in Claire’s mind then. This was the actor Miranda had been seeing, the one who was going to try to fly down to join them. She didn’t mean to be so blunt, but she blurted it out anyway. “So you’re Miranda’s boyfriend, then?”
He blushed, his neck turning red first, then his cheeks. “I wouldn’t say that. The papers write it that way sometimes, but then the next week they’ll print a picture of her partying the night away with a real actor.”
He seemed so sweet. What a shame he had to have fallen into Miranda’s clutches. But at least his being here would keep her away from Alec, that little voice chimed.
She tried to make him feel better. “You’re a real actor. You’re going to be in some great movies someday.”
Roger blushed again. “Well, thanks.”
“No, really,” Claire continued. “Someday Miranda will be the one the press barely notices, and you’ll be the one photographed with all of the hottest young starlets.” Realizing after the fact that he might be offended at any criticism of Miranda, she backtracked. “I mean, not that your success has to come from Miranda’s failure. There’s room at the top for both of you, I’m sure.”
“I understand,” he said, smiling. His brown eyes crinkled at the edges, and a sudden breeze whipped his longish blond hair.
“I’d better get back to my room,” she said, “And let you find yours.” She opened the door and walked back downstairs, Roger following her with the typewriter. At her room, she peeked in to see if Alec was there. Of course not. She wondered if he’d had any luck catching up to the elusive and flighty Miranda, and hoped, perversely, that he hadn’t.
Claire set her suitcase down by the door and took the typewriter from Roger. “Listen, it was very nice meeting you.”
“It was nice meeting you, too, Claire. It’s been a long time since I’ve run into anybody who thought I was an okay actor. That made me feel good.” He smiled in such a deliberately charming way that she knew that smile must be his trademark, his ticket to becoming a future heartthrob. “I hope I see you later.”
“I hope so, too,” she said.
“And your fiance,” he said.
“Oh, of course,” Claire said. “I can’t wait for you to meet Alec.” They said goodbye, and she heard him lope up the stairs. After she closed the door, Claire laid her suitcase on the bed and took out the demure floral dress she’d planned to wear to dinner. Shaking it out in front of her, her eye was caught by the dress that was packed beneath it in the suitcase. This was the red number Allie had convinced her to buy and forced her to pack, the dress Claire had sworn would go straight to some ch
arity group before it ever appeared on her body. It was the last one on the rack, a perfect fit, and on sale—all factors that made Allie claim Claire was fated to own this dress. She’d argued and protested, but now she was coming around. Not only was she meant to own this dress, she decided, she was meant to wear it tonight.
She was reapplying her makeup in the bathroom when Alec stormed back into the room. He stuck his head into the bathroom, saw the T-shirt and jeans she had changed into and said, “Are you wearing that?”
“I am now, but I won’t be for dinner, if that’s what you’re asking. How was your afternoon?”
He reached over her head to grab a towel, wiping his face with it before speaking again. Claire had never seen the calm and cool Alec break a sweat before, but on him it looked good. His cheeks were flushed, and the color in his face highlighted the crystal blue of his eyes.
“First of all,” he said, “I had to pursue Ms. Miranda all the way out to a cow pasture, ducking and weaving the cows’ calling cards all the while. Then I still couldn’t get anywhere near her to ask her a question. I got to talk to her publicist, who so graciously agreed to add our paper to the list of a thousand or so that get press releases about Miranda’s movies. Then I got to talk to her personal trainer, who wanted to find out all the details of my workout routine. Then I came up against the psychic, who said that my heart was in a battle with my mind, and it would not be resolved until I let my heart win.”
“People pay a lot of money to learn that stuff,” Claire said. “The day wasn’t wasted, after all.”
He leaned close to her as she tried to put her mascara on with a hand that was just beginning to ever so slightly shake. “I don’t care about my heart,” Alec whispered to her. “I care about getting Miranda to say something I can take back to my paper.”