Sweetly Contemporary Collection - Part 2 (Sweetly Contemporary Boxed Sets)

by Jennifer Blake

  Coffee, bacon, eggs, and toast lightly browned on one side, only slightly burned on the other, was their breakfast. Clare cooked it kneeling before the fire with her face growing red from the heat. They ate it from the top of a coffee table that Logan dragged up before the warmth, using their neatly tucked-up beds for seats.

  Holding out his cup for a refill, Logan gave a slight smile. “I suppose since I had to be snowed in with a representative of the press, it is worth something that you can cook.”

  “You are too kind,” Clare murmured, her tone dry as she tilted the pot above his cup.

  “Probably so,” he agreed. “It wouldn’t do to encourage you.”

  “I don’t think there is any danger of that.”

  Logan made no answer, but the look he sent her was long and searching.

  The snow still fell in a thick curtain that was shaken and lifted, then let fall again by the keening wind. The soft whiteness drifted across the decks of the house in deep piles and lay heaped against the glass door. Dressed once more in coat and boots, Clare moved from one to the other of the door and window openings, with their curtains flung open for light, watching in fascination. There was nothing to be seen but the falling flakes and the dark outlines of the evergreens. Everything else was lost in the encroaching snow. Still Clare stared out. She had never seen so much snow, had never known it to fall with such endless persistence, as though it meant never to stop, as if it meant to bury them in soft, feathery cold.

  Teeth clenched in determination, she had helped Logan bring in a fresh supply of wood. Together they had cleared away the breakfast things, wiping the grease from the skillet with a handful of paper towels, then burning them with the paper cups and plates. Afterward, she had managed to freshen her appearance, using the cosmetics in her tote bag and water heated in a metal bucket from the laundry. With those few tasks out of the way, there was nothing else to do; she might as well watch the snow.

  In the room behind her, Logan was reading; a screenplay, she thought, from the way it was bound and the notes he made now and then in the margin. She had not liked to ask. She would give the man no excuse to accuse her of prying. He had offered her a collection of magazines his mother had left behind the summer before, but Clare could not settle down with them. Fashions and recipes had little interest for her at the best of times; just now they had none.

  Logan put down his manuscript, got to his feet, and strolled to join her at the window. With his hands in his pockets, he scanned the blowing snow and oppressive, low-hanging clouds. He glanced at her, then looked away again.

  “Is it really that much of a marvel, or are you sulking?”

  “I enjoy watching it,” Clare answered briefly.

  “I wouldn’t have taken you for a nature lover.”

  “No, but then, you know nothing about me.” She could not get used to that mocking inflection, especially knowing how little she deserved it.

  “True.”

  Clare slanted him a glance from the corner of her eyes. The fact that he had crossed the room to speak to her could be looked on as a concession, she supposed. Regardless of the provocation he had given her, it was ungracious of her to snap at him. The least she could do was to meet him halfway. “You mentioned last night that you were used to the cold weather. Does that mean that you have spent a lot of time here in the winter, or simply that you have grown used to it in the last few days?”

  “This is one of my favorite places, all right, for obvious reasons,” he said, “but I also come here for the skiing. I enjoy cold-weather sports. I guess if I hadn’t been an actor, I would have wound up a ski bum.”

  Without meaning to, Clare found herself smiling. “Then all this,” she said, waving toward the flying snow, “should be good news to you.”

  “I will admit it has its attractions, but I think the best thing about a fresh snowfall, especially one like this, is that it covers all trace of other human beings. There may be beer cans, candy wrappers, and foil from cigarette packages under the snow, but at least you can’t see them. When the snow stops and you walk out into the woods, everything is clean and quiet. If you are lucky, the only footprints are your own. There is a hush that comes then that is unlike any other time, and the air is so pure and cold, it rings in your lungs. It’s as if you are the only thing alive, the beginning and end of creation, the center of the universe, and yet an unmistakable part of all that is natural around you.”

  His voice was quiet, reflective, but it was plain that what he said held special meaning for him. “There are not many places where that is possible anymore,” Clare commented. “Something always spoils it. In the South it’s the scars of timber cutting or the smoke from some factory.”

  “Here it’s the things I mentioned, or the racket of a snowmobile.”

  “The whine of a chain saw … or a hunter’s shot.”

  “Or the litter of their shell casings. Things like that are why I support the formation of wilderness areas — unspoiled places without logging roads, or even trails, closed to any kind of mechanized travel, to logging or hunting, areas left to go back to the wild. These places will be so remote, only people who care about meeting nature on its own terms will want to make the effort to hike back into them. But at least for that breed the opportunity will be there. If we go on as we are now, the generations to come will never know what that means, because the few places like that left will be gone.”

  “I thought the secretary of agriculture recently recommended that several million acres be set aside for designation as wilderness sections.”

  “He did, but already the special-interest groups, the lumber and tourism industries and the sports organizations, are screaming and mounting a campaign of advertising against it. The only thing for those of us who oppose the special-interest groups is to scream louder.”

  “It does seem as if I remember seeing you on some program concerned with conservation.”

  “I speak my piece when I think it will do any good. One of the few advantages I have found to being a big Hollywood name is the extra weight it gives you when you decide to throw yourself behind something.”

  “I would not have thought you had much time for such things.”

  “I don’t have nearly enough. That is why I would like to make the conservation issue the theme of my next picture.”

  “A propaganda film?” Clare queried lightly.

  “You could call it that, though it is also a historical drama with, I think, a balanced presentation of the arguments for progress and free enterprise, as well as for my own views.”

  He went on to tell her the story line of what emerged as a tale filled with grandeur and passion, fine characters and stirring events. If allowed to unfold against the color and majesty of the mountains, it would be a picture of epic proportions and great visual impact.

  “It sounds marvelous,” Clare said when he had finished. “Will you start on it soon?”

  “I’m not sure. I still have to sell the idea, or the screenplay, to the producer I want to put it on film.”

  “You mean you found this screenplay, or book, or whatever it is yourself?”

  “‘Found’ is not exactly the right word. It may help you to understand my enthusiasm for the story if I tell you I wrote it.”

  Clare swung around to stare at him, her gray eyes startled. “You?”

  “Is that so unbelievable?”

  “No, not really. It’s just that is seems strange.”

  “In what way?”

  “People who develop one talent are usually inclined to stop there. A great many actors become directors, but that is really an extension of a craft they already know, isn’t it? Writing is something entirely different.”

  “It has always seemed to me that writers must have a good ear for dialogue and a sense of how people act and react in any given situation. They have to understand movement and emotion and all the other small details that make a character believable.”

  “You may be right,” Clare
agreed, “though I am not in a position to say, since I concentrate on nonfiction. But I can’t believe people aren’t falling over themselves to produce this film, especially if you mean to star in it.”

  “Don’t get me wrong. I don’t want a big commercial buildup out of the fact that I wrote the thing. I expect if I stood still for that, there would be any number of people who would back it. What I want is a quality production with attention to background and detail and a thousand other things that the term means. There is only one man I feel I can trust to handle it for me. And for now there has been a hitch in the negotiations.”

  “One man? Who is he?”

  “A self-made, self-educated man who has more feeling for what makes people tick, characters on the screen as well as actors, than anybody else I’ve ever known. His name is Marvin Hobbs. Does it mean anything to you?”

  “No, I don’t think so,” Clare said with a shake of her head. The words were scarcely out of her mouth before she realized they were untrue. Marvin Hobbs was the husband of the woman who had been with Logan the night he slugged the photographer, the woman whose name had been linked so prominently with that of the actor in the gossip sheets. Clare did not know for certain what the holdup was in the negotiations for the picture, but she thought she might venture a guess. For something to say to break the silence, she said, “Was that your screenplay you were looking at just now?”

  He glanced over his shoulder to where he had left it lying beside the fire. “Yes, it is. It’s finished, but I’m not quite satisfied with it.”

  “I don’t suppose you would consider letting me read it?”

  “Why not?” he answered with a slight shrug. “It seems only fair.”

  “Fair?”

  “I read your articles last night, after you went to sleep.”

  “You what?” Clare flung him a quick look, a flush rising under her skin.

  “They weren’t bad; some were even good, surprisingly good.”

  Clare tilted her head on one side. “I suppose that’s a compliment?”

  “I think it must be,” he admitted, his manner offhand. “I take back what I said about the scandal sheets.”

  “You do?” she said blankly.

  “Don’t run away with the idea that I believe every word of your tale, but I read enough of your work to see that whatever you wrote would be a cut above the usual drivel, even if your method of getting a story is a little crude.”

  A bright light glittering in her gray eyes, Clare asked, “Is that why you told me about your screenplay, to see if you could persuade me to write a little propaganda in support of your cause?”

  “No,” he answered, his voice hard and his blue gaze meeting her eyes squarely. “The fact is, I had forgotten what you are until after I had begun to discuss it with you. However, I feel sure that if I tell you everything I said about it is off the record, I can depend upon you to honor the request, and keep it that way.”

  Clare lifted her chin. Goaded by his lack of belief, she said, “You may think you can, but you can’t be sure.”

  “No,” he answered, his voice grim once more, “I can’t, can I?”

  Three

  The remainder of the day passed much more quickly than Clare had expected. She spent the better part of it huddled into a blanket on a chair beneath one of the windows, reading the manuscript of Logan’s screenplay in the gray light that fell through the opening. Lunch was a sketchy affair of bread and cold meat washed down with canned juice, icy cold straight from the kitchen cabinet. Afterward, Logan was restless, prowling through the house, checking the water lines to see if they had begun to freeze, draining the hot-water tank against the possibility of its bursting as the water inside turned to ice. This water he set before the fire in every available bucket, pot, and dishpan in preparation for their baths later that night. When that was done, he returned to his place before the hearth, but it was not long before he was on his feet again, dragging on his jacket and gloves, pulling on his cap.

  Clare looked up in time to see him step through the sliding doors out onto the deck. She frowned a little as his tall shape disappeared into the swirling cloud of snow; then she returned to her reading.

  Sometime later, a glowing log in the fireplace burned in two and fell into the glowing coals with a crackling flare of red-orange sparks. The sound broke Clare’s absorption. She looked up, assailed by a sudden sense of alarm. Logan had not returned.

  Tragic tales she had heard of people lost in snowstorms, dying within a few yards of warmth and safety, flashed through her mind. Setting the bound manuscript aside, she threw back the blanket and stood up, moving quickly to the glass door. She pulled it open, letting a cold rush of snow-laden air sweep into the room. She could see nothing beyond the swift-falling white flakes. Hesitating only a moment, she stepped out onto the deck, kicking through drifted snow reaching well above her ankles. The wind caught at her, tossing the long strands of her hair in wild abandon, stinging her face with cold particles of ice, and flapping her coat about her knees.

  “Logan?” she called.

  Her voice was caught by the wind and thrown back at her with a muffled and weak sound. There was no answer.

  “Logan!” she cried again, fear rising inside her as she thought of how long the blond actor had been out in such inhospitable weather conditions. Struggling to the balcony railing, she leaned over it, dislodging the heaped snow that lined it, so that it fell like a tiny avalanche.

  “Logan!”

  “What is it?”

  The question came from directly behind her.

  She swung around so quickly in the soft drifts that she stumbled and might have fallen if Logan had not caught her. The hard strength of his hands bit into her forearms, steadying her. Weak with relief, she let herself rest against his chest. An instant later, she stepped back, pushing her trembling hands deep into her coat pocket.

  “Where were you?” she demanded.

  “I had just come in at the side door when I heard you shouting. What is wrong?”

  His outdoor clothing coated with snow and the flakes that glistened on the ends of his lashes and on the gold stubble of his beard were evidence of the truth of what he said. “Nothing. Nothing is wrong. It just seemed like you had been gone a long time.”

  “Did you think I had run out on you? Even if the idea crossed my mind, I wouldn’t get far in this. I just went out for a breath of fresh air, and I can tell you this much: there is plenty of it out here to be had.”

  “I can believe it,” Clare said, smiling even as she shivered.

  “There is also more than a little inside the house now. Did you know you left the door open? We’ll be lucky if we don’t have to get out the snow shovel to clear a path to the fire.”

  “Oh, no,” Clare exclaimed, “all our lovely warmth, and the carpet will be soaked.” In the concern of the moment Clare was able to cover her confusion, to turn back into the house with a creditable attempt at nonchalance. She bent to shake the blown snow from the mat, then stamped her boots to free them of caked chunks.

  Logan removed his gloves, then dragged off his cap and began to swat himself free of the clinging ice particles. When he was reasonably dry, he raked his fingers through his hair and began to remove his jacket. His gaze on Clare, he spoke her name, giving it a deep, clear sound.

  She looked up, her gray eyes dark.

  “I do appreciate the thought,” he said, and smiled, a slow curving of the lips without mockery or guile, though in its warmth there was a suspended, measuring quality. It lasted no more than an instant before he turned away. “Did you ever make snow ice cream?” he asked. “You use milk, sugar, and vanilla flavoring mixed into some of that white stuff falling out there; All at once I have this terrible craving for it. Want to give it a try?”

  Whether from the need to keep warm, or from the sheer lack of anything else to occupy their minds, food began to take on an exaggerated importance. Their appetites grew ravenous. Scarcely an hour after the sno
w ice cream had been demolished, they were searching in the cabinets for canned soup and beans, looking for aluminum foil to wrap around potatoes to bake in the coals, and trying to rig some way of grilling a steak. In the end, they pan-broiled the meat in butter. It was charred black on the outside and pink on the inside; still, it was the most delectable thing Clare had ever eaten. They laughed at each other as they tried to cut the steak without mangling their paper plates or destroying the surface of the coffee table, and with extreme politeness, and secret hungry longing, each insisted that the other eat the last potato, ending finally by dividing it between them. And then, when the dishes had been washed in some of the water Logan had been heating all afternoon, they stretched out facedown on the cushions before the fire and discussed the possibility of popping corn, using the short-handled pots in the kitchen.

  Taking advantage of the amazing ease between them, Clare mentioned the screenplay. She had finished reading it just before dinner. The feeling of pleasure and uplift that the story had given her was so strong that she had wanted to congratulate him at once. She had refrained only because she had been afraid he would find her compliments suspect. Now, with her enthusiasm tempered by the wait, she could discuss it more objectively.

  The story line concerned two brothers, both hard and strong-willed, who travel west in the middle of the nineteenth century to make a new life for themselves, and eventually come into conflict over the way they perceive people, the land, and its valuable resources. The characters of the two men and their relationship with each other were fascinating, but to Clare the roles of the women who loved them lacked depth. They were too superficial, too concerned with themselves to have generated the emotions directed toward them, or to have withstood the dangers and hardships they had to face.

  Logan, to give him his due, listened to her ideas, though it was plain that he did not agree with them. His attitude was annoying, but Clare did not press the argument. The problem was a minor flaw in what she was inclined to think would be a tremendous motion picture. Certainly it was not worth endangering the tenuous peace that reigned between them. Why should she risk it for something that within a few hours, when the snowstorm had blown itself out, would have nothing whatever to do with her?