“Yes,” said Colin, surprised by the question. Apparently she did know what spawn meant. “It’s very difficult. They even have to climb up waterfalls in some places.”
Her eyebrows dipped a trifle. “Are you joking with me, Colin? If you are, I don’t appreciate it, because I’m really interested.”
“No!” Horrified that she would think such a thing, he hurried on. “Good heavens, no. I so seldom find anyone who’s interested in my research that I never joke about it.” Or about anything else, although he didn’t mention that because it seemed somehow rather pitiful at the moment. It wasn’t his fault he’d been more interested books than people, although it had made him a trifle dullish. “Believe me, while the mating ritual of the salmon might seem strange and to require astonishing vigor and persistence, it’s far from being the most unusual. The mating life of species is a fascinating subject. The salmon demonstrate Mr. Darwin’s theory of survival of the fittest remarkably well.”
Her wide smile made him feel pretty darned foolish, and he gave himself another mental whap in the chops. Imagine, speaking about such things with a female. Even an actress. He ought to have his head examined. Brenda herself seemed far from shocked, which didn’t surprise him a bit. She was probably used to hearing more racy talk than this from any number of people.
“I’ll have to look it all up in a book sometime, I guess,” she said after a very long minute.
Colin grunted.
“You promise you’re not joking about the salmon?”
“Absolutely not.” His voice was sterner than it needed to be, but he still suffered from acute embarrassment.
“I see. Okay, I’ll believe you for awhile, then—until I find out you’re teasing me.” She gave him one of her beautiful smiles
“I never tease,” he said solemnly.
“Really?” She ate her last bite of fish. “I love to tease and joke around.”
Colin might have predicted that. “Yes, I’m sure.” Thank God they’d veered away from mating rituals.
“But I’ve been on the stage half my life, and that’s just part of it, I suppose. Theater people are loads of fun. Sometimes. When they aren’t wanting to commit suicide.”
Her comment, spoken in a casual and easy way, managed to divert his attention from his own mortification. His eyebrows soared, and he must have appeared either astonished or horrified because she laughed gaily.
“It’s true. Theater folks are a sensitive, high-strung lot for the most part. They have lots of ups and downs, partly because the business is so uncertain, and partly because that’s the way they are. They live through their emotions, I suppose because they have to. I like them a lot. Most of them.”
Hmmm. Colin, who enjoyed learning about things no matter where they presented themselves, asked, “And are you like that, too, Brenda? Up and down, I mean. High and low.”
She shrugged, attracting Colin’s attention to her creamy shoulders and distracting him from the subject under discussion momentarily.
“Not so much,” she said.
He’d forgotten his question. Fortunately, she went on without waiting for him to add a comment, so it didn’t matter.
“I went on the stage because my, family needed money,” she said matter-of-factly. “My poor mother didn’t know what to do after my father died. She used to make clothes for other people, but that didn’t generate much income. I was quite a pretty girl”—she smiled in so self-deprecating a manner that her words were free from any hint of vanity—”and I had good hair, so I went to Bloomingdale’s and applied for a job modeling hats. They took me on. That was a pretty good job, and steady work, but I got to talking with some of the other models, and a couple of the girls and I decided to try our luck at one of the musical comedy theaters in town. I was very fortunate to be picked up. Thank God I have a voice. Which, I might add, I’ve been trying to rid of its ghastly New Yorkness for years now.” She heaved such a heartfelt sigh that Colin almost believed she was as unpretentious as she sounded.
He caught himself staring at her, blinked, and turned away. He wished they’d replace the fish course with the roast beef so he’d have something to do with himself besides fiddle with his napkin and feel uncomfortable. “I’m, ah, sure that you were more than merely fortunate. Surely you have talent. You mentioned your voice, for instance?” He elected not to add that he was pleased to know she was working on the accent.
Again she shrugged. “I’m no more talented than lots of other girls. I’m prettier than some, which is another piece of luck, and I can carry a tune. I guess I have a knack for projecting personality onstage or something. Some people don’t. It’s an odd commodity, stage presence. There are many, many people who are more innately talented than I am, believe me, but they don’t project it as well.”
He guessed he’d have to believe her, since he had no means of comparison. He’d never been to a Broadway production, musical, comedy, drama, or any other sort. He didn’t do those sorts of things when he was in New York City. He paid visits to the Museum of Natural History.
However, he couldn’t fight a strong gut instinct that she was trying to put one over on him. He’d met perishingly few beautiful, successful women in his day, but he couldn’t imagine one as beautiful and successful as Brenda Fitzpatrick being so casual about her own accomplishments. “Um, I’m sure the competition must have been tremendous,” he offered, hoping to nudge her natural egotism out of wherever she was keeping it hidden.
“Oh, sure.” She smiled at the waiter who set a plate before her. The waiter, a young man probably working at the lodge for the summer, couldn’t maintain his stony expression in the face of her smile and turned red.
“Thank you,” Colin said to the waiter, thereby surprising himself. He seldom thanked waiters because his mind was generally occupied in thinking about something other than food when he was eating.
“I’m really kind of a fraud,” Brenda said after she’d tasted her roast beef “Mmm. This is delicious.”
“A fraud?” Colin stared at her. Then he recalled the beef. “Yes, it is good.”
She swallowed and began carving another piece of her meat. “And I suppose it wasn’t fair of me to become so successful. After all, there are hundreds of women who are dying to make it big on the stage. I just sort of showed up and got a job, they liked me, and here I am. I don’t have the ambition a lot of other actresses have.”
“No? How do you account for your success?”
“Luck. Luck and timing. And determination. I can’t discount the fact that we desperately needed the money, and I was willing to put myself on display to get it. It’s been a good thing for my family, so I don’t feel too guilty. We could have had a really hard time of it if I hadn’t had a face and a voice and the gumption to use them.”
“Er, if you don’t think the question impertinent, do you mind telling me how old you were when you set out to earn an income for your family?”
She laughed, a golden, tinkling laugh that made his head swim for a second. “I don’t mind at all. I was twelve years old when I started modeling hats. Lucky for all of us, I looked older when I made myself up, so I could do the live shows in front of all those female gorgons. Mrs. Vanderbilt.” Brenda wrinkled her nose, giving Colin some indication of her comic inclinations. “Mrs. Morgan. I’d almost feel sorry for her if she wasn’t so darned rich. Imagine, having one’s husband frolic all over the country with his mistresses in tow, while you hold down the house. If it’s the Morgans’ house, I suppose a woman can learn to adjust.”
She laughed again, a wholehearted, gutsy laugh. “And that nose of his! Why, it just makes me laugh to think that he considers himself God’s gift to womankind, when if he weren’t rich, he wouldn’t be able to find a woman to save himself.”
But Colin’s brain had got clogged back there in Brenda’s twelfth year. Good God. He couldn’t even imagine a twelve-year-old girl setting out independently to earn a living for her family. He began to have a niggling mite of re
spect for Brenda Fitzpatrick, although he knew better than to allow it to grow. For all he knew, this was merely a publicity story she’d developed over the years to make her softhearted and softheaded fans feel sorry for her.
He recalled Martin telling him something about Brenda having supported her family after her father died and wondered if he was being needlessly hard on her. But no. As a dedicated researcher, he’d learned to take everything regarding human nature and its history with a grain of salt. He decided to take Brenda’s story with two grains. After all, Martin had undoubtedly heard this story from Brenda’s own lips. Martin, not an academician, and a good-hearted man into the bargain, wouldn’t have doubted it for a second.
Whether he believed her story or not, Colin had to admit that her life had been poles apart from his. “What about school? Did you manage to squeeze school into your work schedule?” She spoke well. Perhaps she’d studied after work. Or before work.
She shook her head, making the light glint in her hair. She had perfectly lovely hair. This evening she had it dressed simply, in a poof on top of her head. Pink pearls had been twined into the soft waves. For some reason, her hair made Colin’s mouth water.
He was only hungry, he told himself, and took a bite of beef. It was awfully good.
“No. I’m afraid I wasn’t able to attend school after my eleventh year.”
“Oh.” Colin couldn’t imagine such a thing.
She peered up at him slantways and grinned “You’re scandalized, aren’t you? I’m an uneducated twit.”
Exactly what he was thinking, actually. He stammered, “Oh, no. Not at all.” Stuffing a bite of beef into his mouth, he thought frantically. After he swallowed, he said, “You’re very well-spoken, in fact.”
She threw her head back and laughed that full-bodied laugh of hers, drawing the attention of several other diners and embarrassing Colin. Martin smiled at him from the head of the table Leroy Carruthers looked at him with scant favor from over the flowers displayed in the centerpiece. Colin took a bite of his potatoes and wished he didn’t feel so warm.
“Let’s just say I read a lot,” Brenda said after a moment. “And I’ve done lots of stage work. I guess some of the grammar and stuff rubbed off.”
“I see.” He felt unaccountably silly. It did seem a shame, though, that this woman, who obviously had a brain cell or two to rub together, had been forced to give up her education for the sake of her family at the tender age of twelve. “Er, how many people are in your family?”
“Well, let’s see. There’s my mother, of course, and Bill and Tom. They’re the twins. And then there’s Kathy, the youngest. She’s only fourteen now, but she’s doing very well.” Leaning closer to Colin, she said confidentially, “She had scarlet fever about six years ago and hasn’t been very strong since. The fever weakened her heart, according to the doctor. But she seems to be improving all the time. She’s quite a musician. Plays the piano in church when she’s up to it.”
Colin was no genius when it came to detecting emotions in people. Indeed, he couldn’t even identify his own most of the time. But he saw an expression of anxiety pass over Brenda’s face. Either she was a genuinely superior actress or this particular part of her story, and her concern on her sister’s behalf, was true. “I’m sorry to hear it. I hope she will continue to get stronger.”
“So do I. She’s a sweetie. She deserves to live in health.” She sipped some of her wine, as if she wanted to give herself a space of time in which to brighten her mood. When she spoke again, her tone was lighter. “Anyway, Billy and Tommy are both at college now. In Philadelphia.”
“Are they? And you’re paying for their education?”
“Sure. It’s the best way to earn a living these days, I think. To get an education, that is. Not everyone can take to the stage like I did. And I wouldn’t really want my brothers and sister to have to go through the life, either. It’s too uncertain, and there are pitfalls galore. Anyway, I don’t think Kathy would ever be able to endure the strain of life in entertainment.”
Colin blinked at her, wondering again if she was trying to gain his sympathy for some strange or fell purpose. He couldn’t think of one to save himself. “Er, well, your theatrical career must pay well, though.”
“Oh, sure. The pay’s great. But it’s not what I’d have chosen for my life if I’d been in a position to choose.”
“No?”
“No.”
Hmmm. He might as well ask. Her answer might possibly shed some light on his currently befuddled state of mind regarding her. “What would you like to have done instead?”
She gave him a broad grin, one of the impish variety that Colin had begun to think of as exclusively hers. “You won’t believe me.”
Quite possibly. Nevertheless, he said, “Try me,” and smiled at her.
“I still don’t think you’re going to believe me, but I’d have loved to be a librarian.”
Good God. She was right. He didn’t believe her. In fact, her glib and astonishing answer to his question cinched it all for Colin. She was toying with him for some motive he couldn’t fathom. But what was it?
He scanned the table, looking for personable men. Except for Martin and Carruthers, there didn’t seem to be any. The others were either old and gray or young and callow.
Not that Brenda Fitzpatrick would be the first woman who wanted to snare herself a rich old husband or a virile young lover, Colin supposed, but the fellows seated at the table were so—so— Well, they weren’t suitable. The old ones were too old, and the young ones were mere boys. He turned to look at her, and the possibility that she might have a yen for a wealthy old husband or a simpering young lover irked him. Surely she wasn’t so conniving.
Besides, none of the men or boys dining with them this evening would need such provocation as Brenda might, be exciting by paying attention to Colin. If she crooked her little finger, they’d all come running. She didn’t need Colin to achieve success with any of them.
What could it be what could it be?
“Don’t forget,” she said, jarring him and returning his attention to her, “we’ve got a date after dinner. You’re going to tell me all about the Indians.”
The Indians. Honestly. She didn’t really expect him to buy into that one, did she?
Nevertheless, he’d already committed himself. He smiled. “Of course. The Indians.”
“Thank you. I really appreciate this.”
Right. Colin refrained from uttering a sarcastic snort only with difficulty.
Chapter Four
Brenda was frustrated when she went upstairs to bed that night. She neither liked nor was accustomed to feeling this way. Oh, it was true she’d finagled Colin Peters into sitting with her after dinner and discussing Indians, but their conversation hadn’t satisfied her.
For one thing, he’d been remarkably disinclined to speak with her at all. She’d detected his reluctance clearly in the rigid lines of his body, his stilted manner of speech, and in the way his lips pursed when she asked questions. It was as if he found her not merely boring and stupid, but pesky as well.
While Brenda was too sensible to be arrogant about her looks—after all, they weren’t her fault—she wasn’t used to men being as indifferent to her feminine charms as Colin seemed to be. She’d spent most of her life marketing her looks, for heaven’s sake, and, until Colin Peters came along, she’d been very successful at it.
It had been an annoying evening. Oh, sure, she’d learned a lot about the Gabrielino Indians, but she didn’t want to know about them. She wanted to know about the Indians who were supposed to take her character captive in Indian Love Song.
When she’d told Colin so, he’d looked aggrieved and superior and said there were no such Indians. She didn’t believe him. She’d even argued with him about it, but he was adamant. He even got huffy.
“Never, in all of the chronicles about Indian culture that I’ve perused, have I read of such a thing,” he said grimly. “And in all of the
interviews I’ve conducted, I’ve never heard of it, either.”
“But surely Indians took people captive.”
“Of course they did.” He was getting snappish.
“So why do you say that this particular capture is incredible?”
“Because it is.”
“But why?”
“It’s utterly nonsensical.”
Which still didn’t tell her why the scenario was so incredible and nonsensical. She’d been grateful when Martin had turned up, because she’d been on the point of becoming almost as testy as Colin. But Martin was a great gun, and he bought her and Colin a drink, and they’d ended up being civil to each other.
There was no doubt in the world that Colin Peters puzzled her, though He was everything she’d ever wanted to be herself. He was, as well, everything she could imagine ever wanting in a man—and he apparently desired to have nothing whatsoever to do with her.
Was it because she was an actress? Surely not. Brenda had never met a man anywhere who wouldn’t have been as happy as a cat in cream to have her on his arm. Men were so simple. So predictable. So—so—so unutterably stupid about such things.
If she were stuck with an empty-headed, brainless, ornament of a man, she’d be bored sick in a minute. But she was a woman, and women were more sensible than men. Men seemed to go out of their way to secure feebleminded female decorations unto themselves. She’d been hiding her own brain long enough to have figured out that aspect of the masculine character.
“Bother,” she muttered as she slid out of her evening gown. The gown had been a success, at any rate, although she knew she’d look good draped in a sheet. She never failed to thank the good Lord for giving her looks, because she knew they were the only thing that had saved her and her family from a life of grinding poverty.
Speaking of looks . . . She glared at her reflection in the mirror, squinting hard. Was she losing her looks? Was she getting old? Wrinkled? Did she have crows’ feet? Was there something physically wrong with her, to account for Colin remaining so completely unimpressed?
Beauty and the Brain Page 5