“Me, too,” said George. His voice was soft, as if he couldn’t quite figure out what was going on between Colin and Brenda. Which didn’t surprise Brenda in the least. She couldn’t figure it out, either.
Colin turned from Brenda to George. Thank God, thank God.
“I’m sorry for the reception I gave you, George. I was surprised to see you. When you told me you’d dropped out of school without telling a soul, the first thing I did was get mad. I should have listened first and then got mad.” He smiled the most charming smile Brenda had ever seen on his lips.
George’s eyes grew round with incomprehension and shock, and he gulped audibly. “I—ah—I should have written or telephoned or something. I, er, don’t blame you for being mad at me.”
This was getting pretty sticky for Brenda, who was unused to being involved in other families’ confessionals. “I think I’d better change for my next scene,” she said abruptly. “I’m glad you two are talking again.”
Fiddle, should she have said that? Too late to call it back now. She hurried off, glancing over her shoulder to see the two Peters brothers staring after her, George smiling, Colin with an expression on his face she’d never seen before, and which made her blood race.
Mercy and goodness, whatever did this mean?
The last scene with the Navajos went well. Brenda was pleased, although she felt slightly ridiculous the entire time the cameras cranked. She knew good and well that while blond sausage curls were all the rage these days in the pictures, they were pretty silly if anyone involved with Indian Love Song wanted to be taken seriously.
Which, of course, they didn’t, or they’d have had her filmed with dirty, straggly hair and smudged cheeks. Brenda knew, if the Peerless folks didn’t, that it took many hours and a lot of skill to create her hairstyle. No woman could achieve the effect if she’d been captured by savages and set to work as a slave for them. She was surprised Colin hadn’t already interrupted the filming with several thousand grouchy words on the subject.
But Colin didn’t say a solitary thing. He only watched the scene being filmed from under a tree several yards away. He seemed different suddenly. No longer did he stand as stiff as a poker and glare with disapproval at everything. Instead, he looked as nearly casual as Brenda imagined he could look. He leaned against that tall fir tree, his arms crossed over his broad chest, one leg propped against a log, his dark hair ruffled in the spring breeze, looking more like a pirate than ever. He looked as if he might stride across the clearing and claim her as some kind of prize.
It was all new and titillating to Brenda, who didn’t understand. What in mercy’s name had happened to him? He seemed a totally different person. He seemed—human. Earthy. Approachable. Provocative. Arousing.
Oh, dear. Whatever had wrought this change in him, it was probably a very bad thing for her. Almost, she wished for the old Colin back. That one was safe. This one was—dangerous.
“I don’t remember if I’m supposed to hit you now or wait until you drop the bucket.”
Jerry’s words startled Brenda, and she realized it was the first time in her entire career that she’d allowed her mind to wander when she was supposed to be working. She glanced at him, holding her bucket close to her chest and feigning fear. Jerry was doing a great job. He looked as savage as a quiet man like him could look. “Um, I don’t think it matters. You can hit me before and after, if you want to look really mean.”
“Sure. Why not?” Jerry gave her a hideous scowl and swung at her, missing by the proverbial mile.
“Great!” Martin called from the sidelines. “Wonderful expressions, you two. Be sure you get close enough to make it believable, Jerry. Brenda, you were great! The way you staggered was superb!”
Superb, was it? Well, good. She dropped the bucket she’d been carrying and cowered away from Jerry, who walked up to her like a panther stalking its prey and let fly with another open-handed swing. Brenda jerked her head sideways, as if his hand had hurt her cheek when it hit, and cried out in mock pain. She pretended to stumble and fall next to her bucket
“Jeeze, did I hurt you?” Jerry sounded horrified.
It was all Brenda could do not to laugh. Bless Jerry Begay for taking her mind away from Colin. “Good heavens, no, Jerry. I’m acting.”
“Good. Jeeze, you scared me.” No one would have known it, since his expression didn’t alter.
Neither did Brenda’s. She lifted her arm as if to ward off another blow and continued to cower pitifully. “Want to have one last baseball game this afternoon?” she asked suddenly, the thought having just occurred to her. “You guys have to leave tomorrow, and it’d be fun to play another game.” That would distract her mind from Colin, too. The more things she could find to fill her day and her thoughts, the better. Especially if they didn’t involve Colin. She knew he didn’t like to play games.
“Sure. Sounds good to me.” Jerry reached down and clamped a hand on her arm as if he aimed to heave her into a fire.
“Wonderful!” Martin yelled from the sidelines. ‘You two are perfect!”
Brenda pretended to stagger to her feet, her face contorted as if she were in awful pain. “Great. As soon as this scene’s done, I’ll get the teams organized.” She’d play this time and not simply serve as manager and umpire. That would wear her out and keep her mind occupied at the same time. She felt better about life at once.
“That’ll be fun.” This time Jerry pretended to shove her hard, and she pretended to stumble and sprawl on the ground once more
“Perfect! Wonderful! You two are doing a superb job! The public is going to love this one!”
Martin’s enthusiasm tickled Brenda. She pretended to flounder in the dust for a moment or two, picked up her fallen bucket, gazed up at Jerry in terror, and crept to her feet as if the spirit had been beaten out of her.
Poor Jerry. It really wasn’t fair that he and his people should be portrayed as such barbarous fiends when they were only people, like everybody else in the world. But this was what the public craved, she supposed, and this was how she earned her keep, so she’d do it. And Jerry’d do it. And the misconceptions about Indians would grow and become entrenched in the public’s mind as moviemakers continued to crank out these silly pictures.
She was depressing herself again. What was wrong with her today? She caught sight of Colin, leaning against that tree and gazing at her like a satyr about to pounce on a nubile virgin, and she sighed.
Oh, yes. She remembered now. That’s what was wrong with her.
Colin noticed that Brenda had sent Jerry over to ask him if he wanted to join in the baseball game and grinned to himself. She hadn’t come to ask him herself.
It was working. His act was working. Maybe acting wasn’t such a nonsensical pastime after all.
Not that it was entirely an act. The truth had struck him shortly after she’d stormed away from him earlier in the day, and he’d been nearly knocked cockeyed by it. He shouldn’t have been. After all, he, above most men, should have recognized what was happening
He and Brenda were performing a mating ritual! He’d initially believed it was only she who was doing the dance, but he’d been wrong. They both were. That was why they struck sparks off each other every time they talked. Only the mating game in human beings was more complicated than it was for other species. Colin wasn’t a naturalist, as his parents had wanted George to be, but he knew a little bit about almost everything, and he’d studied biology.
For instance, if he and Brenda were dogs, he and she would have started out by sniffing each other, and would have mated by this time. If they were birds, he’d have strutted and preened and fluffed his fine feathers in front of her, she’d have pretended indifference, and they’d have mated by this time. If they were cats, he’d have been howling under her window and had boots thrown at him by the other lodge visitors—and they’d still have mated by this time.
But they were human beings, and human beings weren’t so simple, dash it. Human beings s
eldom really knew what they were doing as they performed this particular rite, preferring to think of mating as something other than a natural act, and one that required thought. Which was probably a good thing, or folks would be copulating all over the place—and with perfect strangers half the time. That was no way for the world to run.
However, he lusted for Brenda. She might lust for him or she might not, but he had a notion that she did. Otherwise, why should he upset her so? It sounded like biology at work to him, and he’d made up his mind to give in to it. Why should he be the only male animal not to achieve satisfaction of a sexual nature when the call was so loud? Dash it, he was a normal, virile male.
And Brenda was an actress.
Actresses were loose women, weren’t they? Not that Brenda seemed particularly loose, but she probably was. They all were. Weren’t they?
For some reason, the thought of Brenda being a loose woman who would mate with any old male who came into view and sniffed around her didn’t sit well with him. He figured he was only being silly. Any time Colin got jealous of his brother George, he knew it was time to act. So he was acting.
“What team is Brenda going to play on, or is she going to be manager and umpire again?” He tossed the baseball in the air and caught it, reminding himself of Jerry Begay when he’d first stepped out of the truck several days before. His decision to seduce or be seduced by Brenda had given him an odd sort of confidence, and he discovered himself behaving like any other, beer-guzzling, baseball-mad American man. He’d even noticed himself swaggering a few minutes ago. How odd.
“She said she was going to play today,” Jerry told him casually.
How could any man be casual around Brenda? It didn’t seem possible. “I see. Where’s she getting the people to play on the teams? Lots of the extras have already been shipped out.”
Jerry, a phlegmatic individual, shrugged. “I dunno. I expect she’s using the crew.”
“I expect so.” Colin saw his brother walking toward him, called out, “George!” and threw the ball at him. It wasn’t a very good throw, and he was disappointed. Perhaps this typical American male pose required practice. George caught the ball anyway.
“Are you going to play, Colin?” George looked happy. Colin didn’t wonder at that. George was now working in pictures, thanks to Brenda.
“Yes, I’ll be playing.”
“Good. I don’t remember you ever playing baseball when we were kids. You were always hanging out in museums and libraries and stuff like that.”
He had to say that, didn’t he? Colin didn’t frown; he didn’t want anyone seeing how much George’s comment irked him. Far better to assume superiority. “I suppose I was. How else was I supposed to get my doctorate?”
George sighed. “That’s right. You’re a doctor now, aren’t you? Gee, Colin, I think that’s swell. I’d never be able to do that. I’m not smart enough.”
Although pleased, Colin wouldn’t admit it. “Nonsense. You merely have other interests.”
Looking astonished, George blurted out, “Well, yeah, I always thought so. But I never thought you’d admit it.”
Dash it, was his little brother determined to make him look a fool? Colin frowned at George. “Don’t be silly.”
George shrugged.
“All right, everybody, let’s form our teams!”
Brenda stood under a sycamore tree, wearing that silly New York Giants baseball cap and looking more beautiful than any woman had a right to look. George trotted over to her, and Colin saw her point to a large pine free on the other side of the clearing, where Martin and several of the Peerless crew members had already gathered.
So, Colin thought, she’s going to play with the Indians. “Where do you want me, Brenda?” He knew where he wanted himself to be, and he gave her a slow, seductive smile to let her know it, too.
She blushed, and Colin was pleased with himself. He’d never acted the dashing rake before. The pose was rather enjoyable. It would be even more enjoyable if it bore fruit. So to speak. He frowned and decided he’d have to use some kind of protection if his plan worked.
“Why don’t you play with the Peerless folks, Colin?”
“I’d rather play with the Indians.” He’d rather play with her, actually.
She frowned. He got the distinct impression she was trying to put distance between the two of them, and he was reminded of the mating dance of a certain genus of duck. The female duck always played hard to get, even going so far as to nip her prospective mate on the tail—but she always succumbed in the end.
When he’d agreed to work for Peerless this summer, he never figured the job would prove to be so educational.
“Very well,” she said, her tone slightly peevish. “Come on.”
He grinned to himself as he sauntered over to stand at her side.
Chapter Thirteen
“Slide!” Martin bellowed, forgetting for the moment that he was rooting for the wrong team. But Brenda absolutely delighted him, and he wanted her to score. She’d socked a whopper into the trees and then raced like a rabbit around the bases. Now, with her blond hair streaming and her skirt hiked up nearly to her waist, showing an undoubtedly shocking display of pantaloons and petticoats, she was headed for home base.
The cameraman who played left field had found the ball in the woods and, for once, lobbed it in a straight line to the center fielder, Gilbert Drew. Leroy Carruthers, today’s pitcher, who probably ought to be distressed that he’d pitched a home-run ball, was shouting and laughing and generally making a spectacle of himself—and nobody cared. They were all having too much fun.
The Navajos, whom Martin had never seen animated at all, had jumped up from their benches, hurried to home base, and were now shouting, rooting for Brenda. Even Colin Peters, much to Martin’s amazement, was hollering and cheering. He stood at home plate, too, clapping his hands, encouraging Brenda in to score.
Unless she sped up or slid, though, she’d probably not beat the ball. There was always the chance that George Peters, who was the Peerless Cowboys’ catcher, would drop the ball, but he didn’t look awfully clumsy to Martin. In fact, the boy had thus far shown himself to be a talented, even a gifted, artist, and Martin was pleased as punch that he’d decided to try for work in the pictures. Peerless could use him, especially with the magnificent epics the studio had planned for future productions.
Even though he wasn’t sure he really wanted Brenda to slide, since he didn’t want her to scrape her delicate skin, Martin cupped his hands around his mouth and again roared, “Slide!”
Brenda, who had grinned at him when she rounded third base—Martin was at present not the director of a picture, but the Cowboys’ third baseman—slid. With a glance over her shoulder to see who had the ball, she spotted the Cowboys’ second baseman, Herbert Bloom, otherwise Peerless’s second cameraman—catch the ball and rush forward to throw it to George.
She shrieked, “Watch out below!” and let herself fly, hands first, arms stretched out in front of her, at home base.
Martin stood motionless, his heart in his throat, as he watched Brenda, blond hair, petticoats, pantaloons, and all churn up about an acre of dust He heard the ball slap against George’s mitt, and he heard somebody let out an “Ooof,” as if whoever it was had been hit in the stomach
Then there was silence. And suddenly, over the stillness in the in and the cloud of dust hovering above home plate, the umpire, one of the waiters from the Cedar Crest who’d been roped into service, shrieked in a voice too shrill to hide his elation, “She’s safe!”
Both teams erupted into cheers of delight.
“Yee-haw!” hollered Gil, who had played in several cowboy pictures recently
“Hooray!” yelled George.
The Navajos let out with a variety of whoops that might have been frightening if heard under other circumstances. And then, as abruptly as the noise had started, it ceased.
Martin, blinking with surprise, looked around to see what had happened. Then
he did, and his mind went blank as his mouth dropped open.
George, stunned, dropped the ball and gaped.
The Cedar Crest’s helpful waiter blushed scarlet and turned his back, so as to hide his face.
Gil, standing behind the second baseman and staring, whispered, “Holy smoke.”
Leroy Carruthers’s eyes nearly popped out of his head.
Jerry Begay took one look at the spectacle, grinned and turned to rejoin his tribesmen.
Colin Peters and Brenda Fitzpatrick were locked in an embrace that was truly awesome to behold. Martin wished he could capture it on celluloid and show actors how a real kiss looked.
Which meant, of course, that it was too awesome for public consumption. Martin trotted to home plate and put on an act. He wasn’t an actor as a rule, but he knew how the job was done. He lightly slapped Brenda on the shoulder. “Great job, Brenda! Even though you’re on the other team, I’m impressed!”
Colin and Brenda jumped away from each other as if somebody had run an electric current through them. Brenda touched her lips with a very dirty hand and said, “Oh, my!” Colin appeared too rattled to say even that much.
“Good job, everybody!” Martin said hurriedly, not wanting another perilous gap to descend in the conversation. He turned and beamed at the baseball players. “I’ll stand drinks for everybody!” He pointed at the lodge with a bat he’d picked up from the ground. “Onward to the bar!”
A consummate professional, Brenda recovered her wits almost immediately—much sooner than Colin, who still looked as if he’d been conked over the head with a large skillet. “Thanks, Martin!” She looked around eagerly, as if she had nothing at all on her mind but the baseball game.
“So, what’s the final score?”
“Five to four, Indians,” Jerry Begay said. Although he’d always heard Indians were an inscrutable lot, Martin could swear there was a twinkle in Jerry’s dark eyes.
Beauty and the Brain Page 19