Molly felt terrible.
“What should I do, Mom?”
Her mother slowly shook her head and she suddenly looked older than she had ten minutes ago. “Whatever you think is right. No-” she quickly interposed “-I don't mean that. Just do what makes you happy. Daddy and I only want you to be happy. Don't worry about the rest.”
Molly looked at the yellow daisies and the hastily scrawled note. There was an energy and cheerfulness about Bart that was captivating and potent. If you stood in his wake, he'd carry you along. She may not love him the way she loved Carey, but what guarantee did she have that their intense passion would last? She'd known Bart all her life. Carey had entered her world like a blazing meteor, as exotic as a far-off star-and just as unpredictable.
“I'll take you away,” he'd said. And that was all he really meant.
“It would be a terrible bother to send back all the presents,” Molly said with a small smile. “Right? And if Liz can't sing at my wedding, she'll throw a fit. Besides, neither you nor I would have the courage to tell Pastor Helms it's off when his daughter is a flower girl. It's gypsy fate, Mom, and the butterflies are better already.”
A faint blush of color reentered her mother's face. “Bart is sweet,” she said hesitantly.
“And handsome,” Molly added with a smile. “What should I wear to the Coopers' tonight?”
Her mother let out a breath. “Are you sure, dear?” she ventured.
But Molly had seen the expression of relief. “I'm sure, Mom,” she lied with a pleasant smile, while a poignant sadness inundated her soul.
The feeling of sadness and things left unsaid had stayed with her over the years. Not that it mattered. She'd married Bart two weeks later, and Carey had gone out to school at USC the next month. Except for occasional newspaper and magazine articles with photos depicting America's finest young director, Carey Fersten had disappeared from Molly's life.
The snippets of information available from newsprint revealed very little of the man, although the bare bones of his life in the ensuing years were known to her and millions of other people. He won the Cannes Film Festival Prize at age twenty-five with his first major work. She read of his sudden defection from Hollywood a year later to make more esoteric films; his numerous liaisons with well-known beauties all over the world, his marriage to a young German countess-cum-actress, his divorce two years later. And now. Here on the Range. Here in this town, making the immigrant movie he'd talked about years ago.
How could his name still stun her after all this time? So many years had passed, so much had happened: her marriage; the birth of her daughter; the business; the divorce; so many edges had blurred, memories tarnished.
But not his.
That image in the moonlight was as fresh and pure as a rose under lucite. And as disturbing as it had been that night in August.
With heroic effort, Molly shook away the shattering remembrance, forcing her face into a polite social smile. Share as she had with these friends of her youth, she had never completely shared Carey with them. He'd been too special, too different, and perhaps she'd known her feelings were too intense to share. “So the world-renowned director is back in this little burgh,” she said in a neutral tone. “He's going to find it dull as dishwater after his travels.”
“Want to see him again, Molly? Hmmm?” Marge teased. “There was something between you two that spring and summer, even though you wouldn't admit it. Now that you're divorced, why not look him up?”
“No thanks,” she said in a deliberately cool voice. “Too much competition from all those glamorous beauties.” She shrugged, but was annoyed to feel her face flushing. “Every paparazzo photo shows at least one groupy clinging to his arm, and usually there's more. He's probably never heard a woman say ‘no'.” Every one of those pictures she'd seen over the years was cinema veritй, sharp in her mind: the one taken when he and some duke's wife were slipping out of the back door of an exclusive hotel in London early one morning; the full array of shots taken with telephoto lenses on the Greek island where everyone was bathing au naturel; those in St. Moritz with a deposed monarch's youngest daughter smiling up at him; and the nightclub scenes with starlets entertaining one of the handsomest men in the world. “At my age, with an eight-year-old daughter in tow,” Molly reminded them, her face set now to disclose no emotion, “I don't stand a chance against all that fair pulchritude surrounding him. I'll settle for the memories and leave the flash-and-dazzle Carey Fersten for the jet set.”
“His films aren't like that at all,” Nancy, who'd flown in from California, interposed. “Quiet, intimate mood pieces. No flash and dazzle anywhere.”
“His life apparently doesn't follow his art, then, because lean, suntanned, sexy Carey Fersten is almost always ‘where the action is',” Molly rebutted.
“How do you know?” Linda remarked, and for a moment Molly had the distinct impression her friends were defending him.
“Because I read-”
“Those articles aren't always true,” Georgia cut in, her voice moderate, her eyes on the slight flush reappearing on Molly's cheeks.
“None of the publications have been sued for libel,” Molly replied.
“Well, those kind of pictures and headlines sell; they could be innocent friends,” Linda acknowledged.
“Like hell,” Molly said. “And don't forget Sylvie von-what's-her-name, the young wife and actress of slightly blue reputation. That was real.”
“But not long-lasting,” Georgia reminded her.
“Do me a favor, will you?” Molly retorted in a small huff of exasperation. “Stop gushing over him. He could be a saint in monk's clothing, misunderstood by the world at large, but I'm not interested. It all happened ten years ago, for God's sake.”
“So you don't want to see him,” Marge declared.
“No. You can't dredge up the past. People change, times change, circumstances change. It's impossible.” But even as she emphatically pronounced the trite maxims, a tiny voice deep in a forgotten, locked-away corner of her mind cajoled, I wonder what he looks like in real life, stepping out of the photographs? Does his hair still glisten in the moonlight? Are his hands still as gentle? With sheer willpower, Molly wrenched her mind from the disturbing thoughts and, upending her rum, finished it in one great gulp. “Another drink, anyone?”
CHAPTER 16
A fter the banquet and the speeches, the dancing and drinking, after the Moose finally closed down, the party moved to the motel where most everyone was staying. Situated on the freeway south of town, the Holiday Inn was the largest, the best the small town of Amberg had to offer.
Hours later, temporarily escaping the smoke and noise of the transferred party, Molly was leaning on the balcony railing overlooking the indoor pool. She was in the midst of a struggle, trying to subdue a curious sense of longing and indelible images of Carey when the subject of her musing strode into the atrium.
Her mouth went dry.
A stunning redhead was hanging onto Carey's arm, and they were laughing. My Lord-her pulse leaped treacherously-his smile hadn't changed. Warm, open, intensely vital. And nothing else had changed, either-except the burnished tan. He hadn't had a tan like that then, the permanent kind, testifying to life in southern latitudes. His tall, rangy body, the body of Creswell's leading basketball scorer that year, was still lean and elegant. And those powerful muscles, shoulders, arms, and thighs, clearly visible under the white knit shirt he wore tucked into tight-fitting jeans, were taut and youthful. He was wearing sandals-almost barefoot, as he preferred. He'd had a phobia against shoes, not a sensible eccentricity when living in Minnesota's climate, so he'd always compromised with the lightest possible footwear the weather allowed.
His light hair was rough-cut, perhaps a shade longer than before. She remembered he had a habit of raking it back with his fingers when it got in the way. And even from this distance, across the illuminated pool, his dark eyes and heavy brows, the sensual, predatory eyes that had earned him
her intimate name “Tiger” were potent as fevered memory. The opulent redhead was gazing adoringly into those eyes at the moment, and that heated adoration drove Molly away from the balcony railing, just as those intense, dark eyes looked up as if answering a sixth sense.
Molly was gone by that time-only a flash of honey-colored hair and a gleam of azure silk registered in the dusky eyes.
Raucous good cheer greeted Molly when she returned to the large motel room crowded with ex-classmates seated on chairs, on the floor, on the beds, and dressers.
“What you need, Molly baby, is another drink. You're falling behind. Don't want to let down the reputation of our entire class, do you?”
She smiled at Pucky Kochevar and blew him a kiss. “Have I ever let you down, Pucky?” And before the sentence was finished a drink had materialized in her hand.
Needless to say, no one rose early the next day. In fact, it was close to two when Molly opened her eyes and gingerly flexed each muscle and appendage, all of which responded normally if somewhat slowly. She'd survived her first class reunion.
Georgia and Marge were at her door first and within the half-hour had rounded up Linda and Nancy for a late lunch. Sitting beside the pool, eating with the ravenous appetites peculiar to the morning after a long night of drinking, the old friends relived the previous night. So-and-so hadn't changed, so-and-so had changed immeasurably. Professional job choices were analyzed, new husbands or wives scrutinized, who had danced with whom and who hadn't were noted. The conversation was fluid, rapid, neurotically funny as it can be with old friends who share the same sense of humor.
“Should we go and knock on Carey's door? He's here, you know,” Marge teased, her audacity as prime as it had been at fourteen.
“I don't think his bed-partner would appreciate it.” With a grin, Molly pulled Marge back into her chair.
“You saw him?” Linda breathed, wide-eyed and awestruck, her naivetй undiminished by the years.
“Briefly,” Molly said. “He and a model-type redhead walked in around three. I was out on the balcony getting away from the smoke.”
“Did you talk to him?” Marge asked, and every eye at the table swiveled to Molly. They could all display a certain blasй facade-all except Linda-but Carey Fersten was as close to a star as any of them had ever known.
“No, so put your tongues back in. Jeez, he's only another guy-not some superhero,” Molly replied, a sudden image of Carey and the adoring woman last night provoking her nettled tone.
“Just another guy?” Marge repeated in accents heavy with disbelief. “Are you blind, deaf, and dumb? He's the sexiest guy I've ever seen, and if I could be certain Bill who's snoring three doors down wouldn't wake any time soon, I'd be tempted to knock on his door. I could introduce myself as Molly Darian's best friend. I'm sure he'd remember you.”
“Don't be so sure. I expect several dozen women have come and gone since my little fling with him.”
“He was a hunk,” Nancy reminisced with a small sigh. “Do you remember how he looked on court? Nobody had muscles like Carey Fersten.”
“An ex-marine back from Vietnam,” Marge added. “Experienced, older, the women were panting after him even then. You met him in that film appreciation class, didn't you? The one on Saturday mornings at Creswell.”
Molly nodded, but she wasn't about to reminisce about that. It was one of the most enduring memories in her life, and hers alone-not available for public consumption. It was the spring quarter of her senior year, and honor students were allowed to take college courses across campus at Creswell. Carey was doing T.A. work for the professor, and did most of the grading for the course. She'd gone in one afternoon to pick up her test score, and he'd asked her out to a movie.
She said, “I'm engaged.”
He'd looked down at her from under those half-raised, heavy brows and said, “So?”
She'd heard all the stories concerning the old count's wayward son; the one who'd been expelled from every good prep school in the country. The rich kid-bad boy image had evolved somewhat with maturity, Vietnam, and his enthusiasm for film, but a touch of the renegade lingered in the improved persona. And that nervy insolence was manifest in the softly spoken, “So?”
But he was experienced enough to recognize the modest uncertainty in the young woman who'd attracted his attention since the first day of class, so he damped the predatory fire in his eyes and suggested coffee at the student union. Molly could say yes to that, and before twenty minutes had passed she'd said yes to the movie as well. It was the beginning of her introduction to passion Carey Fersten-style; it was also the spring prelude to a glorious, passionate summer that served forever after as a merciless measure of perfection.
“They're filming out at Ely Lake Park, I hear,” Linda said, “using the pavilion for some midsummer kind of festival. Judd's folks have been working as extras.”
“What's the story about?” Georgia asked.
“I don't know exactly… something about the early emigrant labor movement.”
“Sounds socially significant.”
“None of his movies have been pure fluff.”
“You mean those good looks and that sexy charm and he's got brains, too?” Marge jestingly commented. “Do you suppose women love him for his mind?”
“And money, and title-all of the above previously mentioned,” Linda answered.
“So is he really some kind of intellectual, Molly?” Marge persisted, intrigued by the celebrity in their midst, alive with lurid curiosity.
“He was on the dean's list, if that means anything. I don't know much about his intellectual aspirations. We didn't discuss literature and philosophy much,” she replied with a touch of mockery.
“I'll bet you didn't. If I had Carey Fersten within arm's reach, I'd use my mouth for better things,” Marge smartly retorted.
“Vulgar as ever, Marge,” Linda remonstrated, casting her eyes skyward.
“I meant I'd kiss him.”
“Sure, sure, we know you. Kiss him where, darling?” Nancy said pointedly. “You didn't mention where.”
“Talk to Molly about kissing Carey Fersten,” Marge said, her smile broad. “Is he really as good as all the jet-set gossip implies?”
Molly went quiet for a moment, then said, “He's nice.”
“Nice?” Marge exclaimed. “Nice? What the hell does that mean? You mean he goes to church twice on Sunday and doesn't step on ants?” Leaning across her plate, she looked directly at Molly and, with a playful leer, softly asked, “How nice?”
Molly sighed in friendly resignation, her pink flamingo earrings swaying gently with the movement of her breathy sigh. “If you must know, you lecherous ladies,” and Molly couldn't help but smile at the expectancy on each face, “nice means he's very good at pleasing you.”
“Oh, Lord,” Nancy breathed, “I'm going to die right here. I'm always sexy as hell after I drink. What do you think he'd say if I knocked on his door?”
“‘Good morning' and ‘I didn't ring for the maid'?”
Nancy shot Marge a black look. “Screw you.”
“Hey, I'm only teasing. You look great. I love your California tan.” And Marge smiled her warm, sincere smile that endeared her to her Sunday school students, her karate instructor, her husband Bill, and the world at large.
The waitress interrupted with fresh coffee, and by the time everyone had been served, the conversation centered on whether Jane Wilcox had said “I own a Mercedes,” thirty or forty times the night before.
CHAPTER 17
T wo hours later farewells were exchanged, promises to see each other more often solemnly pledged, and each woman went her separate way.
Molly slid behind the wheel of her four-year-old sedan, the only remnant of her marriage not expropriated by a vengeful husband at divorce time. And Bart would have tried to take that too, she thought, starting the car, if the title hadn't been in her name.
Bart Cooper had been extremely uncooperative when their marriage broke
up. It had to do with the fact she'd asked for the divorce. It had to do with his ego and anger and statements like: “You want out of this marriage? I'm not the husband you married? You're growing away from this?” He'd swept his arm out, taking in the antique furniture, the enormous living room, the lake view beyond the bow windows. “Fine!” he'd shouted. “That's just fine! But you're not taking me to the cleaners, and you're not taking this all with you because I worked for this and paid for this. And if this style of living isn't good enough for you, find out what it's like on your own. And I mean on your own! I'm not supporting you and your new boyfriend.”
“There isn't any boyfriend.”
“I'm sure there will be. For the record, he'll have to make his own living.”
And even though his vice presidency of the area's largest advertising agency carried with it a substantial salary, out of retribution he'd pirated Molly's design business into his hands, as well. It hadn't been too difficult to accomplish; all the papers were in his name. Naive female that she'd been, when she first set up her own Design Center after finishing college, it hadn't seemed unusual to have the business management side of the center in Bart's name. Bankers were notoriously slow to lend liberal sums to a woman starting a business, and it had seemed sensible at the time. The loans had been paid off swiftly as the Design Center flourished. Unfortunately, it had become so successful, when they divorced, Bart decided to appropriate it for himself.
At first she'd tried to fight it, but their accountant was a friend of Bart's, their banker was a friend of Bart's, and the agency he worked for conveniently arranged for most of his salary to be masked as commissions and bonuses. Unsubstantial percentages were harder to pin down as income, and suddenly Bart's real income dropped suitably low. When it came time to settle on child support and a division of assets, Bart's income and their assets appeared modest. It was all quite common divorce protocol. Lesson one any lawyer will tell you: Hide your assets.
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