He's So Shy

by Linda Cajio

  Everyone laughed. Libby said, “Hey, Bill, make a note. We’re moving up to tomorrow the shoot where Richard’s supposed to fall off the cliff into three feet of water and survive.”

  Richard chuckled. It had a rich, deep sound of genuine affection to it. Pen smiled in surprise and appreciation. She hadn’t thought the real Richard had a sense of humor. Ezekiel, yes. Richard, no.

  Then she wondered about her cousin, who had drawn it out of this cold, silent man. What was Libby’s relationship with him that she could do it? They were of an age and background, and Pen knew Libby was not long out of a painful divorce. Were she and Richard together?

  An icy chill settled on her. The thought hurt worse than she cared to admit. She reminded herself to get a grip on her emotions and imagination. They could be whatever they wanted to be, and it shouldn’t matter to her. She was just a standby observer for the summer.

  She groaned. It was only June.

  Forcing herself to act like the intelligent woman she’d thought she was, Pen said, “I can’t thank all of you enough for your patience in putting up with me on the set. Libby’s probably told you I teach science to gifted elementary school kids, and I want my students to learn how a movie is made. Can I ask you a few questions? On your breaks or something, of course, where they wouldn’t be in the way.”

  “Thank God for that,” Libby said. “I love you, but the thought of 20 eight-year-olds wandering the set gives me the shingles. ‘School’s out’ never sounded sweeter.”

  “They’d be better behaved than you,” Pen retorted, grinning.

  Everyone hooted.

  “Can she go over the cliff with Richard?” Libby asked the room in general. “It would be good pathos. And Pen would be great for the part.”

  “You’d be dead meat,” Pen told her. She was aware of Richard listening intently and forced herself to turn and smile at him. “Hope you don’t mind if I bow out of that.”

  “Not at all,” he said. “I’ve told Libby she ought to get herself in front of the camera. Maybe this is the scene for you, Lib.”

  “It would turn into slapstick,” Libby said. “Okay, I know when I’ve lost it.”

  “Why don’t you make a videotape of our filming for your class?” Richard suggested. “I don’t think any of us would mind. You could interview the cast and crew on what they do.”

  Pen knew a brilliant idea when she heard one, and immediately turned to her cousin. “Can I, Lib? I promise I won’t get in the way. I can tape from the sidelines, then get interviews on your breaks. It would be a terrific opportunity—”

  “Lord help me,” Libby interrupted. She fixed a measuring stare on Pen, who smiled back innocently. Finally Libby sighed. “I suppose, although I ought to be strung up. ‘Entertainment Tonight’ would kill to get on this set, and I give a schoolteacher completely free rein. Oh well, what’s a little nepotism between cousins?”

  “Nepotism is when you hire your relatives,” Pen said. “And you’re not paying me, that’s for sure. This, my ignorant cousin, is education for all the future filmmakers who come out of Blairstown, New Jersey.”

  “Who are going to grow up and knock me out of a job,” Libby muttered, to everyone’s amusement. Even Richard chuckled.

  Pen turned to him and said, “Thank you for the suggestion. It’s a wonderful one, and I think my students will learn a lot from a tape.”

  Richard nodded and bit into his pizza, mumbling, “Welcome.”

  Okay, Pen thought, she got his message. She waited about twenty minutes, staying out of the conversation, then gave her hands a last final rub with the paper napkin and rose to her feet, saying, “Thanks for the pizza, Libby, but it’s late, and I really have to get going.”

  Libby started to protest. At Pen’s best schoolteacher, no-nonsense look, Libby changed direction and immediately stood up. “I understand. We’re all used to the dawn-to-midnight schedule, but you’re not. Besides, you have your own film to shoot.”

  Pen chuckled. “And I better figure out where I’m going to get a video camera by Monday. Good night, everyone.”

  There was a chorus of good nights. Even one from Richard. Well, Pen thought, a moment of civility. He wasn’t hard to figure out. Even if she hadn’t known something about his childhood, it would still be obvious he must have been a shy boy who had become a loner as an adult. Rudeness came to him unconsciously, Pen was sure. She was certain he didn’t try to put off people deliberately. His profession was cutthroat, and he had probably been burned along the way by “friends.” If he kept strangers at arm’s length, no one could blame him.

  “This was probably boring for you,” Libby said when they reached the front door and were out of earshot of her other guests. “I’m sorry. I should have thought of that.”

  “Are you kidding?” Pen retorted. “Here I am, eating pizza with all you celebrities! I loved it. And I got a great idea for next year’s class. Thanks for giving it the green light.”

  “The studio’ll have my head, and probably the Directors’ Guild too.” With her wide grin, Libby didn’t look worried. “I figure if I lose everything, I’ll just move in with you.”

  Pen smiled. “In a pinch. It’s been great to have you around.”

  “It has been.”

  Funny, Pen thought, once she was outside in the warm night air. She and Libby hadn’t been close as children, even though they had both grown up in the same town and their fathers, the brothers, were close. It was sometime after college that their personalities seemed to have really clicked and they’d become friends.

  She hadn’t bothered to bring her car on such a beautiful night, Blairstown being small enough that Libby’s house was about a five-minute walk from hers. She’d heard that some of the townspeople had rented their houses to actors and crew for exorbitant rates, then gone off to live elsewhere—many to the coastal resort towns—for the rest of the summer. So much for their panic of six months ago at the announcement of the selection of Blairstown as the site for filming. Blair Academy had offered up some of their dorm space to house the crew, since hotels were nonexistent and school would be out. Despite that, people had argued against the project, worried about how it would disrupt their lives. Now they were milking the experience for all it was worth. If the movie became a big success, she had no doubt there’d be signs going up everywhere that would say, “So-and-so slept here.” George Washington would be envious.

  She might as well enjoy her walk, before the town council turned the place into a tourist trap.

  She became aware of the slap of feet behind her. People didn’t hurry in Blairstown. Suddenly the quiet, safe street didn’t seem so safe. She turned around, her muscles tensing. It was Richard.

  “I saw you walking along in the direction I’m going,” he said, halting several feet away from her under the lamplight. His face was half in shadow, his body in full light. “I hope I didn’t scare you.”

  “Just a little.” She smiled. “That’s okay. I have an overactive imagination. One has to, to keep up with my students.”

  “Must be a real challenge keeping up with bright, energetic kids.”

  “It is. Hectic too,” she said, beginning to walk again. His presence made her so nervous. The warm night was getting warmer as her body heated to the sight of Richard, looking so sexy, so strong.

  He caught up alongside her. Pen told herself not to panic or be too pleased.

  He added, “It’s not good for a woman to walk alone at night.”

  “Here in Blairstown?” Blairstown was so sleepy, the sandman never bothered to stop.

  “Even here.”

  He seemed firm about it. She decided not to argue. If Richard Creighton took it into his head to walk her home, to protect her, she was not about to say no.

  Watch out, she warned herself. She could lose all her newfound “He’s just a man” attitude with this one courtly gesture of his. Unfortunately, the rest of her had the urge to lap it up. “Thank you. That’s very kind.”

 
; “Do you live close?” he asked.

  “On the other side of town. Despite the college, we are talking major small town here,” she added. “The place practically shuts down at the end of the school year. The area’s all farms or wealthy homes, with the latter scattered up the mountains, the farms along Route 94. We may have a riding and hunt club, but that’s more of a draw for the college students and their parents. Blair Academy is old money, but Blairstown is mom-and-pop. It’s tinier than Penns Grove ever was. Heck, we’re even too small to be the town in the Back to the Future movies.”

  “Penns Grove was tiny,” he admitted, smiling slightly. “If I remember correctly, it was just one part of a continuous strip of small towns down there that fed all its residents into the DuPont or Hercules chemical plants.”

  Pen grinned, glancing at him. “Your memory’s right on. That part of the state was either ‘Swamp or DuPont,’ as my father likes to say.”

  “Was?” he asked.

  She nodded. “It’s changed some, with a lot of plants downsizing and some even closing. Penns Grove and Pennsville, next door, have grown a bit in spite of all that.”

  “Is that why you live up here?” he asked. “I’d think you’d be teaching school down there, especially if the town’s grown a bit.”

  She grinned again, wryly this time. “Ah, but not if you take a degree in education along with fifty percent of the grads on a national basis during a three-year period. And all this at the same time as a slowdown in growth of the population of school-age children. Talk about a glut of teachers. The baby boomers had no one to teach. I was lucky to get anything in the state. But I like it here. I don’t think I’m made for anything but small-town life.”

  Was she? Even as the words left her mouth, she wondered. Libby’s life was very exciting, and she envied her cousin at times—especially when the kids acted up or the school board threatened to dismantle the special program because it was costly. Or when she was lonely.

  He seemed to mull over her explanation as he walked beside her. Pen smiled as she turned corners and he followed. This was nice, she thought, even if she couldn’t seem to tear her gaze away from him at times. And he did seem genuinely interested in her and the town. Though a doubting-Thomas voice reminded her that he was a very good actor.

  The air was tinged with the scents of roses and male; the sharp contrast of sweet and musky enticing her senses. It was only pheromones, she told herself. Just those scents human bodies emitted to attract the opposite sex. Okay, so his pheromones were extraordinary. That didn’t mean he liked her … was attracted to her as she was to him.

  “I understand you’re camping out up in the mountains,” she said.

  “I am,” he agreed. “It puts me more in tune with Ezekiel, my character.”

  “You think of him as a real person, don’t you?” she asked, trying to not to notice how close his body was as they passed along a house with a large boxwood hedge. Bare inches separated them. Pen resisted the urge to touch him and kiss him … kiss him until she knocked his socks off. She reminded herself he wasn’t wearing any.

  “I think you have to think of the character as a real person and become him to achieve a totally convincing performance.”

  For a moment she had no idea what he was talking about, then remembered her question. She cleared her throat, which had suddenly seemed to go dry on her. “That makes sense. Did you really name a skunk after Libby?”

  He chuckled—a real one, just for her. It was a miracle, Pen thought.

  “I did. It came up behind me this morning and just let go.”

  “You poor thing,” Pen said, chuckling with him.

  “Fortunately, it didn’t get me directly. You know, Libby used to sneak up and let me have it when I went to your school. She was one of my tormentors.”

  Pen blinked at the surprising admission. “Really? But you get along so well now.”

  He snorted, a sound that easily conveyed his disgust and amusement. “She approached me several years back at a studio party and said, ‘I went out of my way as a kid to torture you, and I’m sorry because I think you and I could make great movies together.’ She was charming and hard to resist. Besides, I looked at it as coming full circle.” He glanced at her. “You probably remember me from school.”

  “Actually, I don’t,” she said, repeating the words she’d used at the party. She almost related that, when it occurred to her he might be offended that he’d been talked about behind his back, no matter how innocent or favorable the remarks. “I was a gawky carrot-topped kindgergartner, scared to death I wouldn’t make it through the school day without tossing my cookies.” She laughed. “I still see a lot of kids like that.”

  He didn’t laugh with her. Instead, he said, “I think I remember you. You picked up my glasses one day when Billy Prescott was throwing them around.”

  The name Billy Prescott rang a bell, but the incident didn’t. She smiled, though. “I don’t remember that. Maybe it wasn’t me.”

  “I think so.” He actually grinned. “It was the carrot-top that made me remember, because I recall how sorry I felt for you. I was sure you were next to get tormented.”

  She laughed, not quite as jovially as she would have liked. He had been more right than she cared to admit. “Junior high school was where I got it the worst. At five foot nine, I was taller than every boy by a head and my bright red hair seemed to shine like a beacon. My hair color has faded some, thank goodness. School dances were not my favorite recreation, needless to say. It wasn’t until college that I developed an inordinate interest in the men’s basketball team.”

  He laughed again. Boy, but was she on a roll, she thought. He said, “I bet the basketball team had an inordinate interest in you. I would have.”

  Pen’s heart slowed as her breath caught and the stars seemed to spin around her. The sensation passed, but the words “I would have” lingered. She told herself not to be silly. It was a very nice compliment, and that was all it was. To cover her jangled state, she asked, “So where are the glasses now?”

  “Contacts.” He grinned. “I wonder what Billy would have done about them.”

  “Probably run for the hills,” she muttered, thinking of the battle scene she’d witnessed the other day.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Nothing.”

  She realized they were on her street, nearly at her house, a small, narrow one which she liked very much. She pointed and said, “That’s my house there. Thank you for walking me home. It was very kind of you.”

  “Just common sense.” He seemed relaxed and easy with her. “I’ll walk you to your door.”

  She wondered what the tabloids would say about Richard Creighton walking a schoolteacher to her door, then decided that was non-news for sure. Still, she’d dine out on it for a long time to come.

  “So you were my rescuer that day,” he said, as they reached her walk. “That was very gutsy of you. I can’t remember if I thanked you or not.”

  She smiled. “Kids don’t think about things like that. Besides, I don’t remember.” She shrugged and he leaned over and kissed her.

  THREE

  Her lips were warm silk, drawing him up in flames.

  He hadn’t wanted to go to Libby’s pizza party, but he’d forced himself to, knowing it was good for relations with the crew. And knowing she would be there. Why Libby’s cousin should attract him so was puzzling. He certainly hadn’t understood it—or understood why he’d had an overwhelming urge to leave with her.

  Now he did.

  He pulled her to him, almost as roughly as the bolt of pure desire that shot through him. He gripped her upper arms, marveling at the feel of her flesh against his hands. Her breasts were pressed against his chest, her hips to his, inflaming him in an instant. His relationships with women had been few and far between, and none had ever caused such a swift and complete reaction. She made little noises in the back of her throat, and he plunged his tongue inside her mouth, seeking hers for a gen
tle duel. That she didn’t respond in kind immediately penetrated his passion-fogged brain. He let her go.

  To his surprise, she looked surprised, as if she had expected the kiss to continue. But by the outside light at the front door, he could see her lips were swollen and slightly bruised looking. He realized he hadn’t been as careful with the kiss as he should have been. He cleared his throat to speak, but words failed him.

  Pen smiled into the awkward silence and said, “Thanks for walking me home, Richard. And thanks for the idea about using the video camera. It was a terrific one.”

  “You’re welcome,” he began, trying to figure out how to express his feelings.

  She got her door open before he could say anything. “Good night.”

  “Uh … good night,” he said lamely. Suddenly he was staring at wooden panels.

  He’d done better with Libby the skunk.

  Two days later, Richard couldn’t help noticing Pen on the set. Hand-held video camera practically glued to her right eye, she had been filming anything that moved for two days. People grinned at her and hammed it up for the camera, but he could feel her presence yet again penetrating his Ezekiel overlay.

  He had opened himself to her the other night … the real him, when he’d only meant to draw her out instead. As with Libby, he found it hard to keep himself bottled up and not hide behind his character. Somehow she had her cousin’s knack for pushing through barriers—but with a twist. He’d never had a twinge of desire for Libby. For Pen, his desire was growing monumentally. Each passing day he wanted her even more … until, he feared, the wanting would overwhelm him like a fierce storm. She wasn’t for him, he thought. Women like Pen never were—and he’d been holed up in his camp, reminding himself of that fact.

  She innocently added to his torture by wearing a light blue sleeveless dress with a scoop neckline. The hint of cleavage she displayed was enticing. The dress clung to her slender curves before falling into a slightly gathered skirt. He’d heard them called ballet dresses, although he wasn’t sure why, but Pen certainly had the figure for them. Her hair glinted in the sun, seeming almost to have a life of its own, magical and beckoning. So vividly alive and sweetly lovable, Pen was driving him mad, absorbing his attention, concentration … caring.