by Linda Cajio
Mary Jane gaped at her.
Pen smiled. “Try it my way. You’ll like the results much better.”
She walked away, heading for her observer’s chair so generously donated by Richard. He caught up with her halfway there.
“What was that all about?” he asked, putting his arm around her. “Giving her fair warning that she’s dead before the day’s out?”
“Just telling her what a wonderful actress she is.” Pen chuckled, tucking her arm around his waist. It was nice to be open with him finally.
Richard raised his eyebrows. “I’ll bet. I intend to have a talk with her myself. I believe she’s the one who’s been feeding the stringers all along and keeping them around.”
Clearly he was as good at adding two and two as she was. Pen smiled, but shook her head. “Why bother? She only hurt herself, because they have no interest in her. Besides, you might see a change in her.”
He made a face. “What on earth did you say to her?”
“What I told you: that she’s a wonderful actress.” Pen paused, then giggled. “Okay, so it’s a long shot.”
“You amaze me.” But he seemed to let it go as the actors and crew were called for.
As the afternoon wore on, Pen’s earlier concerns about dealing with the press on a continual basis were further complicated by talk among some of the crew that the filming would be wrapping up soon in New Jersey.
The next day the complications mounted even more when she discovered that her mail contained a memo from school on the times for the teachers to go in and prepare their classes for the fall. All of them combined only reminded her of the many barriers that were too high for her and Richard to scale—no matter how much they wanted to.
Her heart aching, she wondered how something so wonderful as a declaration of love could bring such despair.
Coming back to film a few more outdoor shots emphasized to Richard how much he would miss the East—miss his home state.
He chuckled to himself as he swiped at his sweaty forehead with the wide sleeve of his old-fashioned shirt. “Hot and humid” was an understatement for the weather, he thought. He defied Florida to come up with summers as brutal as some that New Jersey produced. And here he was missing it a breath ago.
“My God, how did the colonial women survive?” Mary Jane muttered, lifting the hem of her costume’s long skirt and mopping her face with it. Then she cursed at smearing her makeup.
“They were tough women,” Richard said, courteously lifting her hair off her nape to help cool down his costar while they stood on their marks and waited for the final adjustments to lights before the scene’s filming began. The scene called for her hair to be loose, unfortunate on a blistering August day. He asked the nearest crew member to get Mary Jane some water.
“Thanks,” she said, surprise clear in her voice.
“You’re welcome.” Richard shrugged. The woman had been positively pleasant over the last few days. He had no idea what Pen had said to her, but it was working. Or maybe it hadn’t been Pen at all. Maybe the way Mary Jane’s impromptu press conference backfired made her subdued. Whatever, he had to admit she was finally giving one damn fine performance, one so good that Libby was muttering about refilming the earlier scenes.
Richard grinned as he thought of Pen meeting him later at the house. She was working in her classroom today. He missed her, but everything was going well. The press had cooled off and made her their darling. Her school board hadn’t uttered a peep about him and her, which made him wonder if the studio’s generous donation of film equipment had helped. And their relationship was out of the closet. They had a solid base to build from now. He felt as if he’d turned the corner on the Cretin forever. It was amazing what love with the right woman could do.
Tonight he had an important question to ask her. Very important.
But later at the house Richard felt all of his earlier thoughts crumbling to nothing as he gazed at the distress on Pen’s face.
“What’s wrong?” he asked immediately.
“Nothing.” She shrugged in dismissal as she cut green pepper strips for salad.
“Was there a problem at the school today? Anyone give you a hard time about us?”
She shook her head. The pained expression subsided, but she was clearly forcing herself to be normal as she answered. “It went fine. But I’m tired. The heat was horrible at school. I dread setting up my classroom in it. All that getting up and down on ladders, moving desks, tables, and piles of books.”
He listened to her babble on, knowing that was all she was doing in order to cover up whatever was troubling her.
“We’re wrapping up the filming here in a few days,” he said. “The rest of the interior shots will be done in New York and Los Angeles.”
She nodded. “I see.”
Something in her voice was odd, and he realized that he hadn’t said anything about them, their future. Grinning at his stupidity, he said, “You’ll come with me, of course. We’ll be at the Plaza for the next few weeks, then we’ll move on—”
“I’m not going.”
Richard rounded on her, shocked. She stood frozen, not looking at him. “But why? Have I done something—”
“No.” She shook her head vehemently, then raised her chin. “I live here, Richard. I work here. I love what I do. I can’t give it up—”
He gripped her shoulders and spun her to face him, staring straight into her eyes. “Have I asked you to give anything up?”
“No.” She glanced away, then back. “No, you haven’t. Not yet. Richard, your job is not here, it’s thousands of miles away. We both know who would have to give up a job, be flexible. We both know it’s—”
“But why break things off now?” he demanded, dropping his hands as if touching her repulsed him. In a way, it did. She had no idea of the knife she was driving into his heart. “We can work out a solution, Pen. If we try, dammit! And you’re not trying!”
“Because I know it won’t work.” She turned away. “If it’s not the distance, it’s going to be something else. Richard, the love scenes … I can’t stand them. I can’t handle the life you need to lead to be happy within yourself. And I won’t make you change for me. Because I love you too much to do that.”
“Then don’t do this!” He pulled her back and kissed her, tasting her mouth, tasting her response to him. How could she talk one way and respond in another?
She eased out of his embrace, leaving him shaken. “I can’t handle the love scenes. I can’t handle the fishbowl.”
“There’s no fishbowl, dammit! And don’t watch the love scenes. Lots of spouses don’t watch them being filmed,” he said, desperately trying to reason with her. “You know I love you. You know I’ll come to you each time before a love scene and tell you that because I need to, not because I think I have to reassure you. I’ll do it because you mean everything to me—”
“Richard, please.” She stumbled away from him, out of the kitchen. “I … I can’t.”
“Pen!” He went after her.
She picked up her purse. “Richard, it’s better this way.”
Her voice was steady and her eyes were dry.
Richard tried to find the right words to keep her from doing this, but none came to mind. Of all the characters he’d played or seen, not one had the words to stop Pen from leaving him. Only he, Richard Creighton, was left. “Don’t. Don’t do this.”
“I have to.”
She was gone.
As he listened to the car’s engine start up, as he listened to the spin of tires on the gravel, he knew her reasons had nothing to do with distance or even love scenes. He hadn’t changed; he never would. He was the Cretin. Pen, who knew him from childhood, who knew the truth, couldn’t stand knowing she’d be permanently entangled with him.
It was as simple as that.
“You what?”
Pen glared at her cousin. “You heard me.”
They stood in the kitchen as Pen fixed dinner for the two of t
hem. The film crew was leaving the next day for interior shooting in New York. Pen had a disconcerting and very painful sense of déjà vu about the conversation.
“Well, it’s the stupidest thing you’ve ever done,” Libby pronounced. “You broke up with him because you’re afraid of getting hurt. Now you’ll be miserable for the rest of your life, and he’ll be miserable for the rest of his life. But that’s better for both of you than trying to work out a life together? Grade A dumb!”
“You don’t understand …” Pen began, shredding lettuce viciously.
“Hell, no, I don’t.” Libby snorted. “I thought I was the family’s champ for avoiding commitment, but you make me look like a piker. You know what? I think for all your talk about being Richard’s film fling, he was your summer fling.”
Pen gasped in outrage. “That’s a terrible thing to say!”
Libby shrugged. “Well, it looks that way to me.”
“I think this conversation ought to end now,” Pen suggested firmly.
“Quitting on this, too, eh? Well, that’s not surprising. You quit on yourself and Richard. So hurry up with dinner. I don’t have all night, you know.”
Libby stomped out of the room. Pen cursed under her breath, picked up the rest of the head of lettuce she’d been shredding, and slammed the still-solid mass of it into the salad bowl.
“Dinner’s served!”
“Are you going to let her get away with this?”
Richard glared at Libby. “What the hell do you mean?”
They were standing off to the side as the buses were being loaded with the luggage and equipment of those of the crew and cast still left in Blairstown. The academy’s dormitory rose solid and stately behind them, sheltered by the canopy of trees in full leaf. Young women with pliant bodies, clear skin, and perfectly cut, shining hair gathered on the edges of the activity, watching and giggling. They only reminded Richard that a new school year was starting and he was leaving—without Pen.
“Aren’t you going to fight for her?” Libby demanded. “Show her you love her?”
Richard set his jaw, knowing he’d already had this conversation once. With Pen. “I already did all that. It wasn’t enough. She says her life is here, and a long-distance relationship wouldn’t work.”
“Ridiculous!”
“She says she can’t live my fishbowl existence.”
“Utter nonsense!”
“She says she can’t stand even the idea of my doing love scenes.”
“So tell her to go watch Robin Williams instead. Nobody’s significant other watches the love scenes being filmed or shown in the theater.”
“I told her that, dammit!” Richard exclaimed, pushing his fingers at his temples and pulling half his hair out of his ponytail in the process. “What it came down to was that I’m still the Cretin, Libby. She couldn’t stand that.”
His words brought silence. Finally Libby said in a very low, very shaken voice, “I can’t believe Pen would ever even think such a thing, let alone say it.”
“Of course she didn’t say it!” Richard corrected. “She’s too damn polite for that. But I know that’s what it is. I thought I was past it, but I could tell—”
“Now, that is the biggest load of hogwash I have ever heard!” Libby glared at him. “In fact, it’s plain old bull …” She finished the barnyard curse with relish. “The woman put you on a pedestal right from the beginning. She was gaga over you from the first. It was disgustingly mushy to see my cousin in such a state. She’s crazy about you, but she’s scared she won’t measure up. So get your backside out there and show her how you feel about her. If you don’t, you’ll lose her forever.”
“I told you—”
“Words, just words. It’s action that counts. Figure out a way to show her it will work, and then do it!”
Libby stalked away. Richard stared after her. With a curse, he climbed onto the bus.
School had been in session almost two months when Pen came out to the parking lot to discover someone leaning against her car.
“Richard,” she whispered, stopping dead. Teachers and late students flowed around her, staring curiously, but she didn’t care.
All the agony of the past weeks without him were nothing compared to the pain coursing through her now. Her decision hadn’t even begun to prepare her for the reality of not being with him. This was a mirage, she thought. Something her brain conjured up out of her unhappiness.
Slowly she moved, feeling like an old woman as she walked toward her car, positive the image would vanish the closer she got.
But it didn’t. He wore sunglasses, plain black ones, and a baseball cap. The blue chambray shirt sat perfectly on his wide shoulders, sleeves rolled up to the elbows and revealing tanned forearms. His jeans were snug on his hips and legs, emphasizing that lean frame he had. The mocs were beat-up and, as always, he wore no socks.
But his hair was short.
Pen blinked. In her imagination he’d never once had short hair. She never would have even known how to envision him this way.
“You cut your hair,” she said stupidly when she got close.
“It’s all tucked up in the cap,” he said. He straightened. “How are you?”
“Okay.”
“How’s Lolita?” He smiled slightly as he added, “I miss her.”
He missed the cat. Not her. The cat. Pen forced herself not to show how much that hurt. “She’s fine. How are you?”
“Fine.”
He looked better than fine. He looked wonderful—too wonderful. Healthy and tanned, he clearly wasn’t suffering over their breakup. She couldn’t stand it, she thought, her body beginning to tremble. She couldn’t walk away from him twice. She couldn’t go through it again. She asked, “Why are you here?”
“There’s something I want to show you,” he answered. “Will you come with me?”
“Richard—”
“I just need an opinion on something, Pen. Please. It won’t take long. I’ll have you back here in an hour.”
He was so calm, she thought dimly. And so distant. As if he didn’t care about her any longer. Maybe he didn’t.
That thought hurt worse than anything that had gone before.
He took her elbow. “My car’s over here.”
He led her like an automaton to a nondescript Buick.
“Where’s the truck?” she asked as he opened the passenger door.
“Back at the dealership, I suppose.” He tucked her into the seat. “It was a rental.”
“Oh.”
He slammed the door shut.
Pen closed her eyes, knowing she’d sounded incredibly dumb. In her worst moments, she had daydreamed about him coming back. None of them had her in a car, about to give him advice.
What if he wanted to ask her about another woman?
Get out of the car. Now! Pen put her hand on the door latch, but Richard was already climbing into the driver’s seat. He started the car and pressed the automatic door locks. They snapped closed with a loud click.
“Where are we going?” Her voice was a hoarse croak, but she didn’t bother to clear her throat or cover it up.
“Not far.”
They drove in silence. She knew she was being incredibly foolish. But she couldn’t help herself, either. She wanted to touch him, to fling herself into his arms, and she hated herself for the weakness.
“Here we are,” he said after they had driven up Route 602 beyond Blairstown. He turned into a dirt track that wended its way back up the mountainside. He parked the car on the edge of a large glade, unlocked the car doors, and got out.
She followed silently.
“What do you think?” he asked.
“It’s beautiful,” she said. And it wasn’t a lie. The trees allowed small shafts of light through, small beams of sun to dapple the mountain laurels, dogwoods and leafy underbrush. The foliage was already a burst of yellows and reds with the waxing of autumn. In a few weeks the ground would have a brown, rustling carpet o
f leaves, but for now the earth showed through, dark and rich, with the occasional fallen log as an inviting bench for the admirer.
In winter, Pen knew, the bare trees would permit a breathtaking view down the mountain. And then the snows would come, blanketing everything in a white fairyland. The pastels of flowering trees in the spring would be followed by the lush greens of summer. This place would show to perfection all its natural glories.
Richard walked over to her. He took off his sunglasses and looked at her somberly. His eyes were red, as if his nights were haunted. Like hers. “I’m building a house here.”
She was astonished by the news. Her brain ran at lightning speed with a jumble of thoughts and images while her stomach clenched painfully, as if she’d been punched.
“I bought the property today,” he continued. “I’m building my permanent home here.”
How, she wondered desperately, was she to get over him, knowing he’d be living just up the road from her? It didn’t matter that he’d be gone most of the time. Merely that he owned the place, that it would have his things inside, would be sheer torture.
“I wanted to know how you felt about it,” he said. “Because you’ll be living here too.”
She blinked, then as the words penetrated, shook her head violently. “I can’t live with you, Richard—”
“Well, I don’t know of any other way married couples handle their lives.”
She didn’t hear him right, Pen thought dimly through the loud buzzing in her ears. Her vision went gray, and her brain seemed to disappear into a dark void.
“Married?” she croaked.
“Married. You getting a cold?”