Stuck? Come on, she chided herself. You chose this. And yes, parts of California were beautiful. And yes, Hollywood could be an exciting place to live, with concerts, museums, art exhibitions, dance performances, parties, wonderful restaurants, palm trees, exquisite homes, and interesting people who did things. But quite simply, it wasn’t the place for her. She couldn’t shake off the feeling she’d made a terrible mistake in coming here.
Crossing the pavement just past the exit gate of the studio, she heard someone calling her name. She turned, saw actor Allan Mace waving to her. She waited until he caught up.
“Have time for a drink in the Hole?” he asked. The Hole was the studio bar where actors, extras, and crew mingled happily.
Sherry smiled. “I certainly do. Just as long as we don’t run into Jason Reel in there. He’s been pressuring me on behalf of Ned Lantini.”
Allan laughed. “Ah ha! So Neddy’s been trying to get you into his clutches.”
“I suppose so. He keeps promising—or should I say threatening?—to put me into one of his films.” She couldn’t sound enthusiastic if she’d tried.
Allan took her elbow and steered her inside the bar. “Tell me all about it over a glass of white wine.”
Allan Mace was certainly a remarkable-looking man Sherry mused—and not for the first time either. Just look at that blond hair flowing over his broad forehead, his straight, perfect nose, those blue eyes, strong jaw, high cheekbones, and perfectly arched eyebrows. His smile revealed the whitest, straightest, most gorgeous teeth in Hollywood, and just under his tight T-shirt and even tighter jeans, muscles rippled and bulged with a life of their own.
In fact, Allan Mace was one of the most gorgeous men she’d ever seen. Allan also thought so: he never could get enough of his own image. If there was a mirror anywhere in the area, he concentrated on watching the way his mouth moved when talking, laughing, or forming different vowel sounds. Going to a restaurant or a bar with Allan meant its walls would be covered with mirrors, and he’d never have time to look her in the eye. Sherry had coped with her share of rivals in her life, but she’d never lost out so completely as she did with him: the great love of Allan Mace’s life was Allan Mace.
But she really did enjoy his company. He was witty; he was always in a good mood; he was sympathetic. Never once had he tried to squeeze her, maul her, tell her what she should be doing, or try to convince her they’d make magic together. He was a relief. They’d met on the set of Baby and the Bank (he played the role of a wonderfully handsome heartbreaker) and had become great friends immediately.
They carried their glasses of wine to a corner table where Allan could look into the mirror behind Sherry’s shoulder and admire how nicely the dim light softened his well-cut features. “So Neddy’s considering you for his next blockbuster, Death Ship, is he?”
“And not because of my acting ability either.”
Allan chuckled. “Of course not. Neddy has never cared about trivial things like acting ability.”
“He’s only interested because I’ve never been to bed with him. He doesn’t care about me one way or the other, but he can’t work out how I can resist his charm. He thinks I should be grateful for the chance to have a role in his production.”
“Will you do it eventually?” Allan turned his head slightly to the right, a more flattering angle.
“Do what? Sleep with Lantini or act in his film?”
“Either one.”
“Then the answer is no to both. As far as I’m concerned, better dead than Ned.”
“You’re crazy if you refuse the part. You’d make megabucks.”
Sherry looked at him with indignation. “Allan, do you know what the storyline is? It’s about a serial killer from another planet. I’m supposed to play the serial killer’s former and much older sex playmate—until he chops me into bite-sized tender morsels with a vegetable grinder or something.”
“Cute. All of Neddy’s films are like that. What do you get to wear?”
“Almost nothing. Or nothing, if Neddy gets his way. Maybe I’ll be allowed a filmy pair of underpants. Just before I get turned into coleslaw, Neddy says he wants me topless because the extraterrestrial creep is a breast fetishist. He also says he wants to see me with my clothes off so he can decide if I’m really good for the part.” Sherry stopped, quirked one eyebrow. “Hey, Allan, do you think this particular film is Ned’s lightly disguised autobiography? I do. Not that I care.”
Allan laughed. Then his eyes met Sherry’s, and the smile vanished. “You don’t really enjoy the Hollywood world, do you?”
“No,” she answered slowly. “I don’t. Not really.”
“Are you sorry you gave up singing?”
She shook her head. “Sorry? Coming out here and getting into acting was something I had to do. Otherwise I’d have felt frustrated for the rest of my life simply because I thought this was my real vocation.”
“And it isn’t,” Allan said sympathetically.
“It isn’t,” Sherry confirmed. “Maybe I just tried to do it too late in the game. Maybe I should have tried acting twenty-five or thirty years ago. These days, I don’t have the patience or the dedication for television or film. I hate the way scenes are chopped here, cut there. I hate doing every banal little thing over and over again so it can be shot from different angles. Sure, some people love this way of working—you probably do. But I don’t. I guess I just wasn’t cut out for it. Wrong temperament. Wrong attitude. And no doubt, I’m also lacking in talent.”
“Talent only happens when the work you’re doing is meaningful to you,” said Allan gently. “You didn’t doubt your talent when you were singing, did you?”
She shrugged. “Maybe not. But who knows? I’m not sure of anything anymore. Except…as soon as I can, I’m going back to music. If I can wriggle out of my television contract.”
As soon as she said the words, she felt slightly stunned: she’d never actually come out and admitted how frustrated she felt. But it was true: she missed her own world. She missed her research, her music. She missed Charlie and all her boys. She missed preparing for concerts. Most of all, she missed the wild excitement of performing in front of a live audience. Yes, she wanted out.
****
Carston quickly glanced to the left, then to the right. Here he was, standing beside the magazine display shelves in the Super Superette in the neighboring village of Humm. On his left, a short man with a bristling moustache perused a fishing magazine. On his right, a young girl with freckles, glasses, and a perfectly blank face, chewed a chocolate bar and read Star. Edging in closer, Carston peeked over her shoulder.
FICKLE SHERRY!
NEW ROMANCE WITH ACTOR ALLAN MACE
THIS TIME IT’S FOR REAL, CONFIDES THE STAR
“For real?” Carston muttered sourly. “Who and what’s for real? What kind of person goes from one man to another like that?”
For the hundredth time, he told himself how lucky he was that he hadn’t allowed himself to become more involved with Sherry. How right he’d been not to contact her again. Yes, his instincts had ensured his survival, all right. So what if he lay awake every single damn night just thinking about her. So what if the memory of the time they’d spent together rolled out in his mind every time he took another woman out for dinner—and he’d done quite a bit of that. He’d had to, as an antidote to Sherry Valentine.
He peered over the freckled girl’s shoulder again. There was a photo of Sherry, a different one this time. Something about it looked familiar. Very, very familiar. He moved in closer still. Yes, Sherry was wearing one of her country costumes, but now he thought he recognized the shirt.
Yes, of course he did. He knew that shirt, the jeans, and he even knew where that photo had been taken: in Midville. In the hotel lobby. That blur of brown and beige behind Sherry? Why, he was there in the photo too. He remembered how cameras had flashed when they’d made their entrance after their dinner together in the Blue Lagoon. Strange, they hadn’t used a
more recent photo.
“You so interested, go get your own copy.” The voice, indignant, nasal, pulled him out of his reverie. He found himself staring into the freckled girl’s pink-framed glasses. Her hand holding the crumpled chocolate bar wrapper was balled into a fist. “What are you, anyway? Some kinda weirdo or what?”
Humiliated at having been caught out, Carston decided the best defense was attack. Pulling himself up to his full height he announced with as much dignity as he could muster, “I’m shocked that a person of your age reads such trash.”
“Hey!” interrupted the man with the fishing magazine. “What’s going on here? You some sort of weirdo bothers young girls?” He knit his brows, and his moustache trembled.
Carston noticed the man’s resemblance to an Australopithecus—and not a particularly nice-looking Australopithecus. He probably fished with a pointed stick and ate with a flint.
No amount of explaining would clear up this situation, not with these people, he thought desperately. The best tactic was total retreat. Scraping his remaining dignity together, Carston strode out of the Super Superette. And he hadn’t even had a chance to see what Allan Mace looked like.
****
Okay, he was a sneak. He hated doing this, and he hated himself for doing it. But could he stop? No. He couldn’t. Carston peeked over the paper rack at the back of Myrtle Ripe’s Grocery in Cutter’s Edge. Myrtle was busy talking with that gossipy Mrs. Pinch from Gossamer Hill. On his left, a young mother was busy trying to pry plastic sacks of caramels out of the grasping and grubby fingers of two of her offspring. Mr. Ripe, concentrating hard on chewing a piece of gum, was staring out the door and down the road.
In other words, the coast was fairly clear. No one, not one person, was paying the slightest attention to what he, intellectual playwright, full-time resident of Cutter’s Edge, was up to. And, since no one was watching him, he could take the leap. Stealthily, he slipped the bright vulgar copy of Glitzy off the shelf and began leafing through the pages. It wasn’t his fault. Normally, he would never even touch the slick pages of a magazine this tawdry. But today was different. He’d seen the bright red headline smeared across the front page, and he had to know more.
HAPPINESS AT LAST FOR SHERRY VALENTINE
AFTER DUMPING NED LANTINI: WEDDING PLANS WITH JASON REEL
Here she was, on page three. It was an old photo—one he’d already seen back in Midville when he’d known her as a country singer. She was laughing into the camera lens, wearing one of her fringed costumes. Just seeing her face again was like being on the receiving end of a punch in the gut. It reminded him of her laughter, the softness and natural scent of her warm skin. How could he forget things like that? The memory of her voice had haunted him for months now.
He stared at the photo. Her mouth. The feel of her lips, he remembered those things too. On the opposite page was a photo of the proud future husband, just another superficial, banal Hollywood face. Carston was scathing. Is that what Sherry really wanted? It must be. He couldn’t say he’d known her for very long—they’d only been together for a total of three days—but she hadn’t seemed like the sort of person who’d take marriage lightly. Not again. Because she’d already made that mistake twice in her life. Or maybe he was getting things all wrong. If she really was marrying Jason Reel, it must be because she loved him.
The very idea of banal-faced Hollywood pretty-boys like Allan Mace or Jason Reel kissing Sherry, touching her, feeling her beautiful body, seared into Carston’s mind, causing immediate painful damage. Why even dwell on such thoughts? It didn’t matter to him what she did with her life.
Or did it? How was she feeling now? Hadn’t she felt anything for him? He’d thought so. And it had frightened him so much he’d run in the opposite direction. On the other hand, if she really had cared for him, how could she be making wedding plans with someone else after such a short time?
“Isn’t Glitzy wonderful?” burbled an enthusiastic voice on his left. “I just love that magazine too.”
Carston turned, appalled. And came face-to-face with Myrtle Ripe. He’d been so involved in looking at Sherry’s picture, he hadn’t sensed that venerable village gossip creeping up on him.
Humiliated, he slapped the pages shut. This was ridiculous. Here he was, reading something cheap and nasty like Glitzy, following the most ridiculous Hollywood scandal stories. He was a fool. Hadn’t Sherry told him not to believe anything you read in rags like Glitzy or Star? Disgusted with himself, he stalked out of Myrtle Ripe’s without a backward glance.
Chapter Ten
The last snows had melted; warmer weather finally arrived. Carston sat on the wooden terrace of his house, drink in hand, listening to the mocking call of the cuckoo high in that tree over there, to the woodpeckers, the flycatchers, all those tiny birds he’d fed throughout this long winter, creatures he considered good friends. In just the same way, he welcomed the occasional visits from bears, deer, opossums, porcupines, skunks, and squirrels, his closest neighbors.
If he loved the noisy wildlife in the forest, he equally relished his isolation from the human world. He’d never felt the need for company out here. The crowds, the friends? He saw enough of those when he was working on a production in the city. But he’d never wanted to share this tranquilly beautiful part of his life, or this house where he wrote, dreamed, and where his soul rejoiced in living.
Until now. Because he’d spent so much time thinking of Sherry Valentine over the winter, it was almost as if she’d been here with him. He didn’t know why, or how, she’d affected him so deeply. He didn’t even know what this sort of obsession was called—unless the old word bewitchment fitted the picture. How many times had he pictured her out here, sitting on the terrace with him, watching the animals he loved, thinking she just might love them too?
Or would she? Wasn’t he just imagining a woman who thought the way he did, who wanted the same things? He might be: the human mind did do things like that. If those magazine articles were anything to go by, the Hollywood version of Sherry Valentine had nothing whatsoever to do with his fantasy of her.
There was only one way to find out who the real Sherry was: have her here. Just for a while.
The future? He didn’t really care about that at the moment. Why worry? Things would work out or they wouldn’t. The most important thing was taking a chance. And to make certain he’d get that chance, he’d put his desires into action.
Sherry Valentine was now about to learn that he, Carston Hewlett, had come up with an offer she couldn’t resist. An offer that would feed her ambition—and his as well. Something that just might make them both come up winners.
Something that would also give him a chance to catch up on that candlelit dinner he’d promised her. And taste her delicious mouth again.
****
She’d agreed to meet with Jason Reel at the Green Machine, go on to a party at producer Norton Wilde’s with him. But first, Sherry had a twenty-minute drive along the freeway. She hated freeways and certainly wasn’t in the mood for Jason or a party. Maybe she could plead a migraine after half an hour or so and go home? Certainly no one would notice.
At least that was the one great advantage of being in Hollywood: she was never in the limelight. There were so many glamorous film stars already vying for the interest of their fans and the press that Sherry, a mere newcomer playing an unglamorous role in a television series, could walk through the streets without fear of autograph hunters or the scandal press. For once. And without her curling red hair, her cowgirl outfit, who connected her with Sherry Valentine, country music star? No one.
Jason Reel, his eyes hidden behind a huge pair of sunglasses, was sipping something coral out of a frosty glass when she arrived at the Green Machine. He looked petulant. For the fifteenth time that day, Sherry sighed. Jason was probably having one of his bad days, and that meant he’d be lousy company. She slid into the booth opposite him. “Hi,” she said, and forced herself to sound as chirpy as she possibly
could.
Jason grimaced, held up one hand, warding her off. “Careful, Sherry. I’m feeling delicate.”
But then again, the horrendously loud, bad music pounding out of the overhead speakers would make a worm woozy, Sherry thought. And the décor, largely comprised of lifebuoys, torn fishnet, and framed pictures of shipwrecks, made her feel seasick.
“Look, Jason, if you’re not up to this, why don’t we take a rain check.” She sent up a little prayer to her fairy goddess. With a good dose of magical intervention, Jason just might agree to call the evening off, and she could escape to the peace and quiet of her apartment, the delight of a good book. Why had she even agreed to come? Were bad decisions going to be the main feature of her life from now on? At the moment, it felt exactly that way.
“No way.” Jason shook his head. “I promised Wilde I’d bring you to the party. Do you know what he’d do to me if I didn’t?” For a moment, the consequences made him look almost perky. Then, remembering it was a delicate day, he slumped back in his seat.
Sherry knew, very well, that Wilde wanted her at his party for yet another attempt at a hot tussle on the casting couch. Did situations like this still exist? Didn’t casting couch seductions only happen to young, inexperienced women who were desperate for fame? Obviously not. They belonged to the bottom end of the market where Wilde’s productions scraped the ground. But she knew better than to broach the subject with Jason. Instead she quirked an eyebrow, assumed an air of complete innocence, and asked, “What exactly would he do to you, Jason? Come on, spill the beans.”
Jason scowled. “Sherry, please. I’m not in the mood for your particular brand of perverse humor. How do you manage to be so positive and energetic all the time anyway?”
Sherry scrutinized the parts of Jason’s face not hidden by sunglasses. “Positive energy bothers you? You’d prefer me to suffer from something? Hay fever perhaps? Or a hangover, depression, herpes, stress, or a negative flashback from one of my previous lives? Well, sorry. Here I am, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, and getting on your nerves.” She smirked. “And you’re just jealous.”
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