Chapter Thirteen
Carston had gone into the village for supplies. She was alone in the house, going over the written notes he’d left with her. They’d been loving and living together for two weeks now. And working steadily on the play. Now Sherry understood what acting entailed, the commitment, the hard work, and the deep satisfaction. But the panic was still there, of course, and the fear of failure, even though she told herself over and over again that this would only be a theater festival presentation. If she really did fail, there would be no dire consequences and no international shame.
But Swan Song really was an exciting play, with its intimate, changing moments, the depth of Melissa’s character. Even if Carston was a demanding director—and that he certainly was—he was also intelligent and compassionate. Carston. Just thinking about him made her heart turn over. She’d loved him before; now, being with him day in and day out, her feelings had grown even stronger.
The telephone rang. Sherry looked up. He hadn’t bothered to put on the answering machine. Should she answer? Carston had never told her she shouldn’t, and Sherry knew very well that he received calls from other women—she could tell from the tone of his voice. For business calls, he was impersonal, professional, dominant. For personal calls, he was companionable, communicative, and reserved—but that was when talking to men. Talking to women, his tone was deeper, smoother. A voice that could charm snakes out of their hidey holes. Not that she eavesdropped. Sometimes she just couldn’t help over-hearing...Couldn’t stop the tiny stabs of jealousy either.
The telephone jangled for the sixth time. Sighing, Sherry stood, stalked over to the thing. Her hand hovered, just a fraction of a second, before lifting the receiver. What was there to hide? She was here, in Carston’s house, for a perfectly legitimate reason. Who cared about the steamy nights, sensual mornings, and glorious passion they shared?
“Hello?”
There was a fleeting but very perceptible pause at the other end of the line. “Perhaps I have the wrong number?” The voice was breathy, feminine.
“I very much doubt that,” Sherry said dryly. Then promised to try and sound less caustic.
“I’m trying to reach Carston Hewlett.”
“Of course you are. He’ll be back any minute now. Do you want to leave a message?”
“Ah—” There was a long pause. “No. I’ll call back.” The owner of the breathy, sexy voice hung up.
“And what is it you have to hide,” Sherry said sourly. Then with derision, stuck her tongue out at the dead receiver.
“What’s my telephone done to offend you?”
Sherry whirled. Carston stood in the doorway, laughing at her. Damn it. Why did he have to look so gorgeous? Her jealousy evaporated. Why worry? She was the woman in Carston’s house—and bed—at the moment. That was one advantage the mysterious caller didn’t have.
She went to him, curling her arms around his neck, letting her fingers slide into his wiry hair, fitting her body tightly to his. His eyes darkened and, lowering his head, he took her mouth with a fierce, possessive passion. When they finally broke apart, they stared at each other, hearts thumping.
“I’m glad I don’t go out shopping more often,” he said huskily. “We’d never get any work done.”
“You’re even a worse taskmaster than Charlie Bacon.”
He quirked an eyebrow. “Is that a compliment or an insult?”
“Your interpretation.” Her forefinger lazily traced the beautiful line of his mouth. “By the way, you had an anonymous phone call.”
“Is that why you were pulling faces?” He chuckled. “How anonymous?”
“A whispery, sexy female anonymous caller. When I asked if she wanted to leave a message, she hung up. Perhaps I shouldn’t have answered your phone?”
“Why shouldn’t you have?”
“Just in case any of my rivals are on the line.” She tossed her head and forced herself to look arch.
“You don’t have any rivals,” he said softly. So softly she almost didn’t catch the words.
“I don’t?” she asked breathlessly.
The telephone rang again, a horrid jangling noise. Damn the awful machine, ringing at all the wrong moments. And that particular moment had been shifting toward absolute perfection.
This time Carston handed the receiver to her. There was no sexy whisper. “How’s tricks, chicken?” Charlie Bacon’s over-hearty, eardrum-splitting bark came through loud and clear.
“Fine, just fine,” said Sherry as coolly as possible. She didn’t really want Charlie to know how far her relationship with Carston had gone. She was somehow afraid that, just by talking about it, it would somehow be jinxed. She knew Charlie didn’t trust Carston. Maybe he didn’t even like the idea of her being here in his house—aside from the fact that Carston’s play would enhance her reputation. She also knew Charlie would do his best to protect her from heartbreak—although she didn’t want his protection. She’d gone into this with her eyes open. “But I’m being worked like a slave.”
“Good to hear it. Hewlett taking good care of you at least?”
“Wonderful. You should see the things he feeds me. He’s a man who knows the way to a woman’s heart is through her stomach.”
“That certainly puts another light on how effective he is as a slave driver,” said Charlie with his habitual, evil chuckle. “There’s a little tidbit of information I have for you, by the way.”
“Let it roll.”
“If you decide to go back to being a singer when this is over, I can line up concerts all across the country. People are calling me all the time, wondering what you’re coming up with next.”
“Concerts? I’ll think about it. But I’m warning you, Charlie, no more orange hair, no more traveling around on the star circuit. I want to get away from the popular aspect of music. Go more deeply into its roots. Help people learn. And don’t start telling me that it won’t be a money-maker. I don’t care.”
“We’ll see,” Charlie said, placating instead of argumentative.
“See what?”
“Just rattling away, chicken. Nothing important.”
When she put down the receiver, she was convinced Charlie was hiding something. He was as subtle as a hippopotamus sliding down a mud bank. So what was up?
“You feel like shirking work this afternoon?” Carston asked.
Sherry looked up at him from under her lashes. “To do what? Something wonderfully sexy?”
“Go for a walk,” he answered simply.
“A walk?” Her eyes widened with surprise.
“Don’t you like walks anymore? You did back in Traverton.” He felt disappointed.
She grinned openly now. “Of course I still like walks. I’ve liked them ever since we were stuck up on that mountain together. You told me back then that you loved walking too, but since I’ve been here, you haven’t proposed one, not even once.”
It turned him into mush, her reaction, and he wondered why this was so important to him. “You think you could handle several miles through the valley?”
“Several miles?” She sniffed, tossed her head. “I’ll show you the stuff I’m made of, Mr. Ivy League Hewlett. Back in the old days, down in Dog’s Pass, we had to walk twenty-five miles every night just rounding up the gophers for milking.”
“You have walking boots?”
“Yeah. Right. I needed a lot of those in Hollywood.”
“Okay. You’ll have to borrow a pair of mine. And wear two or three pairs of socks to fill them out.”
“Won’t I just look like a princess?”
Probably will, he thought.
They took the narrow, damp trail leading out of his own land and down toward the meandering Cutter River. Carston loved being outdoors, loved the freshness of the air, the beauty of his surroundings, the feeling of freedom the country gave him.
When they reached the bottom of the valley, Sherry sat down abruptly on the riverbank. “Thank goodness.” She was panting.
> “Thank goodness for what?”
“That we’re too fast for whatever’s coming after us.”
He was ashamed of himself. “I’m sorry. I guess I was pushing it a little. I’m so used to walking on my own, I forgot my pace couldn’t possibly be yours.” Even if her legs were long, his were more muscular, stronger, and used to this terrain.
“You try waddling around in boots three sizes too big.”
He looked down, sheepishly contemplated the boots that on her looked Goliath size. “We’ll have to go shopping. Get you your own pair.” Which meant this wouldn’t be their last walk together. But is it worth buying a pair of boots for the little remaining time she’ll be here? “Let’s follow the river. The going will be easier.”
“Don’t mind if it isn’t,” said Sherry. Closing her eyes, she took a deep breath. “Actually, I’m having the most wonderful time. If only you knew how often I dreamt of doing just this when I was back in Hollywood. Maybe a million? No, more than that. Each time I found myself trapped beside another over-sized free-form swimming pool in the middle of a manicured garden, cocktail in hand, forced to listen to the latest trendy music group.”
He tried not to feel too delighted. “Yes, trapped. That’s how I’ve always felt about the frills that go with success.”
Sherry’s arms opened wide, embracing the fields, the valley and the entire horizon. “Out here, all I can hear is the wind rustling and the river bubbling. At night, I love falling asleep to the sound of hooting owls and rubbing branches. And in the morning, the birds are always singing their hearts out. It’s wonderful. It’s perfect. It’s ideal.”
How much he’d hoped she would see the beauty that was so important to him. But her enthusiasm could be momentary. “We can be snowed in for weeks during the winter. Sometimes there are power cuts, and that means no heating aside from the open fire, and no lights except for petrol lamps. That would probably drive you crazy.”
“Me? Are you kidding? Sounds like heaven. Or like being cozy, warm, and safe inside an enchanted castle with lots and lots of lovely books to read.”
He sat down on the bank beside her, not caring if the ground was still moist and chilly at this time of the year. He was feeling extremely grateful to her; he was infinitely touched. Too touched to even speak. He reached for her hand, curled her fingers around his.
“Anybody else live out this way?” she asked softly. “Or are we the only creatures around?”
He managed to find his voice again. To sound perfectly normal. “Actually, the area is less abandoned than it seems. I have some very nice neighbors. So nice, they and their farm stay hidden just behind the line of trees over there.” He pointed to a nearby ridge.
“Mama Bear, Papa Bear, and Baby Bear?”
“No.” He grinned. “The Plummers. Goldie and Ned.”
“This has to be a joke, Hewlett. She’s really called Goldie? As in Goldilocks?”
“No joke. If you feel like walking that far, I can guarantee Goldie makes the best pear pie in the whole world.”
“Got tired of all that porridge, huh? Serves her right for mooching.”
The wet grass underfoot tugged at their boots, and the path narrowed. Carston watched Sherry out of the corner of his eye. No, she wasn’t pretending. She really was enjoying herself, taking in her surroundings as if the experience of being in the country was entirely new to her. And again, the strange doubting thoughts—the sort he’d had several times over the last few weeks—niggled at him. There was something she was hiding, he was sure of it. Something about her life story didn’t quite fit. He didn’t know why he felt that way, and she hadn’t said anything. He just felt it in his bones.
He stopped abruptly. Pointed to the ground. “Look, Sherry. Bacon and eggs.”
“Bacon and eggs?” She looked down, then back up at him, puzzled. “Is too much fresh air making you strange and unpredictable? Bacon and eggs, you said?”
“I did.” He watched her with growing curiosity. “Don’t you see?”
“See?” She looked at the pointing finger, looked down again. “Bacon and eggs,” she repeated. “Is there a clue to help me decipher this mysterious code? Because you’re pointing to a few straggly weeds and some spring flowers. Come on, Carston. Be a sweetheart, and let me in on the joke.”
He knelt, gently touched a tiny yellow flower tinged with red. “Bacon and eggs—that’s what this flower’s called. Didn’t you know? When these come up, it’s a sure sign summer is on the way.”
“Oh.”
“And that. Over there.” He pointed again. “You know what that is?”
She stared. “Looks like pointy spinach to me.” Then nodded, raised her chin, defiantly. “Okay. Got it. This is a test. And I’m failing badly, right?”
“It’s called rabbit’s ears,” he told her gently. “Do you know what it’s good for?”
She shook her head. “Tell me.”
“Skin infections. Burns. It’s a wonder plant. Edible too.”
“Okay. Fine.” She shrugged. “Well, if a plant doesn’t come in a pot surrounded by wrapping paper and pretty ribbons, I’m out of my depth.” She pointed to another shaggy, spiky-looking clump. “Tell me what those are.”
“Stinging nettles. Nasty to touch, but great stuff for homemade soup, or for steaming and eating like spinach. Nettles are also a natural fertilizer, an insecticide, and the unique food source for certain types of butterfly larva.”
Sherry’s eyes narrowed. “They teach all about making soup out of nasty weeds in Ivy League schools?”
Carston quirked an eyebrow. Shrugged. “Beats me.”
“If anyone knows, you should,” she retorted.
He was finding it hard to hide his amusement. “And tell me why I would?”
“Because that’s your background, isn’t it?”
“So you’ve told me.”
“Oh.” She shook her head slowly, looked faintly confused. “It really isn’t?”
“And you don’t know much about plants and grasses, do you?”
“Not a lot,” she acknowledged.
“Especially not for a country girl.”
She only stared at him, wordlessly. And defiantly.
“Come on, Sherry.” He smiled, took her hand in his. “If we stay here much longer, we’ll start sprouting moss.”
****
As the Plummer’s farmhouse came into sight, Sherry felt more than relieved. Her feet were feeling as though chipmunks had been gnawing at them for hours. Images of hot coffee and pear pie swam before her eyes like a foretaste of nirvana. But when they entered into the courtyard of the farm, she instantly divined nirvana was unreachable. At least, this afternoon it was. A young, anguished girl of around thirteen rushed out to meet them.
“Oh, Carston. I’ve never been so happy to see anyone in my life. I’m alone, and I don’t know what to do. Mom and Dad have gone into Barston, and I can’t reach them. I telephoned you, but you weren’t there. I also called Mr. Tourup, the vet, but he’s out somewhere and I’m scared crazy.”
“Just tell me what’s wrong, Penny.”
“It’s Mrs. Brown. She’s having her piglets. She’s already had eight, but she’s pounding around like she’s in pain.”
“Certainly sounds awful,” muttered Sherry. “Poor Mrs. Brown has my sympathy, whoever she is.”
Carston threw her an amused look over his left shoulder. “Mrs. Brown just happens to be a sow.”
“Well, thank heaven for that.” Sherry still couldn’t see why Penny Plummer was happy to see Carston under these circumstances. What was a playwright going to know about pigs? Unless any old drama at all was good grist for his literary mill.
“Let’s go take a look at the poor lady. We’ll see what we can do for her.” His smile was relaxed and comforting.
The situation was getting stranger and stranger. Sherry trailed after Penny and Carston as they entered a warm, dark barn. And saw that Mrs. Brown was certainly a sow—no one in the world could have
denied that. A very large sow. Enormous, in fact. Sherry had never been this close to a pig in her life, and she was astounded. She’d always imagined them as small, pink, slightly fuzzy, and most probably reasonably cuddly. Mrs. Brown was long, hugely fat, bristly, and she stared at the human intruders with small, malevolent eyes. The last thing that interested her was a round of cuddling.
A screeching throng of pale newborn piglets writhed around Mrs. Brown, trying desperately to reach her teats, but Mrs. Brown wanted nothing to do with the lot of them. Instead, she stormed furiously in circles and emitted strange groaning noises.
Sherry shrank back against the barn wall fearfully—something that didn’t escape Carston’s notice. His eyes fairly glowed with undisguised amusement.
“You know anything about pigs?” he asked her.
She shook her head. Then Mrs. Brown yowled, and veered in her direction. Deftly sidestepping, Sherry fought down a feeling of panic. She’d just caught sight of something sharp-looking and yellowish in the creature’s mouth. “I didn’t even know they had teeth,” she moaned. “I just thought pigs sort of gummed at things.”
“They don’t.” Carston’s voice was dry. “Pigs can give you a nasty bite. Stay away from her, Sherry. She’s in pain, and she doesn’t know you. But I’m still going to need your help.”
“You are?” The situation was getting worse by the second.
“The first thing we have to do is gain her confidence.”
“Pleased to meet you, ma’am.” Sherry forced a weak smile.
“Penny, go get a bucket of clean, warm water and a blanket. We’ll have to keep the piglets warm. Sherry, your job will be to keep them covered up and all together. Otherwise there’s a risk of Mrs. Brown squashing them as she moves around. Be careful of their teeth too. Baby pigs are born with really sharp ones.”
“Like cute little vampires,” Sherry muttered. By the time Penny returned, Sherry, with Carston’s help, had managed to herd the squealing, squirming babies over to one corner of the stall. Now she covered them with the blanket and tried to keep them in place. At the same time she didn’t let Carston out of her sight, not even for one second. She watched as he knelt down in the straw, all the while talking to big fat Mrs. Brown. The sow watched him suspiciously. Then, probably because there was no choice, she made the decision to trust him. Coming nearer, still grunting with pain, she lay down in the straw.
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