“That’s a good girl,” said Carston stroking her gently.
“You certainly do have a way with women,” Sherry jibed from her corner. But she was fascinated. “What’s wrong with her anyway?”
“She obviously has a least one other baby inside of her. Pigs are very long animals, and the piglets are sort of lined up inside in two rows. Now that she’s at the end of her labor, she just doesn’t have enough strength to give birth to the last one or two—if they’re still alive. I’ll have to go in with my hand and help her out.”
“Just like that?”
“It’s not easy. In fact, it could be downright painful for me. Pigs have very strong contractions.”
Sherry held her breath and watched. After a rather hard and tense struggle, Carston finally pulled the last baby out of the sow. It was wet, bloody, bedraggled, and weak. But still very much alive.
Mrs. Brown grunted and again Carston stroked her flank. “There. You see. She’s nice and calm now. Sherry, you can let her have her babies back.”
“Okay, kids, go for it.” Sherry urged the babies out of the corner, watched them scramble wildly around their mother, looking for their first taste of warm milk. Then she stared at Carston as he washed up in the bucket of warm water Penny had brought. He had a lot of explaining to do, she decided. She’d obviously made a few mistakes about the man.
****
Night was starting to fall, and the damp sweet smell of the fields enveloped them as they wended their way home.
“Okay. True confession time. How do you know all about pigs? And flowers.”
Carston shrugged. “Because, quite simply, I grew up on a farm not fifty miles away from here.”
“What about your Ivy League background?”
“That’s what I was hinting at earlier. There isn’t any Ivy League background. I went to the local school, and when class let out in the afternoon, I helped my father with the chores. I can tell you all you want to know about cattle and fodder.”
“I thought you were a terrible snob when I first met you at the radio station.”
“I know,” he admitted ruefully. “But you made me realize the error of my ways pretty quickly. There I was, trying to give off the image of a sophisticated New York playwright, and I was suddenly confronted by the sexiest, brightest singer I’d ever met. And she came from the country too. From Dog’s Pass. A place so tiny, no one in the world has ever heard of it, or can even find it on a map. I figured if I didn’t watch my step, we’d be chatting about the soybean harvest in no time flat.”
“Hmph.” It wasn’t much of a comment, of course, but she knew it was her time to say something.
“Of course, I was wrong, wasn’t I?” he persisted.
She didn’t answer. Just stared down at the dark, muddy track as if concentrating on where to put her feet.
He stopped, gently took her arm, turned her around to face him, cupping her chin in his hand so she couldn’t look away. “Tell me, Sherry.”
“About what?” she asked, keeping her voice light to deflect his curiosity.
But he was insistent. “You don’t really come from the country, do you? Dog’s Pass is a myth.”
She took a deep breath. “That’s not true. Dog’s Pass is a real place, I swear it is. It just isn’t where I said it was.”
“In the Ozarks? That’s what everyone’s told, right?”
She was silent for a few seconds. “Actually, Dog’s Pass is quite far from the Ozarks.”
“How far?”
“Really far. About a thousand miles or so, in fact. It’s, uh, well…Dog’s Pass is in the Bronx.”
“You come from the Bronx?” He would have been slightly less surprised if she’d said she’d recently flown in from Neptune.
“You see? The Bronx doesn’t sound very authentic for a country singer. In one minute you’re going to start laughing at me, right?”
“I promise I won’t.” He hoped it was dark enough for her to miss the twitching of his lips. “What did you do with your Bronx accent?”
“Traded it in for a country twang. No big deal, of course. Being a singer is all about having a good ear.”
“Okay. I’ll buy that. Now, what about the rest of the story?”
“The rest of it’s almost all true. Almost. Dog’s Pass was what everyone called the derelict gas station about fifty yards away from the home. That’s where I used to play. When I could sneak out.”
“The home?”
“That’s right. The home. The orphanage. The bit about my mother is all made up too.”
“The mother who didn’t really care about you?”
Even in the night, her eyes were defiant. “She really didn’t, you can believe that. I was dumped off on the steps of an abandoned grocery store when I was around one. No name, no papers, no family, no background. Just another cast off, anonymous kid. That’s why I started lying about my mother when I was little. Seemed to me a mother who didn’t care was better than having no mother at all. Or a mother who’d had a baby, then got so bored with it after twelve months or so, she’d left it on the street.”
“And that’s why becoming a star was important to you,” Carston said slowly.
She nodded. “Of course. I figured if I could make almost everyone in the whole world love me, then I’d somehow be showing the parents who didn’t want me how worthy I was. But there’s a good side to the story too: the need to be loved gave me the strength to fight to the top.” She stared at him defiantly for a minute. Then defiance melted. “It all sounds silly now, doesn’t it? Keeping my real background a secret. Not ever talking about it. Inventing something that never existed.”
“No. It doesn’t sound silly.” He pulled Sherry into his arms and held her tightly. “It sounds healthy and strong. You were a kid who took a bad situation, then invented something positive. You fought and won.” His hand smoothed her soft, warm hair.
“You’re the first person I’ve ever told the truth to, you know. Not even Charlie knows.”
“Good,” he said gently. “The truth is always the best way to create a solid base.”
Chapter Fourteen
“Nothing to fear but fear itself,” muttered Sherry as she stared at her colorless face in the mirror and winced. If she were any paler, she’d be transparent. She clasped her hands in her lap to stop them from trembling. “All your fault,” she said to her image. “If you hadn’t gotten that crazy idea in your head about being an actress, you wouldn’t be in this position. Why did you wait until this late in life for a career change? This should teach you a lesson.” The words didn’t make her feel one iota better.
Oh, help. In a very little while, she’d be out there with what would seem like a million eyes staring at her, and all of them would be waiting for her to fail. What if she tripped, fell on her face when she walked on stage? What if she forgot her lines? Her mind raced trying to remember the nuances in the manuscript, the movements, the gestures she’d gone over, so often, with Carston. And, with a sinking heart, she realized her mind had gone absolutely, perfectly blank. She couldn’t remember her first line; she couldn’t even remember what the play, Swan Song, was about.
“Stop worrying. Think of something else. Something nice.”
She tried. She thought of last night. A candlelit dinner. Again. Everything she and Carston did together was always so damned romantic. And sexy. And good. Of course, last night she’d also been a nervous wreck and hadn’t really enjoyed either the dinner or the candlelight, but her nervousness had been nothing compared to what it was now. Strangely enough, Carston had only been amused at her fears. Worse, he didn’t even appear to take them seriously.
“You realize that your reputation is shot if I mess up your play. You’ll be a laughingstock.”
“Sherry, you’re not going to mess up my play. You’ve been going on stage for years. Why are you so nervous? I’m not.”
His arm around her shoulders had been warm and comforting—or it should have been. Deep inside
, Sherry didn’t believe for one single second that Carston would forgive her if she didn’t do his work justice. How could he? Surely his disappointment would destroy any trust that had grown up between them. And how would she be able to face him at the end of the play?
At least Charlie was out there in the audience, sitting beside Carston, watching. Good old Charlie would rescue her if she messed things up too badly. He’d cart her off stage, drag her far off to some never-never land. To a forgotten cave in the mountains where she could hide out until the whole world stopped rolling around, sneering and howling at her failure. Until Carston stopped searching the world’s surface with a basket of rotten eggs in his hand.
And amongst all those people out there in the audience, Sherry knew there was one woman who certainly wouldn’t be a well-wisher. A woman who’d be more than happy to see her fall on her face. Just as she’d gone into her dressing room with Thelma the makeup artist, Sherry had seen Carston talking to a tall, very elegant, beautiful woman. One with violet eyes: Lila Patterson. Lila Patterson would be a witness to her failure. How she would sneer about her to Carston.
What the hell was Lila doing here anyway? For the moment, Sherry didn’t have the strength to think about the implications of that woman’s presence. It would be something she’d deal with later—after the disaster.
There was a knock on the door, and Thelma marched in, ready to check on her star. “Well, stand up,” she ordered briskly. “Let’s have a look at you.”
Sherry stood, feeling sick.
“Nervous, are you, dear?” Thelma smiled, tucked a strand of Sherry’s hair into her low chignon.
What was there to smile about? “Scared out of my mind,” Sherry admitted weakly.
“Well, that’s just the usual stage fright. Every performer in the whole world gets it. Believe me, I’ve seen it over and over. Musicians have it, conductors, public speakers, actors, and actresses. It doesn’t matter if you’re a professional or an amateur: stage fright is a fact of life. Don’t you ever have it before a concert?”
“Of course I do. But this is different. I know what I can do as a singer. This is my first acting experience.”
Thelma smiled. “You know what they say, don’t you?”
“Nope. I don’t know much of anything anymore.”
“If you have stage fright, that means you’ll do a great job. It’s the ones who take it all in their stride, the ones who think they’re perfect, who don’t do well out there. You need to be nervous in order to be good. Sarah Bernardt once said, ‘Stage fright only comes when you have talent.’”
Sherry smiled faintly. “You’ve almost convinced me. But I bet the world is chock full of really rotten performers who have stage fright too.”
Shaking her head, Thelma adjusted the collar of Sherry’s simple blouse. “Because they don’t know how to take nervous energy and put it into their performance. You do. I’ve seen you on stage and you give yourself to the audience like a gift. That’s probably why Carston believes in you. You’ll be fine.”
Sherry looked at herself in the mirror again. This was also the first time she’d be appearing on stage without the gaudy disguise she’d affected for so long. Perhaps all those fringes and sparkles, that thick makeup, the orange hair had given her courage? Perhaps she’d always felt that the real Sherry had been hidden by a mask and was, therefore, protected.
“How long now?”
“Four minutes.” Thelma left the room.
Four minutes. Time enough for something extraordinary to happen, something that would get her out of this awful situation. A meteorite could hit the theater. Giant killer ants could charge into the dressing room, kidnap her, and carry her off to one of their colonies. She waited. But the minutes ticked by relentlessly without jaw-clacking Formicidae coming to the rescue. “Where are those guys when you really need them?” she muttered.
The door opened. “Stage right, Sherry.” Nick, the stage manager, gave her a big wink. “Break a leg, kid.”
In the wings, she heard the hum of the audience on the other side of the curtain. Her heart was pounding furiously. Thirty seconds to go. What was her first line? Her mind reeled: she couldn’t remember! She really had forgotten absolutely everything. She had to get out of here, run away. Fast. Her eyes searched desperately for an opening. A trap door. A long vine she could shinny up.
The lights dimmed. The audience stopped chatting. Now there was only deathly silence. It was starting. The play was starting, and she still couldn’t remember one word.
Slowly the curtain rose. Too late to escape now. All eyes were on her as she entered. The blinding stage lights became even brighter. My first words. What are my first words? She didn’t know…
“It started on Monday.” Yes, that was her own voice she was hearing. “A Monday, just like any other. In October.” Those were her opening lines. The right ones.
And then she forgot she was Sherry Valentine, that Sherry Valentine existed. She’d become Melissa. A singer whose career had come to an end.
****
The play was over, and the audience was cheering. The curtain came up for the fourth time, and the applause still didn’t diminish. Carston. Where was Carston? He should be out here with her. He was the one who should have the glory. It had been his words, his brilliance that had carried off the play.
Here he was now. Striding out of the wings, carrying a bouquet of flowers—perfect red roses—that he handed to her. Red roses? Then clasping her free hand in his, they bowed together, and the audience cheered more loudly. The moment was sublime.
The curtain came down for the last time, and for a few brief seconds, they were alone in the world. Just the two of them. His eyes were filled with such tenderness.
“Thank you,” he said softly. “I’m so proud of you.”
“Thank you,” she answered. What else could she say? Her heart was too full to speak. And oh, how she loved him.
Then there were people surging around them, shouting their congratulations. Two journalists began firing questions. At her, and at Carston. Cameras flashed.
“Chicken. You were great! I knew you could do it, sweetheart. I knew it!” Charlie’s fat red face beamed. Just before he could grab her and hug her soundly, Thelma reappeared from somewhere and quickly rescued the bouquet of roses.
Sherry felt as though she were emerging from a dream. She didn’t have an ounce of fight left in her. Someone else was hugging her now. “You did it, Sherry. You did it.” The voice was surprisingly familiar.
“Allan Mace. What in heaven’s name are you doing here in Brandt?”
“You didn’t really think I’d miss Sherry Valentine’s theater debut, did you?”
“Oh, Allan, I’m so touched. It’s absolutely wonderful to see your gorgeous face again.” It was. What she’d thought was a very superficial Hollywood friendship had obviously been far deeper than she’d known. She fought desperately not to burst into tears.
Allan noticed, of course. He smirked. “You should be touched. Coming here was a terrible sacrifice. Just look what the climate’s done to my hair.”
Banality can be a wonderful thing, she thought. The urge to cry vanished.
“Sherry, darling,” said Allan. “Tell me. That glorious, tall, violet-eyed female beside Hewlett, that’s Lila Patterson, isn’t it?”
Sherry followed his stare and her happiness diminished radically. “Yes, that’s Lila Patterson, all right.” Who else in the world had violet eyes? Who else would be beside Carston, as if that were the most natural place in the world for her to be?
“You know her?”
“In a way.” She was forcing herself to sound normal, but the feelings of resentment and jealousy were hard to control. She had to admit it: Lila and Carston looked wonderful together. They made a lovely pair. She’d always known they would.
And Carston had already forgotten that she, Sherry, even existed. He’d allowed her to be in his play. He’d let Charlie talk him into giving her a break. But had
he talked her into his bed? No. She’d been the one to do that. Now she had no one to blame for this situation but herself.
And who had mentioned love? She had. He hadn’t, not even once, touched on the subject. He’d never said he felt more than friendship for her. She’d been the one who’d fallen head over heels in love with him, a confirmed bachelor. The sexiest man she’d ever met. And the most unattainable.
Had he been amused by her declarations? No. She knew Carston too well now. He was no egotistical maniac. He was a kind, warm man. A generous one. He’d probably been pained by her devotion, her love, because he knew he was unable to return it. Love was a gift he didn’t want, hadn’t asked for. Now that the play was finished, their temporary relationship was over. It was good-bye. Back to old loves.
She saw Lila whisper something in Carston’s ear, and he laughed. Yes, he looked perfectly, blissfully happy. Just the way he should be, thought Sherry, bitterly. His play was a raving success; a beautiful woman was at his side.
She had only one choice: she had to get out of there. Do it with dignity. Show Carston she knew she had no hold on him. That she wouldn’t hang around, beg him to love her, be a nuisance. She wouldn’t kick and scream now that the door was closing. She’d had the honor of working with a brilliant, talented man, and to show how much she appreciated what he’d done for her, she’d give him back his freedom. No muss, no fuss. He’d be mighty relieved.
Allan wasn’t paying attention to her anymore: he was having a very earnest conversation with a journalist, promoting the famous Allan Mace. Carston and Lila were deep in private conversation. Charlie had vanished—had probably gone off to smoke one of his stinking cigars. No one, absolutely no one, was watching her at the moment. So, the time was right.
Good-bye, to all of this. She wanted no flashing cameras to capture her defeat. She wanted no headlines. As slowly, as casually as she could possibly manage, she turned, walked toward the wings. She’d sneak back to her dressing room, grab her purse, and make a run for it. Just move slowly, she told herself. Slowly, slowly so no one notices.
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