Dane’s acceptance was brief and Whoopi was returning to the screen. Mac switched the television off.
He picked up the phone, looking down at his watch. Slowly he cradled the instrument, then paced to the back windows, not seeing the pool outside but instead seeing Jessica; surrounded by ugly lizards, vulgar, rum-drinking grips and roadies…and Dane Pierce. Had she purposely left his name out of her message? Retracing his steps, Mac again picked up the phone and called the airport weather station. After making a few notes, he went to his room and repacked his bag.
His logical mind admonished him for his poor judgment, but he stubbornly replaced his sweaters and corduroys with T-shirts and shorts, stuffing his bag hurriedly. With a little luck and clear skies, he could land in "the Windwards" within twenty-four hours.
~ * ~
The twin engine Piper Cheyenne touched down on the rudimentary runway at noon Tuesday afternoon. The last leg of the flight, Miami to Amande, had been a grueling six hours; 1600 miles over water with only one brief set down for fuel in Barbados. Mac jumped out and tethered the small plane to the guy lines, then shook out his legs and grabbed his bag. A departure from the cold of Aspen, the Caribbean air was warm and breezy.
The airstrip seemed deserted. He began walking toward a ramshackle building where an old car had obviously been parked for a decade. He was pleased to find the porch occupied by an island couple, who eyed his blond hair, sunglasses and leather jacket suspiciously. "Hello?" he began, removing the glasses.
There was a flurry of native conversation before they continued staring at him. "American," the man finally offered.
"Yes, American. I’m here to find my American friends, they’re making a movie?"
The woman stood up and walked around Mac, inspecting his black Levis from all sides. She squinted into his face then turned excitedly to her companion. "Doktor Jim!"
Mac looked away, shaking his head with a smile. Even here, where it would seem television was an outlandish luxury, this woman knew him. He tried again. "I need a ride…car…automobile…to the Marquis."
"Ah, Marquis! Oui, les Americains…"
"Good! Can you take me there?" The woman nodded happily, thrilled at the sight of an American television star asking her help. The man didn’t move from the porch, only grunted when she told him she was taking the movie star to the hotel.
At the front desk, Mac ignored the "No Vacancy" sign and asked for a room. The clerk eyed the quality of Mac’s jacket and flight bag greedily. "You are with the Pierce people?" he asked.
Mac weighed his response carefully. "Well, sort of." He pulled a hundred dollar bill from his wallet and subtly folded it lengthwise.
"You are in luck, Monsieur. We have been full, but I think we can accommodate you." The clerk grinned broadly.
Exhaustion was a mild word for Mac’s condition; he’d had very little rest since his impromptu skiing trip and now, a thirty-six hour flight from Los Angeles to the Grenadines. He showered and stretched out on the bed and was asleep in thirty seconds. He’d find Jessie tomorrow.
Mac did, indeed, sleep until the following morning, waking at six and needing to run. He looked out the window and whistled softly to himself. This coastline was definitely one of the prettiest sights he’d seen, the sands glistening white, the water purest blue. He donned a black athletic shirt and running shorts. His legs were sore from skiing, and he had a good start on a tan, he noticed as he stretched and warmed up for the run.
The air was still reasonably cool as he jogged along the beach. He chose the direction opposite from where the filming was obviously in progress; he wasn’t ready to run into Dane Pierce yet. He felt good, and as he ran his mind turned to Jessica and anticipation began to needle him. How would he explain his visit? I don’t have to explain, he decided. I’m on vacation.
~ * ~
The sand was beginning to warm up. Wardrobe people were dressing Jessica in rags, her costume for today’s shoot. She bit her lip silently as the shredded dress was tied to her nearly naked body. No time for modesty, she reprimanded herself, but felt uncomfortable just the same. Today they would shoot the scene between Mariah and Roger, who, wandering around the island after the shipwreck, find each other and run the gamut from excitement, to anger, to pain and finally to passion driven by fear and isolation. At least that was how Jessica perceived the transition. Dane, however, would probably play it differently. She grimaced at the thought that they’d never rehearsed this difficult, and crucial, part of the film.
Fortunately, their ultimate union was only implied, occurring "off-camera." Dane allowed that he wasn’t into epic-porn and had this part, as many others, of the screenplay rewritten. Jessica’s hand absently pressed to her stomach, where a growing tightness made her feel weak.
It wasn’t enough that she had to face today’s trials; she was worried about Mac, finding it inconceivable that they had not connected for well over two weeks. Indeed, it had been a month today since their rainy morning good-bye.
Jessica assumed her position on the sand. All around her, in a fairly tight circle, were cameras, lights, reflectors; cords, microphones on beams; a camera boom and truck; and people, all waiting for the director to call Action! and the fire between Mariah and Roger to begin.
Her "dress" was wet and sandy. Her skin was too brown for a Boston aristocrat, but Dane had jokingly claimed "poetic license" and dismissed it, adding that the audience would only find her California tan all the more appealing. Dane, too, was bronzed from his time here on the beach, although Jessica noted ruefully that his attire was not nearly so abbreviated as hers.
She looked around for him now, wondering what was taking so long. As always, he was a director first and was setting up the shot from above on the truck. The sun was blazing behind him and she shielded her eyes to see. So many people, thought Jessica.
"Back off, folks," Dane shouted from the truck, as if reading her mind. The tight circle loosened as those not truly required backed away. "Okay, we’re ready." He jumped to the sand in an Errol Flynn move and hastily donned a torn white cotton shirt.
They had already shot the best part in Jessie’s opinion, that of the mind games and highly charged dialogue between the two. Now, stretched out on the sand, Mariah would fall prey to Roger’s overwhelming sexual charisma.
"We’ll get out of here soon, Mariah, I promise." Roger takes her into his arms.
And Roger had Dane’s green eyes, ardently staring into hers. Jessica was amazed at how easy it was to act with Dane. Her anticipated panic disappeared; Dane waited for her to respond with her line.
"It won’t be soon enough," Jessica announced, then giggled, and the entire crew broke out laughing as they caught on to her ad-libbed line. Dane, too, laughed and he dropped her into the sand, then pretended to strangle her.
He shot a look to the assistant director, then the main cameraman. "Screw the rehearsal. We’re going to tape now. Jess and I know how to do this."
The cameras began rolling. He repeated his line, and this time Mariah turned soft brown eyes up to him.
"Maybe we were meant to be here, Roger."
Jessica was not at all surprised at the urgency with which Dane allowed "Roger" to kiss her. His hands caressed her body in slow, erotic moves, and lenses zoomed from various angles. Soon Jessica realized that even Dane had not planned on becoming this involved with the scene. She was ultimately reminded of their night together; she could feel his body reacting to hers and she prayed that either the Assistant would end the scene, or that all these people would disappear. Finally, someone above her yelled "Cut¾ print that…perfect." The requisite applause from the watchers followed. Dane lifted his face skyward, seemingly disoriented, then the green eyes were smiling.
"Wait! We have to do it again. I wasn’t ready."
"Forget it!" Jessica shouted, pushing him off of her into the sand. She sat up, trying to brush the sand off what was left of her dress. The group disbanded, but Jessica remained sitting in the sand with D
ane, who sat staring at her with a whimsical smile.
"It wasn’t so bad, was it?" he asked.
Jessica studied Dane for several seconds before responding.
"Honestly?"
"Honestly, of course,"
"It was…tolerable." If he only knew, she thought.
"We can finish it, if you want." His eyes challenged her, his fingers plucking at the ties on her dress, stretched taut across her small breasts.
She sighed, standing up and shaking out her skirt, then voiced her thought of the week before. "You never give up, do you Dane?"
"Never," he said with a grin.
He stood and they began walking slowly toward the Pacifica, where the next shoot was being readied. He tried to put his arm casually around her as they walked, but she pushed him away. He laughed. "You," he accused, "are a constant pain in the ass."
"Thanks, so are you," she retorted. He laughed again, good-naturedly, as they reached the crowd setting up.
"It’ll be at least an hour before they’re ready," he observed. "I’m taking a break. Join me in the cantina?"
"No, Dane. I need a shower and a rest. See you later." He was wearing her down, and despite the fact that the dreaded ordeal was over, the tightness in her stomach had only increased and she felt dizzy.
Jessica trudged back down the beach toward the small group of hotel bungalows, and reaching hers, entered the unlocked cabin and fell to the bed. She stared at the motionless ceiling fan above her. She was glad they’d finally found her a room after that horrible, stormy night when she’d passed out in Dane’s room. This one was no larger than the first; she had noticed the workers repairing the storm damage, and she had shuddered, remembering the terrifying night.
Jessie sighed deeply. She’d left two more messages on Mac’s answering machine, and still he hadn’t returned her call. She had finally called Roxie and had conversed bleakly with her machine as well. She felt weary and alone. Her only satisfaction was with her performance, for she felt fairly confident that Dane and the others were impressed with her talent. This afternoon, they would join Doug Lewis and begin rolling the cameras aboard the Pacifica, as the evil Eric Van Dorn would attempt to spirit Mariah away from the illustrious Roger Boyer.
I must take a shower, Jessica thought tiredly. She felt suddenly weak and wondered when she’d eaten last; she could not remember. Since the episode at the Martino’s, nothing had seemed good.
She struggled to stand up and began painstakingly untying the knots that held the costume together. A knock at the door startled her. What now?
"Island Pizza. Somebody here order a--" At the sound of his voice, she had the door open before he could finish. Jessica stared at him in disbelief, not speaking. She reached out and removed his cap and sunglasses, then wrapped her arms tightly around his neck in a rush that almost knocked him off the step.
"Oh, Mac," she whispered, slumping against him as she fainted into his arms.
~ * ~
Mac carefully moved her to the bed, then went to the sink and moistened a towel. Gently wiping her face, he became concerned at how thin and worn she looked. "Damn it Jessie, what have you done to yourself?" he admonished aloud while taking her pulse. Through the shreds in her dress he could see her ribs.
Now alarmed, Mac wasted no time. He picked up the phone and demanded that the front desk summon an ambulance. Then he stepped outside and grabbed the first person passing, a property man, and asked if there was an American doctor traveling with the production. "Get him, now. Miss Taylor is ill." The tone of Mac’s voice was enough to send the man off in a dead run for the Pacifica.
He returned to Jessica and caressingly pushed the hair from her face. She opened her eyes drowsily and tried to get up. "I’m fine, really," she whispered. "It’s just the frogs…"
Mac gently pushed her back down on the bed. "Lie still."
"What…what are you doing here?" she asked softly.
"Taking care of you, as usual." He smiled, wiping her brow with the cloth.
Jessica sighed and again lost consciousness.
Soon, the cabin was buzzing with people. The doctor and several crewmembers had arrived, but only the doctor was admitted by Mac. At the door, voices were hushed whispers: "Somebody better go get Pierce." Everyone had an opinion, and Mac shut out their voices as he anxiously watched the doctor examine Jessica.
A commotion announced Dane’s arrival as he pushed his way into the room. His glance at Mac was cool and non-committal as he turned his attention to the doctor. "What’s wrong with her, Doc?"
"Best I can tell, dehydration, possibly heat prostration, exhaustion…hell, she could be pregnant. We should get her to a hospital for treatment and tests." The louvered door provided minimal privacy and the speculation quickly circulated. At this news, Mac looked openly and coldly at Dane, his anger barely controlled. Dane absorbed the look, then abruptly left the room. Mac could hear Dane ordering the crowd to move away as the ambulance approached the hotel.
They sat at opposite ends of the narrow waiting room. The "hospital" was more of a clinic, and its architecture was as dated as the hotel’s, but the care and technical expertise seemed adequate. Doug had joined them, along with a half dozen others, including Melinda, Jessica’s stand-in. No one spoke for what seemed to most like hours while they waited for word about Jessie’s condition. Dane became increasingly agitated and began pacing around the room.
"Why don’t you just go take a walk," Mac suggested, almost saying "a hike," but thinking better of it.
"Is that what you’d do, MacKendall? Can I learn something from Mr. Perfect? ‘Cause if so, I’d better listen up, huh?" Dane’s tongue was biting, and Mac could stand no more.
He jumped up and approached Dane. "Well maybe you do have something to learn, Pierce! Did you ever stop to think that perhaps a human life is a little more fragile and precious than your lousy movie? It wouldn’t have taken a lot of perception or sensitivity to notice she wasn’t eating unless you’re so hung up on sex and booze and fame to care… What the hell were you thinking about, man?"
"Hey-hey-hey…" Doug stood up and got between them, for it appeared that at any moment now Dane would throw a punch at Mac. "Look, we’re all upset about Jess. But it won’t do her a lick of good for you boys to be killing each other out here."
Mac immediately turned and went back to his seat. He ran his fingers through his hair wearily, and stared hotly at Dane where the latter had remained standing, rage tightening his fists. Doug clapped Dane on the back.
"Let’s get some air, friend." They left the hospital for a walk.
Melinda, who sat witnessing the display of tempers, moved to sit next to Mac. She took out a cigarette and smiled at him. "You’re Cory MacKendall, right?"
"Yeah." Mac was in no mood for conversation. "You can’t smoke in here."
The young woman stashed the cigarette back in its pack. "You’re the first person I’ve ever seen go up against Dane. And I’ve known him a long time. Way to go, Cory."
Mac nodded. It was about time somebody did, he thought.
"Are you her old man?" the girl continued, motioning toward the room down the hall to where Jessica lay, still unconscious.
"Her what?" Mac frowned at her.
"You know, are you two, like, a thing? Dane’s very jealous of you."
Mac sighed and shook his head in disgust. This was too much. Melinda finally took the hint and moved away, cigarette pack in hand.
Another hour passed. At around one in the morning, Dane returned to the clinic alone, looking distraught and unkempt. He sat down, then stood up and walked over to Mac. "You wanna get some coffee?" he asked, his face a mask of exhaustion and despair. Mac stared at him, then nodded and they moved to the small cafeteria down the hall. The room was empty except for the two of them.
Mac apologized first. "I’m just worried…she doesn’t take care of herself."
"I can’t believe I didn’t know this was happening. I noticed the weight loss, but tho
ught she was just worried about the cameras, you know." Dane looked far away, absently biting his thumbnail.
Mac studied Dane’s haggard face over his coffee. He suddenly felt compassion, realizing that Dane was suffering as much, or more, than he was over Jessie’s health. But the image slipped away as Dane returned from his thoughts.
"Why are you here, anyway?"
"I’m on vacation. I thought it would be a kick to watch the filming."
"You mean, you wanted to keep an eye on Jessie, right?"
Mac didn’t answer. Why did Pierce insist on needling him? Still, Dane continued.
"Whatever. She’ll be okay. I’ll see to it that she gets all the cheeseburgers and fries she can hold."
Mac gave him a look of disgust. "Jessie doesn’t eat that crap. You obviously don’t know her very well."
"Ah. And you do, I suppose? Oh, yeah, you shared a refrigerator with her for a few weeks, right?" Dane looked away, his air aloof and condescending. He lowered his voice, as if they were not alone in the empty cafeteria. "Not quite the same as sharing her bed, is it?"
"Don’t even go there." Mac squinted at Dane, new anger coursing through him.
"But I have been there. I’m going to give you some advice, MacKendall. Good advice. When she comes out of this, and she will, you’d better get off your Boy Scout butt and give her your best shot. Because if you don’t, I will." His voice was still low and casual, his keen eyes menacing.
"Well, Pierce…I thought you already did that, and the way I see it, you blew it," Mac said coolly.
"Maybe I did," Dane nodded, absently turning his attention to arranging the tableware. "But she has this…weakness, you know." He looked up at Mac.
Mac met his eyes briefly before looking away. Dane was pushing, and Mac’s felt his temper moving toward meltdown. "Her only mistake was in crossing paths with you."
"At least I made love to her," Dane challenged, his keen eyes glinting. And then it happened; Mac’s fist shot out like a tripped mousetrap spring, connecting with Dane’s jaw and sending the latter out of his chair and sprawling onto the floor. Despite the obvious pain and blood in his mouth, Dane tested his jaw and smiled up at Mac, who was now standing over him in instant, abject remorse.
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