Summer Storm

by Joan Wolf

  “I have a friend in one of your courses. Dr. O’Connor,” Frank Moore said to her and she turned to him in relief.

  “Oh? Who is that?”

  “Jim Henley.”

  “Oh, yes.” Mary smiled. “I know Mr. Henley. He’s in my senior seminar.”

  “I have to confess I wrote and asked him what you were like when we knew you would be giving the lectures this summer.”

  “Oh?” She sipped her water.

  “And what did this Jim Henley say?” asked Kit mischievously.

  “He sent me back a telegram.” Frank grinned. “It had only two words on it: Drool Drool.”

  Kit laughed and so did Mel Horner and George Clark. Mary, who had developed a technique for dealing with drooling male students, said coolly, “Did he? How disappointing. I thought Mr. Henley had the makings of a scholar.”

  Frank Moore flushed and George Clark and Mel Horner sobered immediately. Only Kit still had a wicked glint in his eyes.

  “That’s the girl,” he said encouragingly. “I bet that cool expression really keeps them at a distance.”

  She bit her lip. The trouble with Kit, she thought, was he always could make her laugh. She wrinkled her nose at him. “It does.”

  His eyes laughed back at her but after a minute he turned to Mel Horner. “By the way, Mel, I want you to arrange a press conference. Tomorrow afternoon will be as good a time as any I suppose.”

  Mel Horner’s mouth dropped open. “A press conference?” he almost squeaked. “You never hold press conferences. I’ve been begging you for years...”

  “Well, I will hold one tomorrow,” said Kit with ominous calm. “What’s more, I think the rest of the cast should be there. And George as well.”

  “Are you serious, Chris?”

  “I am perfectly serious. It’s the only way to put all these unfortunate rumors to rest. I do not,” he said with devastating simplicity, “want the press to disturb my wife.”

  Chapter Five

  Tuesday morning Mary delivered her first lecture. . There were thirty-five students in the festival program, some of them members of the cast and the rest involved in other aspects of the production. She knew that the young eyes watching her so assessingly were more interested in her relationship to their leading man than they were in her academic record. Well, she thought grimly, they were damn well going to be in for a shock.

  The first thing she did was to hand out a reading list. Eyes popped open and a male voice asked incredulously, “Do you really expect us to read all these books?”

  . The speaker was the tall, broad-shouldered, blond boy who was playing Fortinbras. Physically a good foil for Kit, she thought, before she answered, “Certainly I do. You are all receiving six graduate credits for this summer school. I rather imagined you would expect to work for them.”

  “Well, we are working,” replied the boy. He gave her a lazy, charming grin. “I don’t at all object to sitting in class with you, Dr. O’Connor. In fact, it’s a pleasure. But between rehearsals and daily lectures, I really don’t see how we can possibly get all this reading done.”

  Mary looked severely into the handsome, boyish face. “That, Mr. Lindquist, sounds to me both unscholarly and insincere. Are you quite sure you wish to remain enrolled in this summer school?”

  There was absolute silence in the classroom. Then Eric Lindquist said quietly, “Yes, I’m sure. I apologize, Dr. O’Connor.”

  “Your apology is accepted.” She glanced around the class. “Are there any further questions? No? Good. My topic for today is the place of drama in Renaissance England.” The students obediently picked up their pens.

  * * * *

  The press conference was held that afternoon in the recreation room of the dining hall. Mel Horner, taking full advantage of his client’s unusual mood, had made a few telephone calls, and as a result there were representatives from the New York press and the wire services as well as the usual fan and scandal sheets. George Clark served as a general host, and while they were waiting for Kit to arrive, he and the other cast members circulated among the press, answering questions about the production and even more questions about Mr. and Mrs. Douglas.

  “I don’t know much about her at all,” Frank Moore said cheerfully to an inquisitive reporter. “She’s supposed to be a terrific Renaissance scholar. I haven’t read her book yet, but it made quite a stir in the academic world. If today’s lecture is anything to go on, the reputation is deserved. She knows her stuff. What’s more—she makes it interesting.”

  George Clark, the only one besides Kit and Mel Horner who knew the real circumstances behind Kit’s presence at his festival, lied gamely. “No, it was a complete accident. Neither of them realized the other was coming to Yarborough.”

  “How do they act toward each other, Mr. Clark?” shot an eager woman reporter.

  “As two civilized people,” snapped George in return. He was beginning to realize why Kit did not give press conferences. He noticed a small movement at the door and then Kit came quietly in. He was dressed casually in a navy golf shirt and tan pants and he stood in the doorway, making no sound and slowly looking around the room. Gradually, without his seeming to do anything at all to attract it, the attention of the room swung his way and the place erupted into chaos. George Clark suddenly found himself a little shaken at the thought of directing Christopher Douglas. Magnetism like that was something that came along perhaps once in a generation.

  Mel Horner stepped to the mike that had been set up and spoke into it. “Now, ladies and gentlemen. Mr. Douglas will be happy to answer your questions, but they really must come one at a time.” He looked nervously at Kit and thought, I hope the hell he keeps his temper.

  He did. He put on what Mel afterward told him was perhaps the finest performance of his career. He disdained the microphone and pitched his celebrated voice to an easily audible level. “I thought perhaps that first I would explain a little about my marital situation since it seems to have provoked such universal interest.” He didn’t sound at all sarcastic and he smiled charmingly before he went on to give a very edited account of his marriage: “We were both students and too young. It simply didn’t work out.” The coincidence of himself and Dr. O’Connor—he scrupulously called her Dr. O’Connor the whole time—both working at the Yarborough Festival this summer was just that, a coincidence. He had not realized until after he took the role that she would be lecturing here. “So you see,” he concluded disarmingly, “it has all been a tempest in a teapot.”

  “But why didn’t you ever get a divorce, Chris?” asked the man from Personality.

  “Neither of us ever got around to it, that’s all. If I had wanted to marry again, I would have. I’m sure we’ll do something permanent eventually. We’ve just both been rather busy these last years.”

  “Why did you keep your marriage such a secret?” It was the eager young lady from one of the wire services.

  He shrugged. “It was over with before I became established. The subject never came up. And I certainly didn’t want Dr. O’Connor bothered by a lot of unnecessary questions.” He gestured beautifully around the room. “As has happened.”

  “Is that why you’re holding this press conference? To protect—ah, Dr. O’Connor?” It was a man from a New Hampshire paper.

  Kit looked at him thoughtfully. “Partly. I feel guilty about having caused her all this trouble. But I was hoping, too, that there might be some interest in my tackling such a formidable role. After all, I haven’t done any theater in five years and my movie roles have hardly been of this caliber.”

  “How do you feel about Hamlet?” asked the man from the Associated Press and from then on the conference moved into theatrical areas. Kit wandered around the room, chatting pleasantly, patiently answering questions, utterly relaxed, utterly charming.

  “I don’t believe what I’m seeing,” muttered Mel Horner to George Clark. “Chris of all people. He hates things like this.”

  “John Andrews was righ
t, of course,” replied George soberly. “He’s doing it to protect Mary.”

  Mel looked at him accusingly. “You haven’t told anyone that Chris asked to come here?”

  “Of course not!”

  “Good. The fat would really be in the fire if the press found that out.”

  “Or if Mary did.”

  “True.” Mel Horner sighed. “What a shame to waste a woman like that in the classroom. That skin! Those eyes! She could make a fortune in the movies.”

  George grinned. “Somehow, gorgeous as she undoubtedly is, I cannot see Mary in the movies.”

  Mel Horner thought for a minute. “I suppose you’re right,” he replied gloomily. “The problem is I can’t see her as Chris’s wife either, and I’m afraid that that is what he wants.”

  They both looked at the slim, dark man who was sitting casually now on the arm of a chair talking to a New York theater critic. “He seems a very decent sort,” said George Clark, “but it’s a hell of a life, isn’t it?”

  * * * *

  Mary stayed as far as possible from the press conference. Her brief experience with the media after the bombshell of her marriage had dropped had been enough to permanently scar her sensibilities. What a life Kit must lead, she thought, with a flicker of genuine horror. Still, he had known what it would be like and he had gone after it with a single-minded intensity, ruthlessly sacrificing everything else to this one driving ambition. Having been one of the things sacrificed, she hoped that at least to him the result was worth the price.

  She spent the early part of the afternoon in the library and then, when she thought the press must be gone, she changed her clothes and went down to the lake. The college had almost half a mile of lakefront property, with a dock, an area of lawn chairs, and a volleyball court. Mary sat down in one of the chairs and stared out at the sparkling water.

  “The press conference went very well,” said a rumbling voice in her ear, and she turned to see Alfred Block, the actor who was playing Claudius, Hamlet’s uncle. Block was a well-known actor from the Broadway stage who had never managed to break into movies. He was in his middle forties, with dark brown hair that was beginning to thin. His eyes were gray with the hint of a slant that was oddly surprising in his otherwise Anglo-Saxon face.

  “It’s over then,” she replied with a restrained smile. “I thought it would be safe for me to emerge from my hiding place.”

  “Where do you hide, Mary, when you want to escape?”

  “The library, where else?” she replied lightly, not liking the way he was looking at her. There were two young students stretched out on the dock, both wearing bathing suits and showing a lot more flesh than she was in her khaki shorts and plaid shirt. Why didn’t he go leer at them, she thought with exasperation. Alfred Block had cornered her over coffee in the recreation room last night and she had heard more about him and his career than she ever cared to know. She was afraid the man was going to make a dreadful pest of himself and was wondering how best to handle him when Kit arrived.

  “Thank God that’s over,” he announced, as he flopped down on the grass at her feet and closed his eyes.

  “Don’t let us disturb your rest,” said Mary testily.

  “I won’t,” he mumbled, his eyes still closed. She stared at him for a minute as he lay there on the grass with his feet crossed, his hands clasped behind his head, his eyes closed against the sun. She was suddenly intensely aware of him, of the rise and fall of his chest with his even breathing, of the beat of the pulse at the base of his tanned throat, of the latent power in the length of his lean body. . . . She took a deep breath and reached out to kick him in the ribs with her sneaker-shod foot.

  “Hey!” he yelled indignantly, and sat up.

  “I want to hear what happened at the press conference,” she said sweetly.

  “That hurt.” He rubbed his side and glared at her reproachfully.

  “You’re tough,” she answered even more sweetly. “You run along the tops of moving trains, you hang from cliffs, you punch out thugs, how can a little nudge in the side hurt you?”

  “That was more than a nudge.” He looked at her speculatively. “You’ve seen my movies.” His voice was soft, dangerously soft, and the glint in his dark eyes was more dangerous still.

  Mary was absolutely furious with herself. “Yes,” she snapped. “I’ve seen your movies.”

  “I should imagine,” put in the insinuating voice of Alfred Block, “that all the world has seen your movies, Chris. Especially that last little adventure film. How much money has it grossed?”

  The two girls who were sunning themselves on the dock had been slowly moving their way ever since Kit had arrived. Hearing Alfred’s question, one of them eagerly volunteered an answer. “I read in Variety that it may eventually be the biggest-grossing movie ever.”

  “Really?” Mary looked at the girl, glad of any excuse that would direct her attention away from Kit. “Has it done that well?”

  “Oh, yes.” The young face glowed at Kit. She was a very pretty girl, golden brown from the sun, with long, sun-bleached hair and widely spaced green eyes.

  He looked back at her with pleasure, his eyes going over the smooth expanse of tanned young skin. He turned back to Mary. “You’re going to be red as a lobster if you stay out too long in this sun.”

  Devil, thought Mary, amused in spite of herself. She met his eyes and made a face. “I’m afraid you’re right.” She held out an arm and regarded it appraisingly. “It’s just turning nicely pink.” She leaned back in her chair. “However, before I go, what happened at the press conference?”

  “I think I put to rest all their speculation about you and me, if that’s what you mean.”

  “Yes, that’s what I mean. Will they—go away now?”

  He shrugged. “Most of them.” He looked up suddenly and his eyes locked with hers. It was almost as if he had touched her. “You’ll be safe,” he said deeply.

  She pushed herself to her feet. “Good,” she replied through a suddenly dry throat and knew, as she walked up the stairs from the lakefront lawn, that so long as he was around she wasn’t safe at all. She would simply have to keep out of his way, which considering the small size of the school and the fact that they took all their meals together, was not going to be easy. What she needed, she thought, was someone to act as a buffer between her and Kit. She thought about the various possibilities as she slowly climbed the hill that led to her cottage in the pines. Not Alfred Block—he was too nasty; not Frank Moore—-he was too vulnerable; not Eric Lindquist—he was too cocky. George. The name flashed into her brain and she smiled with satisfaction. Of course. He was very nice, intelligent, talented—and old and sophisticated enough not to think she meant more than she really did.

  She arrived at her cottage and went in to shower and change for dinner in a suddenly confident frame of mind. Kit thought he was so damn irresistible— well she would show him. The stinker, she thought, as she blew her hair dry. I’ll fix him for coming here and putting me in this horrible position.

  Chapter Six

  Mary put her plan into action at dinner. She made sure she entered the dining room with George, and it seemed very natural when she took a seat beside him at the table. During dinner she devoted almost her entire attention to his conversation, and under the heady spell of her blue eyes, he seemed to grow at least two inches.

  Mary never flirted. Whenever she wanted to charm a man she simply sat quietly, looked beautiful, and listened. It was a devastating technique and had soothed the wounded breasts of many affronted male professors who had originally objected to the appointment of so young a woman to the faculty of their illustrious university.

  Back in the recreation room she sat on a sofa, allowed George to bring her coffee, and for the first time that evening looked directly at Kit. He was standing against the great brick fireplace, holding a cup of coffee and he was, as always, surrounded by a crowd of girls. Across the shining blond and brown heads their eyes met. Mary,
not a bad actress herself, produced a cool indifferent smile, leaned back and crossed her long and elegant legs. George returned with her coffee and she greeted him with a noticeably warmer smile.

  Carolyn Nash, following the direction of Kit’s eyes, said, “Dr. O’Connor sure surprised us this morning. She gave out a reading list as long as my arm. The worst part of it is, she seems to expect us to actually do the reading.”

  Kit’s eyes came back to her pretty face. “Of course she does. Dr. O’Connor takes her job seriously.”

  “Well, so do I. But my job is to play Ophelia.”

  “You have Ophelia’s lines down letter perfect,” he said, “so you don’t need to spend time on them. Have you always been such a quick study?”

  She blossomed under his attention and was about to answer when another girl, the sun-bleached girl from the lake, broke in. “You’re the one with the long part, Chris! The longest part Shakespeare ever wrote. I think it’s marvelous that you have so much of it down already.”

  He replied absently and continued to stand there, islanded by adoring girls, his real attention somewhere else. Mary’s shoulder-length hair had drifted like black silk across the cushion she was leaning against; her relaxed, slender body in its green summer dress was half sitting, half reclining on the soft, cushiony sofa. She tipped back her head and laughed at something George Clark said to her. As Kit watched, Alfred Block drew up a chair next to Mary’s sofa and broke into the conversation. After five minutes the group was joined by Frank Moore.

  Mary yawned daintily, put down her empty cup and rose. She shared a general smile among her admirers, made a remark Kit couldn’t hear, and moved to the door. Three men hurried to open it for her. She left, alone. Kit dropped his retinue and went after her.

  She was going up the path through the pines that led to her cottage when he caught up with her. He didn’t say anything, just fell into step next to her and continued the uphill climb. Finally she could stand the silence no longer and said, “I don’t believe your way lies in this direction.”