Her Leading Man

by Duncan, Alice

  “Heh. I wouldn’t believe a word a picture person said to me, especially if it was a good word about some other picture person. They’re all snakes.”

  “Goodness,” murmured Martin. “I didn’t know we were considered all that bad.” He appeared truly unhappy, and Christina wondered why. After all, the whole world knew how immoral and disgraceful actors were.

  Gran turned on him. “Don’t try to be funny, you. And don’t try to humor me. I know what I’m talking about. I’ve got eyes. I see what goes on when a picture crew goes on location. I’ve seen it before, and I expect to see it again, but I’ll never see it with Christina. That’s why I’m here, and that’s why I’m going to keep my eye on my granddaughter.” She poked him again. “And you’d better never forget it.”

  “Not much chance of that,” Christina muttered.

  “No indeed,” agreed Martin. “In fact, I admire you for keeping an eye on your granddaughter.” He sent smile Christina’s way. “I wish more young women had family to watch out for them.”

  Gran stared at him for a moment and then gave him one more “Heh!”

  Christina, who’d detected honesty in Martin’s voice, was impressed.

  Three

  The set construction crew, led by George Peters, along with the materials to build the elaborate Egyptian-style set around which Egyptian Idyll was to be filmed, arrived the next morning. So did the camels.

  Martin was pleased to see George, whom he liked a lot, and the materials for the set. He was less happy about the camels.

  He eyed the six mangy-looking beasts with disfavor. They eyed him back and didn’t look any more pleased with him than he was with them. From experiences as a child that he wouldn’t forget if he lived to be a hundred and ten, Martin knew camels were all difficult to get along with, no matter what kind they were. Their predictable temperaments, however, did not make them all equal.

  “These are the wrong kind,” he stated flatly.

  The burly man who had driven the creatures from Clyde Beattie’s Wild Animal Circus in the city of El Monte to Indio spat into the dust at their feet. “These was the ones they loaded into the wagon. I don’t know nothin’ about camels.”

  One of the camels gave a disparaging hoot. Martin recognized the sound as being the prelude to ruder behavior, and he stepped away from the six animals. The wagon driver, who evidently knew enough about camels, too, did likewise. Martin fingered a tuft of hair and began tugging at it. “I specifically asked Mr. Beattie to send blond camels.”

  The driver squinted at Martin. “Blond camels? I don’t know nothing about blond camels or brunette camels or redheaded camels. These is the ones they loaded into the wagon.”

  This wasn’t going well. His tour of duty on this picture had barely started, and already things were going wrong. Martin didn’t put any stock in premonitions, but he’d had a funny feeling about this picture from before he’d even arrived in Indio. The camels made for a bad start, in his considered opinion, especially since Clyde Beattie had never failed him before.

  He and the driver exchanged a few more words. The driver was stolid in his defense of the cargo he’d brought, claiming that if there was a mistake, it wasn’t his, and he wasn’t responsible for making it right. Martin thought the driver should reload the camels on the truck, cart them back to El Monte, and bring him some blond ones.

  The driver balked. Martin pressed. An even-tempered man, Martin seldom allowed mistakes to jar him. He chalked up his present unnerved disposition to his overall uneasiness about Egyptian Idyll. When the driver continued to refuse cooperation in exchanging the camels, Martin stood aside, baffled.

  It was then, when he was at a total loss as to what he should do, that Christina Mayhew and her ogre of a grandmother showed up. Terrific. Just what he needed: a battle with a nasty little old lady. He forced himself to smile at the two women.

  “Good morning, Martin,” Christina said pleasantly.

  Was it? He didn’t think so. Nevertheless, as he was a polite man, he said, “Good morning to you, Christina. And to you, Mrs. Mayhew.”

  Grandmother Mayhew said, “Heh,” which Martin figured was par for the course. He was about to resume arguing with the camel driver when Christina interrupted his train of thought.

  “It looks like they sent you the wrong kind of camels, Martin.”

  Martin glanced at her, wondering if she was trying to be funny. “Yes,” he said, “it does.”

  “Well, now,” the driver said—and his face had gone red when he’d taken in the full glory of Christina, who really was pretty glorious if one weren’t in a bad mood already, “it ain’t my fault, them camels. I just brung what they loaded.”

  “Of course,” Christina said with a lovely, serene smile. “I don’t believe Mr. Tafft is blaming you for the mix-up. But Egyptian camels are a lighter color than these, you see, and this picture is supposed to be set in Egypt.”

  The driver swallowed audibly. “Well . . .” His brow furrowed, and he thought so hard, Martin wondered why they couldn’t hear the gears in his brain cranking. “Well, who’ll know that except you and him? “ He hooked a thumb in Martin’s direction. Christina lifted her eyebrows and smiled a question at Martin. He didn’t scowl at her, but it was an effort.

  Grandmother Mayhew chose that moment to pipe in with her own comment on the situation. “It’s not as if it matters,” she said to Martin, ignoring the driver. “Nobody who pays good money to see this idiotic moving picture is going to know Egypt from Ethiopia in the first place. They’re all morons and fools.”

  Martin stiffened. He knew he shouldn’t take exception to anything Mrs. Mayhew said, because she was only being offensive to get reactions from people. But it galled him when people made blanket disparaging comments about the pictures, which he loved above all else in the world.

  “Gran,” Christina said, before Martin could think of anything polite to say that would yet repudiate the old bat’s statement, “Martin works in the pictures because he loves them as an art form and a means of creative expression. There’s nothing intrinsically moronic about them, and you shouldn’t say things like that.”

  “Balderdash,” grumbled Gran.

  Martin swallowed the bitter words he’d been thinking, and glanced with wonder at Christina. She gave him such an understanding smile that his knees went weak for a second. “Yes, well, none of this will solve our problem, will it?” she asked sweetly.

  “I ain’t takin’ them camels back to Beattie’s,” the driver declared. “That wasn’t the deal. I’ve gotta pick up two elephants in San Berdoo and haul ‘em back to El Monte now. I ain’t got room for no camels.”

  Martin frowned at the man and was trying to think of a way out of this mess when Christina touched the hand tugging at his hair, and he nearly jumped out of his skin. Her touch had been soft and gentle, but he’d felt it like an electrical shock.

  “Please, Martin,” she said, and her voice was soft and gentle, too, “I don’t think you should worry about the camels right now. Maybe we can use hair dye on them or something.”

  “Fah,” said Gran. “I tell you, it doesn’t matter.”

  With a little shrug and a tender smile, Christina said, “You know, Martin, she might be right. There aren’t really too many people in the world who know Egyptian camels are blond. And these guys”—she patted the nearest camel, who looked at her as if he were offended—“will be photographed in black and white, so it might not matter much “

  For some reason, all the frustration and anger that had been building up in Martin’s chest vanished. It was an odd thing, he thought, but as soon as Christina’s hand had touched his, his tension evaporated. He looked at her and opened his mouth to tell her so, but realized how foolish it would sound if he mentioned it, so he held his tongue.

  Instead, he turned to the driver. “Tell you what. Miss Mayhew has a good point there.”

  The camel driver, glancing at Christina, looked as if he agreed, but not necessarily about Ch
ristina’s spoken point. He looked as though he wished he could devour Christina for dinner.

  Martin continued, knowing the driver wouldn’t get anywhere with Christina along the lines of seduction as long as Christina’s grandmother was around and armed with that blasted cane of hers. “So I’ll accept the delivery of these camels, and we can see how they look on celluloid.”

  He gestured to a group of four men holding leads that were destined to be hooked onto the camels’ bridles. “You can get the camels into their pens, fellows. I’ll have to decide whether we can use them after we see how they look on film.”

  The men were animal trainers often used by the Peerless Studio. The studio regularly needed horses and cattle for cowboy pictures, and this wasn’t the first time Peerless had dealt with camels. A vampire picture Martin had directed the year before had required bats. He would be very happy if his only problem in this picture turned out to be the color of the camels. Turning back to the driver, he said, “If these guys photograph all right, we’ll keep them. If not, I’ll be in touch with Mr. Beattie.”

  The driver seemed to have to jerk his attention away from Christina. After focusing on Martin, he mumbled, “Right. Right. So I’ll go pick up them elephants now. You gotta sign this.”

  He took a dirty delivery notice from his shirt pocket and handed it to Martin along with a stubby pencil. Martin unfolded the paper and read it, frowning. “I’ll sign it, but I’m going to make a note on it, so Mr. Beattie will know I’m not altogether satisfied with his help in this case.”

  “Do whatever makes you happy,” growled the driver, again focusing his attention on Christina.

  Evidently his scrutiny of her granddaughter irked Mrs. Mayhew because, without warning, she lifted her cane and poked the delivery man in the stomach with it. “Stop staring, you!”

  “Gran . . .” Christina didn’t seem displeased with her grandmother, although she did appear somewhat embarrassed.

  “I don’t allow dirty men to stare at my granddaughter, you,” Gran said, ignoring Christina. “And don’t you forget it.”

  The driver scowled at Mrs. Mayhew. “What’s the matter with you, lady? You crazy or something?”

  She poked him again. He grabbed his stomach and hollered, “Hey! Cut that out!”

  “Stop staring at my granddaughter, you brute!” Gran waved the cane in the man’s face, and he backed up. Unfortunately, he didn’t look where he was going and ran into the first camel, who pushed him away, hard, with his nose, grabbing the hat from his head with its teeth as it did so.

  “Hey!” the man yelled again.

  Martin, who had been writing a note to Clyde Beattie as all this was going on, glanced up and noticed Christina grimacing at the scene unfolding before her. She appeared resigned. For some reason, her expression made Martin feel happy inside. It was almost as if she considered all of these shenanigans a mere comedy to be either enjoyed or endured, as one chose.

  He appreciated her attitude and decided to emulate it. With a chuckle, he went to the delivery man and held out a hand to help him rise. “I hope you have another hat, mister. I think the camel’s keeping that one.”

  The deliveryman stumbled to his feet, his face red and his expression furious. “That old lady hit me with her cane!” he cried, indignant. “She damn well hit me!”

  “Yes, well, I suspect you were paying too much attention to Miss Mayhew,” Martin said gently. “Mrs. Mayhew is very protective of her granddaughter.”

  “You’re darned right. I am,” said Gran fiercely. Christina merely sighed and folded her hands together in front of her. On any other woman , the pose would have appeared demure and innocent. On her, it looked more impish than anything else.

  Martin, who admired her more than he could account for in that instant, sent her a smile before returning to the deliveryman. “I don’t suppose you’re going to want to make a fuss about it. After all, you probably don’t want anyone else to know you were bested by an old lady with a cane and a camel.”

  The deliveryman made a show of dusting off his trousers and shirt, then reached for his hat, which was hanging out of the camel’s mouth as the animal chewed on its brim. He tugged, and the camel tugged, and it looked as though it was going to be a draw.

  Since his eyes seemed determined to turn Christina of their own accord, Martin opted not to argue with them. His and Christina’s gazes locked for a very few seconds, but Martin felt every one them in his body. She had a quizzical expression on her lovely face, a half smile on her lips, and he could feel from where he stood all the good humor, determination, and intelligence in her.

  What an astonishing phenomenon. He’d never experienced such a plethora of physical and emotional sensations in the presence of another person.

  After he didn’t know how long, he dragged his gaze away from hers. He felt the separation, too, like a jolt—and not a pleasant one.

  His response to Christina troubled Martin—in good way. He’d have to think about it later, when he had time. Right now, he had to get this ridiculous deliveryman, who’d finally managed to pry his mangled hat out of the camel’s mouth, off his hands.

  “Here’s the receipt, mister. I’ve written a note to Mr. Beattie on it, but if you’d please tell him what happened, I’d appreciate it.”

  As he snatched the note from Martin’s hand, the deliveryman didn’t look as if he’d be pleased to do anything at all for Martin. He huffed to his truck, cranked the engine to life, hopped in the cab, and putted off, presumably to fetch his elephants, all without saying another word.

  “I doubt that Mr. Beattie will get your message, Martin,” Christina murmured, waving dust churned up by the truck’s tires from in front of her face.

  Martin, doing likewise, stared after the truck and sighed. “No, I expect you’re right.”

  “The man’s an ass,” declared Mrs. Mayhew. At present she had her cane propped against her shoulder.

  Martin, eyeing the cane, asked, “Do you ever use that thing to walk with, Mrs. Mayhew? Or do you just carry it around to hit people with?”

  Christina shot him a look of surprise that quickly transformed into one of appreciation, and she grinned. “Yes, Gran. Tell Mr. Tafft why you carry that cane.”

  “I need it because I have the lumbago, you young whippersnapper,” Gran growled.

  But Martin could have sworn he saw those bird-of-prey eyes twinkling at him. “Lumbago, eh? I hope if I ever get lumbago, I’ll stay as spry as you.”

  This time the cold lady chuckled. Martin could scarcely believe his ears. When he glanced at Christina, he found himself the recipient of such a warm look, he went light-headed for a minute. His reaction to Christina Mayhew was exceptionally unusual. Martin wasn’t sure if it meant anything, or if he was only tired from overwork.

  The animal trainers had clipped the leads onto the camels’ bridles and now led the animals away.

  “Where will they stay?”

  Martin had allowed his mind to wander after the camels, but Christina’s question jerked it back again. “Where? Oh, we had a stable of sorts built behind the resort. It’s sturdy, too. If the Desert Palm ever decides to offer horseback riding to its guests, I expect they’ll be able to use it.”

  A lovely eyebrow arched over an equally lovely eye. “Oh? That’s rather nice of Peerless, isn’t it? I mean, did you get a discount from the resort because you built them a permanent stables?”

  An actor had never asked him such a pertinent question before, and Martin was impressed. Except for Brenda Fitzpatrick, who didn’t count because of her family circumstances, most actors couldn’t spare a thought for anything but their own careers and looks. He had to adjust his thought processes in order to take in her question, then he began answering only tentatively, sure her attention span wasn’t long enough to last through an explanation.

  Christina surprised him Not only did she continue to gaze at him with interest, as if awaiting an answer, but when he spoke, she listened. Curiouser and curiouser, he
thought as he talked.

  “Actually, yes, we cut a pretty good deal with the Desert Palm. The resort is new, as you might have gathered, and the only reason it’s here at all is because they’ve recently discovered they can grow date palms out here. The owners of the resort took a risk by planting several acres with date palms. Then, because they thought they might be able to make a little more money if they could lure vacationers out to the desert, they started hawking it as a desert oasis. They’re publicizing it back East, as a restorative resort for lung patients.”

  “Ah,” said she. “Clever of them.” Her glance turned to the retreating camels. “You know, Martin, they might make even more money if they could advertise camel rides.”

  Martin looked at her sharply, his eyes narrowing. By God, she wasn’t kidding. He cleared his throat. “Um, yes, the resort’s owner and I had long discussions along those very lines, Christina. We’re both hoping to make a tidy profit from this picture.” He smiled to show her that, while he meant every word, he didn’t mean the comment to be in any way ironic or disparaging of either endeavor.

  Grandmother Mayhew snorted. Christina eyed her slantways. “I think they’re both very smart, Gran. After all, why should only one side of a deal make money from it?”

  “Heh.”

  The sound of approaching footsteps made all three of them turn. George Peters, a jaunty young man and the most talented set designer Martin had ever met, was nearing. George had changed a good deal the few years since he’d come West. In 1909, when Martin had first met him, George had just dropped out of college without telling his parents, hopped a train, and headed to Los Angeles in search of a career in pictures. His family had been disgusted with him. Martin had been elated to discover so ingenious and artistic a sensibility in the young man.

  George had gained confidence in the few years since he’d started working for Peerless. He now looked the picture of a bright young man, fashionably dressed in plain summer knickerbockers, a sleeveless vest over a sporty white shirt with a casual polka-dot cravat tied loosely at his neck, and a soft tweed cap on his dark head. Martin couldn’t help but grin whenever he saw George.