Phoenix Falling

by Mary Jo Putney

  "So you get caretakers, and they get a low-maintenance retirement home. Sounds like a good deal, but I never thought you'd buy a place so far from the sea."

  He turned onto another road. In the distance, a cluster of lights marked a small settlement. "Neither did I, but I like New Mexico."

  "I'm surprised you took me to Cibola. I'd have thought you might prefer not to contaminate the place with my presence."

  Sometimes she was a little too perceptive. "I can live with the memories of you and the kittens in the garden." In fact, that image was burned into his brain to the point he'd never be able to enter the garden without thinking of her. A bittersweet memory. Maybe in time the sweet would outweigh the bitter. "Are you hungry?"

  "Ravenous," she admitted. "I'd just started my sandwich when Emmy called."

  "There's a barbecue place up ahead. I ate ribs there a few days ago—greasy, fattening, deeply unwholesome, and delicious. Are you up for it?"

  Her face lit with laughter. "How could I resist such a description?"

  The small, casual restaurant reeked of authenticity, not to mention barbecue sauce. When they entered, the hostess glanced sharply from Kenzie to Rainey, but she made no comment, just led them to a corner booth. T

  he other customers were casually dressed and weathered by wind and sun, working people who belonged to this part of the world as thoroughly as Cibola did. Several glanced in their direction, then returned to their own meals, respecting the couple's privacy as the hostess had.

  As they waited for their orders of ribs and a pitcher of beer, he said quietly, "People leave one another alone here. It's another thing I like about this part of the world."

  Rainey settled into the booth appreciatively. "I could get used to this. Generally I don't mind signing autographs, but I hate having my meals interrupted."

  Steaming platters arrived promptly, and Rainey fell on hers like a swarm of locusts. Besides eating her share of ribs, along with coleslaw and potato salad, she still had room for a slab of apple pie.

  After rendering her side of the table a wasteland, she leaned back happily and wiped her hands with a paper napkin. "I didn't realize how hungry I was. What a great place. A good thing I don't live nearby. I'd look like a blimp."

  "Not any time soon. You've been losing weight since shooting started, and there wasn't much of you to begin with."

  She smothered a yawn. "As soon as we get back to the hotel, I'm going to go to bed and sleep at least eight hours."

  "We're not going back to the hotel."

  She snapped to full alert. "Enough already, Kenzie. You've abducted me, cut my electronic leash, and gave me a forced lesson in perspective, but it's time to get back."

  "Several days ago I booked tonight at a rather unusual bed-and-breakfast near here. Since tomorrow is Sunday, you can afford to stay away a little longer."

  Her eyes narrowed to slits. "I thought you said no seduction."

  "Nary a bit." He hoped the regret didn't show in his voice. "It's an apartment, so you can have the bedroom while I sleep on the foldout sofa in the living room. All very proper."

  "Does the bedroom door have a lock?"

  "I think so." He drained the last of his beer. "Your faith in me is touching."

  She gave him a crooked smile. "What if it's me I doubt? This won't be the same as having separate rooms at the hotel, Kenzie."

  "Nothing will happen unless it's what we both want."

  Her gaze dropped to the check. "I'm buying dinner."

  Which was, perhaps, her way of saying that they might both want it, but it wasn't going to happen.

  * * *

  "How far down is this place?" Rainey asked.

  "One hundred and ten steps. We're almost there." Kenzie was just below her, leading the way along stone steps carved from a rugged cliff. Though the steps were wide, Rainey gave thanks for the handrail on the left that separated her from a sheer drop of three or four hundred feet.

  Kenzie hadn't been kidding about this place being unusual! He'd picked up keys at the nearby home of the man who owned the bed-and-breakfast, then drove them to a place of serious emptiness.

  One key had unlocked a massive door that was set in solid stone. It opened to reveal the top of this staircase. A switch turned on low lights set on every sixth step of the alarmingly long descent. As he closed the heavy door behind them, Kenzie said, "I think we'll be safe from autograph hunters here."

  In true gentlemanly fashion, he went first with his duffel bag, presumably to break her fall if she collapsed into a maidenly faint. She wasn't about to do that, but she stayed as close to the cliff as humanly possible.

  Finally the staircase flattened into a long, tiled balcony. To the right, sliding glass doors were set into the cliff. Kenzie used the keys again to let himself in. Turning on a light, he asked, "What do you think?"

  "I've never seen anything like this." Rainey halted on the threshold, stunned by the room carved out of living stone. Walls and ceiling curved to suggest a natural cave, yet underfoot was thick, plushy white carpeting.

  There wasn't a lot of furniture, but it was well-chosen and comfortable. The overstuffed sofa was angled to take advantage of both a fireplace and the view out the glass doors.

  "Quite something, isn't it? Inspired by the cliff dwellings of the ancient Anasazi Indians, I understand. I was lucky to be able to book the place for tonight. There was a cancellation."

  Kenzie dropped his duffel behind the sofa and gestured for her to explore. The bedroom was beyond, with a luxurious bathroom that included a steam shower. In a comer of the living room was a kitchenette. Kenzie opened the door of the small refrigerator. "Care for some white wine?"

  "That would be nice." She accepted a glass, thinking that even though he hadn't planned on seduction, this place was damnably romantic. Uneasily she walked back onto the balcony and halted with one hand on the railing.

  Kenzie flipped off the staircase and interior lights and came outside to stand a careful yard away from her. As her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she began to pick out details of the moon-washed landscape. At the foot of the cliff a small river glinted, while rugged rock formations loomed on the far side of the canyon. The only sounds were wind, water, and the rustle of a small beast higher up the cliff.

  "This is truly special," she said, voice low because noise seemed wrong in the cathedral stillness of the night. "I'd love to work it into a movie."

  He laughed. "You're a born director, Rainey. Every sight, sound, and idea is grist for your mill."

  "I think you're right." She took another small sip of wine. The last thing she needed was to drink enough to weaken her judgment. "As much as I wanted to act, I always had a vague sense that there was something for me beyond acting. Do you have any desire to produce or direct? Most actors do sooner or later."

  "Not me. Acting was the only thing I ever dreamed of doing. It's what I am."

  Her brows furrowed. "It isn't what you are. It's what you do."

  "Speak for yourself. If I'm not an actor, I'm nothing."

  In the moonlight, his features had the cool symmetry of carved marble and the air of mystery that always made her yearn to get closer, to try to grasp that elusive essence. Despite their years of marriage and the ease between them at the moment, she still didn't know what made him tick. Maybe no one did.

  "What I'd like to know is why you flipped out at the suggestion of playing Sarah," Kenzie remarked. "It's a wonderful role, and you could do it well."

  Her tranquility vanished. "For God's sake, Kenzie, what part of 'no' didn't you understand?"

  "The irrational part."

  "I'm not going to play Sarah, and that's final!" She spun on her heel and marched back inside, seething.

  Kenzie followed. "It's chilly. I'll light the fire."

  "Don't bother for my sake. I'm going to bed." She rinsed out her wineglass and set it to drain, then rubbed her arms, shaking from cold.

  Wood was already laid in the round pueblo-style fir
eplace, so Kenzie had only to set a match to the paraffin-saturated fire starter. As the first flames flickered upward, he asked quietly, "What about Sarah bothers you so much?"

  Why did she hate the idea so much? Sarah was a good character who grew from a sheltered innocent to a strong, nurturing woman. When Rainey wrote the screenplay, she'd sweated blood to capture the nuances of Sherbourne's heroine, and thought she'd succeeded pretty well. "I... I think it's because Sarah is so incredibly innocent and naive. I can't identify with her. Even at six years old, I wasn't that innocent."

  He sat back on his heels, watching the growing flames. "That innocence is the source of her strength. It doesn't occur to her to leave Randall, even though he's an emotional basket case when they marry."

  "The nice thing about fictional innocence is that the writer can turn it into a virtue instead of the weakness it is in real life," she said acidly.

  "You're certainly no sheltered Victorian virgin. Every time we take on a role that's radically different from what we are, it's like jumping off a cliff." He gestured toward the sliding doors and the vastness beyond. "But the roles that make us grow, and produce the finest acting, are exactly the ones that are most frightening. Though Sarah's innocence might make you feel uncomfortably vulnerable, you're quite capable of playing her, and doing it well."

  She crossed the room and sank wearily into the sofa, absorbing the warmth of the fire. "Pushing one's boundaries works to a point, but we all have a range of things we can do effectively. Sweet little Sarah is out of my range."

  "Then don't think about the whole movie at once. A day's shooting is only a few minutes of usable film, and surely for those few minutes you can manage Sarah and her naïveté. There's nothing like slicing a story into hundreds of takes to grind the primal fear away."

  Everything he said made sense, yet she shivered at the thought of playing Sarah with anyone, much less with Kenzie. "You don't know what you're asking."

  "I think I do." He gave her a sidelong glance. "It's hard enough working together, but to play lovers? Husband and wife? Of course it will be difficult, but for the sake of the movie, you have to do this. You won't find a better actress in the time available."

  She started to reply, then stopped dead as she realized the conversation was eerily familiar. "You're using the same arguments I used when you tried to back out of the production!" In fact, with Kenzie's flypaper memory, parts of the conversation were word for word.

  He chuckled. "I wondered how long it would be before you noticed. The arguments are as valid now as they were then. How does it feel to have them thrown at you, rather than doing the throwing?"

  She didn't know whether to laugh or swear. "It feels rotten, especially with you taking an indecent amount of pleasure in making me sweat."

  "I can't say I enjoy watching you suffer, but the situation is not without humor." He caught her gaze. "I have a stake in this movie, too. I'm putting in my time, energy, and reputation. My name will go on the theater marquees. I want this production to be as good as it can be, and that means we need you as Sarah."

  "There has to be an English actress who can play her as well as me. Probably better."

  "If there is such a person, which I doubt, what are the chances of finding her in a week, and her being available?" He smiled faintly. "Having loftily told me that suffering through a painful role would be good for me and my art, can you justify taking the coward's way out when the tables are turned?"

  Her eyes narrowed. "Are you trying to use emotional blackmail?"

  "I have a much better weapon. Your sense of fair play."

  She swore under her breath. "You certainly know what buttons to push."

  "Thank you."

  "That wasn't intended as a compliment." She rubbed her temples, thinking how much she didn't want to do this role. But karmic justice had struck with a vengeance.

  She let her breath out in a long sigh. "Very well, damn you. I'll play Sarah."

  Chapter 13

  Kenzie gave her the smile that always tied her stomach in knots. "I'm glad. Acting together will be stressful, but that's not a bad thing for the movie, since the characters are saturated with stress."

  "You're grasping at straws, Kenzie. We're going to drive each other crazy. But you're right, the movie will probably benefit by having both of us, even if the camera guys have to work twice as hard to make me look young enough." She rose from the sofa. "I think I'll call it a night."

  "Isn't it a little early? We could do some rehearsing."

  They'd rehearsed together many times since that first night with The Scarlet Pimpernel at Kenzie's house, but so much had changed. So damned much..."I haven't got a copy of the script."

  "I do. I'd planned on working tonight. We can manage with one copy. I've learned just about all of my lines, and since you wrote the screenplay, you must know it almost by heart."

  He'd booked this exotic hideaway for a Saturday evening of work? "Sometimes, Kenzie, you're downright inhuman."

  "You've finally discovered my deep secret—that I'm a space alien who learned to act so I can pass as human."

  Though he said it jokingly, there was a strange kind of truth in his words. Not that he was from outer space, but that he felt like an outcast. Many actors felt like outsiders, herself included. She knew the source of that primal sense of disconnection in her own life, but not in Kenzie's. He'd posted the subject of his childhood off-limits at the beginning of their relationship, and she'd respected that.

  But she'd wondered what influences had shaped him. His voice, accent, sophistication, and confidence indicated an upper-class British background. Yet he had an almost complete lack of ego, which didn't jibe with a privileged upbringing or his phenomenal success. In the most narcissistic profession in the world, he was profoundly unassuming. He accepted that he would receive star treatment, but never seemed to want or expect it.

  Nor did he have the vanity that was usual with most beautiful people. Neither did she, but that was because she hadn't been a particularly pretty child. With her skinny frame, thin face, and odd red-blonde hair, she'd been passable at best. She'd stared into minors and brooded on the unfairness of fate for not giving her Clementine's lush beauty.

  In time she'd learned to play up her good features and carry herself as if she were beautiful. That illusion had worked for her as an actress, but it wasn't the same as being born with traffic-stopping good looks.

  She deduced that Kenzie's childhood had been very difficult, maybe an alcoholic or abusive parent. Maybe, like her, he hadn't been a very attractive child. If he'd been overweight, it explained the lack of vanity and his rigorous physical fitness regimen. Access to a gym was a standard clause in all his movie contracts.

  Or maybe he'd been dumped into a boarding school and forgotten, or been a short skinny kid who'd been bullied mercilessly. Whatever the details, that upbringing had been so painful that he wouldn't talk about it to anyone, not even to her. Maybe he'd anticipated that they wouldn't stay together, and she might tell his story to the tabloids after they parted. Life had made him extremely wary.

  One of the things they had in common.

  Though she would prefer to put a door between herself and her husband, it would be foolish to waste several hours of uninterrupted working time when the movie had such a tight production schedule. "I suppose we could do a read-through of the script, though I don't want to get into serious acting."

  "Agreed. I figure I'll only be able to manage Randall and his problems for one or two takes per scene, so I'm not going to waste the emotion at this early stage." He pulled a copy of the screenplay from his duffel bag and handed it to her. "But a read-through will help us to get a handle on playing these characters together."

  She'd loved working with Kenzie on the two movies they'd made before this one. Not only was he incredible to act with, but it had meant spending more time together. Conflicting obligations had kept them apart for half their marriage, and that had contributed to their breakup. How
many times had she talked with him on the phone when the hunger for his physical presence had been so great she'd almost moaned from the pain of separation?

  Forcing her mind back to the present, she flipped through the script. Every scene between Sarah and Randall was either romantic, charged with heavy emotion, or both. It was difficult directing Kenzie through this material—acting with him would be hellacious. It was a good thing that Sarah was on the verge of tears half the time. That Rainey could handle.

  She began to read her first scene, when Randall asked Sarah to many him. Miss Naïveté at her most credulous, full of wonder that the handsome, dashing officer she'd adored from childhood wanted her as his wife. Rainey kept her voice flat, and suppressed the memory of Kenzie proposing to her in California. He read his part with matching neutrality.

  After the engagement came Randall's African campaign and imprisonment. He dreamed of Sarah during his captivity, her innocent beauty becoming an emblem of his homeland, but they didn't see each other again until he stepped from the train at Victoria Station and found himself a hero.

  Though her parents didn't approve of a gently bred girl meeting her fiancé in such a public place, Sarah insisted on going to the station. She was waiting with her protective father as Randall emerged from the train. They couldn't speak properly in the middle of the turbulent crowd, but she was close enough to see the longing in Randall's eyes when he saw her. Then the panic as journalists and hero-worshippers closed in on him.

  Line by line Rainey and Kenzie worked out the rhythms of the dialogue so that the formal Victorian language wouldn't sound stiff. The characters had to be convincingly historical, yet the language must not distance the audience. That was why Rainey had wanted an English actress with classical stage training. Luckily, she'd spoken the dialogue as she wrote it, so she could manage the high-flown sentences.

  Besides running the dialogue, they began to roughly block out movements. She had clear mental images of how far apart they would stand, how they would look at each other—or avoid a glance.