Phoenix Falling

by Mary Jo Putney

  She moved to the photos that surrounded the fireplace. Winfield had been on friendly terms with most of the British theatrical world for decades. He'd specialized in witty, debonair leading men, later turning to character roles.

  There were three pictures of him with Kenzie, who looked younger, but not really young. Was he born with those ancient green eyes?

  One photo included a third man about Winfield's age. He was balding, with a homely, intelligent face. Not an actor, she guessed—he didn't carry himself like one—but he was in several other pictures with Winfield. A close friend, apparently.

  The sun had set, so she turned two lamps on low for a gen-de light. Then she chose a lavishly illustrated history of the British theater and sat in the armchair by the fireplace to leaf through it. Though she tried not to listen to the murmuring conversation between the two men, her attention was caught when Winfield said in an effort-filled voice, "I've often wished I had a son. One like you."

  "You were my father-in-theater," Kenzie replied. "That's almost as good."

  "Better, maybe. Not many sons would support their fathers in such luxury."

  Rainey kept her gaze on her book, not surprised to hear that Kenzie was paying for Ramillies Manor. She'd been married to him for two years before she'd learned by accident how much money he gave to charity. His preference was to help people, especially children, who were trapped by poverty and needed help to change their lives.

  Winfield sighed heavily. "I always wanted to do a play with you. We won't have the chance now."

  "We could do a reading," Kenzie suggested. "Is there something you'd like to perform one last time?"

  "Splendid idea," Winfield said, his voice stronger. "Shakespeare, of course. King Lear would be the logical choice, but I'm not in the mood for a tragedy about a mad, foolish king." Another wheezing laugh. "I was always best in comedy. Twelfth Night? No, Much Ado About Nothing. I'll be Leonato, Constable Dogberry, and the friar, since I've played all of them. You did Benedick at RADA, so you know that, and you can do the other male parts. Raine can do the females. I think I know all my lines still. I've a couple of copies of Much Ado in the bookcase if you need help."

  Kenzie raised his voice. "Rainey, are you up for this?"

  Abandoning all pretense of reading, she set the theatrical history aside and rose to scan the bookcase. "I'd love to, and Much Ado About Nothing is a favorite of mine. I played Beatrice under a tent one summer." She struck a pose and declaimed, " 'But then there was a star danced, and under that was I born.'"

  She found two copies of the play, one in Shakespeare's collected works, the other an illustrated volume of that play alone. Thinking of Kenzie's dyslexia, she gave him the single volume since it would be easier to read, then sat on the opposite side of the bed and flipped to the play in the Complete Works.

  There was a spark of anticipation in Winfield's eyes, though he looked so fragile that it seemed a breath would blow him away. Rainey wondered if he'd last the length of the play, even though Much Ado was one of the Bard's shorter works.

  She gave him her warmest smile. "I'll do the musical accompaniment." Trying to sound like trumpets, she sang a clarion fanfare. "Your cue, good Mr. Winfield."

  In a frail but beautifully modulated voice, he spoke Leonato's first line. "I learn in this letter that Don Pedro of Arragon comes this night to Messina."

  Since they'd all performed in Much Ado, the printed plays were needed only for checking the dialogue of secondary characters. Rainey loved the snappy verbal fencing between Beatrice and Benedick. Playing opposite Kenzie made it easy to create the undercurrents of longing and wariness between Shakespeare's frustrated lovers.

  Despite the sometimes slapstick humor of the play, the circumstances lent power and poignancy to the reading. Win-field's love of his craft was obvious, the flowing beauty of the words weaving a garland of language.

  But his voice became more and more labored. In the fourth act, he quoted the friar: "Then shall he mourn... if ever love... had interest in his heart...." He drew a long, rattling breath before whispering hoarsely, "Dying... is... easy. Comedy... is hard."

  When he fell silent, Rainey looked up in alarm, but his chest still rose and fell. Kenzie waited until it was clear his friend would not complete the speech, then took over Winfield's parts. He read as if his future career depended on it, his marvelous, flexible voice perfectly capturing the rhythm of the blank verse.

  Somewhere in the last act, the spirit of Charles Winfield departed, though Rainey couldn't have pinpointed the moment. When she realized he was no longer breathing, she had to exercise all her actor's discipline to keep going to the end.

  After Beatrice and Benedick agreed to marry, still bantering but no longer able to conceal their love, Kenzie as Benedick spoke the last line of the play. "Strike up, pipers!"

  Remembering that she was the accompaniment, Rainey sang, but gay, matrimonial music was impossible. What came from her heart and lips was the traditional song "Amazing Grace." Though often played by pipers, it was a haunting tune, an elegiac thanks for divine forgiveness. Clementine had sometimes sung it to her daughter.

  The silence after she finished was broken by a sob. She turned, and was startled to see a small group gathered by the door. The matron, staff members with name tags hanging around their necks, and several residents stood solemnly listening. An elderly woman in a wheelchair dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief.

  Expression rigidly controlled, Kenzie stood and rested his hand on his friend's forehead before drawing the blankets over the still face. "Charles asked us to toast his death, not mourn. Mrs. Lincoln, can that be arranged?"

  The matron nodded and whispered an instruction to one of her assistants. After the girl left, the silver-haired woman in the wheelchair said unsteadily, "Whenever Charles Winfield was in a play, I was there on opening night. He was always worth seeing, even if the play wasn't. It was such a thrill when he came to live here." She gave a watery smile. "He made me feel like a duchess."

  A male staffer said, "He was always a real gent, no matter how bad he felt."

  One by one, people contributed their memories. Rainey spoke last, saying, "I never met Charles Winfield before tonight, yet he made me feel like a friend. I wish I'd known him better."

  As she spoke, the assistant entered the room with a tray of champagne-filled wine glasses. Rainey accepted one, unable to imagine such a scene in the United States.

  Kenzie waited until everyone had been served, then said in a voice that filled the room, "You asked to be toasted, not mourned, Charles, but I must do both. 'Now cracks a noble heart. Good-night, sweet prince, And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest!'"

  He swallowed his champagne in one gulp. Then he hurled the wineglass into the fireplace. As it shattered into bright splinters against the brick, he said softly, "When one drinks a toast from the heart, one must break the glass."

  "To Charles Winfield." Tears in her eyes, Rainey followed suit, as did the others. The wheelchair-bound woman rolled close enough to smash her glass into the pile.

  As people wordlessly began to depart, Mrs. Lincoln approached Kenzie and Rainey. "It's very late. There are some visitor rooms upstairs, so you can stay here if you like."

  Rainey glanced at Kenzie. Her throat was raw and she was weary to the bone. The thought of staying at Ramillies Manor was much more appealing than looking for a hotel at this hour.

  Seeing her expression, he said, "We'd both like that, Mrs. Lincoln." After a last look at the mortal remains of Charles Winfield, Kenzie followed the woman out.

  An elevator took them to the top of the building, where several doors opened off a narrow corridor. "These were servants' rooms once. They're small but pleasant, and convenient when someone needs to stay over." Mrs. Lincoln indicated one door for Rainey and the next one for Kenzie. "Sleep well. If you like, you can join us for breakfast in the ground-floor dining room."

  "Thank you, Mrs. Lincoln. You've been very kind." Fingers clumsy, Rai
ney turned the old-fashioned key in the lock, then pulled it out and took it inside.

  Closing the door, she leaned against it with her eyes closed. She was glad she'd come, but every shred of strength and emotion had been used up.

  She opened her eyes to a pretty, gabled room such as might be found in a nice country bed-and-breakfast. There was also a connecting door to Kenzie's room. She smiled tiredly. How very clever of the matron to make this arrangement for two people of uncertain marital condition. She crossed the room and opened the door to Kenzie's room.

  He stood at his window, looking blindly at the lights of London, but he turned when she came in. The composure that had carried him through the long night was gone, leaving him dark and hollow.

  She opened her arms, and he walked into them. "I'm so sorry," she whispered, aching for him.

  "It was time." He buried his face in her hair. "Charles had lived a full, long life."

  "That doesn't mean losing him shouldn't hurt." Too tired to talk, she guided them the couple of steps to the bed, kicked off her shoes, and drew him down beside her. In a few minutes, she'd get up and take her clothes off, but for now, she needed so much to rest....

  Chapter 24

  Kenzie woke when the morning sun struck his eyes. It took a groggy moment to recall the last sixteen hours. The drive up to London, the time with Charles, ending up in bed with his head pillowed on Rainey's shoulder. They were both fully dressed, though during the night someone had pulled the bedspread over them. Probably Rainey—he'd been nearly comatose.

  Stiffly he got up and tiptoed to the bathroom. It was small, but had a shower, a terry cloth robe on the hook behind the door, and fresh toiletries, including a disposable razor. The servants who'd once lived here had never been so lucky.

  A quick shower and shave helped clear his mind, though his emotions felt... flattened. The last good link to his early years was now gone.

  He put on the robe and emerged from the bathroom to find Rainey blinking sleepily at him from under the bedspread. Her hair tangled across the pillow like spun amber, and she looked good enough to eat. It was a measure of his heavy spirit that he didn't feel even a trace of sexual response. All he wanted was to put his arms around her and go back to sleep again.

  Since that wasn't practical, he sat next to her on the bed. "Thanks for coming, Rainey. It... helped."

  "I'm glad for that, and glad I met Charles Winfield." She covered a yawn. "How lovely that you were able to give him the actor's equivalent of a Viking funeral, sending him off in a blaze of glory."

  He hadn't thought of it that way. "I owed him more than I can ever repay."

  "He's the first piece of your pre-Hollywood past I've ever met." The statement was without inflection, but she watched his face carefully.

  "Charles and Trevor were the best part of that past."

  "Trevor?"

  Kenzie must be even more tired than he'd realized to say that. "Trevor was a friend of Charles's. He's shown in some of the pictures downstairs."

  "I don't suppose I'll ever fully understand how much Charles meant to you," she said tentatively, "but it occurred to me that I can put a dedication to him at the end of The Centurion. Would you like that?"

  His throat tightened. "Yes, and Charles would have, too."

  He rolled Rainey onto her stomach and began rubbing her back. She gave a sigh of pleasure and stretched like a petted cat. "That feels so good."

  The massage benefited him, too. Touching her always did. He gave silent thanks that Charles had died while he and Rainey were sharing this last interlude of intimacy, and not just because her support was a blessing. It was good that she and Charles had the opportunity to meet.

  As Rainey's tight muscles softened, she asked, "Did Charles have any family?"

  "None that would acknowledge him." Kenzie pressed his thumbs under the edge of her shoulder blades, looking for knots of tension. "He was the black sheep of an upperclass family. When he left Cambridge to act, they said that if he insisted on following a dissolute, disreputable life, he should take a stage name and leave them alone. So he did."

  "Sounds as if you had a lot in common."

  Ignoring the implied question, he said, "I'm the executor of his will. He wanted cremation and a small memorial service. He said once that he'd had his time in the spotlight, and an actor should know when it was time to leave quietly."

  "I think English actors are much saner than American ones."

  "So much of America is larger than life. Here, centuries of history are everywhere. It keeps things in proportion." He patted her elegant backside and stood. "Ready for a shower and breakfast?"

  "I am now. Thanks, Kenzie." She got out of bed and leaned into him for a long hug. "Will they serve the classic British breakfast with eggs and bacon and fried bread and tomatoes and all those other wonderful cardiac killers?"

  "Probably. Being saner than Americans, the English are much less obsessive about what they eat."

  "I could get into that. Maybe I should buy a flat here." Yawning, she returned to her own room to shower.

  After dressing, he stood at the window and gazed over London. On a Sunday morning, it was as quiet as it ever got. Thank God he'd have today before he resumed work on The Centurion. The sound stage scenes they were going to shoot would be the most searing in the whole movie.

  God only knew where he'd find the emotional energy to get through this final week. He'd barely been managing even before Charles's death. If not for his nights with Rainey, he wouldn't have made it this far.

  His mouth tightened. Charles would have said the show must go on. As a private tribute to his mentor, he must dredge up whatever it took to make these last scenes the best work of his life.

  Then, thank heaven, he'd have two months to go into hiding before his next picture began shooting. Ordinarily he'd have Seth Cowan look for some small jobs to fill the time between pictures, but this time he wanted inactivity. He'd go to Cibola, where the Gradys had already moved into their new home. He'd be able to fix up the old ranch house the way he wanted, recover, and explore the spare, beautiful land he'd bought.

  Explore, recover, and try not to think of Rainey.

  * * *

  Breakfast in the Ramillies dining room was as cholesterol-laden as expected, and Rainey relished every bite. Sometimes, a woman just had to live dangerously.

  The residents were too well-bred to stare at the celebrities in their midst, though after they'd finished eating one woman shyly asked for autographs for her granddaughter. Several other residents stopped by to offer sympathy and share memories of Charles Winfield. Kenzie handled the condolences with his usual graciousness, but she could see signs of strain.

  Deciding it was time for the anonymity of The Dorchester, where they were booked for that night, she gave Kenzie the wordless signal that married couples develop. He nodded and got to his feet and they said their goodbyes.

  Realizing her hands were too empty when they left the dining room, she said, "I think I left my purse in Charles's room last night. Which way is it?"

  Kenzie led her down the corridor and opened the door for her. Winfield's personal belongings hadn't been touched, but the bed was mercifully empty, and had been remade with a fresh bedspread. Rainey crossed the threshold, then halted at the sight of the trench-coated man studying the photos around the fireplace. He turned toward her, quickly sliding one hand into his pocket. Nigel Stone.

  Seeing the reporter, Kenzie swore, "You damned vulture! Have you no shame?"

  "Just a journalist doing my job," Stone said piously. "A washed-up actor dying isn't newsworthy, but you and your estranged wife spending the night reading plays to him is a great story."

  "Get the hell out of here right now." Kenzie stalked forward, looking ready to remove the other man bodily.

  "He may have taken something of Charles's," Rainey warned. "He shoved his hand into his pocket when he saw me."

  Kenzie's eyes narrowed dangerously. "Robbing the dead. You're even
more despicable than I thought."

  "I swear I took nothing that belonged to Winfield. She saw me put away a tape recorder I use for notes." Stone pulled a small voice-activated recorder from his deep coat pocket.

  "Is he telling the truth, Rainey?"

  "What I saw was about that size and shape."

  Accepting that, Kenzie said, "Out. Now. Unless you want to give me the pleasure of dragging you out."

  Stone ambled toward the door, taking his time. "Don't get your knickers in a twist. I just wanted to look around."

  Rainey grabbed her purse from under the bed and followed the men toward the front door. Just before stepping outside, Stone paused, his hard gaze on Kenzie. "I've only seen eyes that shade of bright green once before," he said meaningfully.

  "Haven't you ever heard of colored contact lenses?" Kenzie yanked the front door open, and found a group of reporters and cameramen waiting.

  Rainey groaned. Running a press gauntlet was the last thing they needed. As Stone joined his colleagues, she moved to Kenzie's side. "Let's get out of here."

  Face like granite, he draped a protective arm around her shoulders and they started for his car. Reporters stepped back to let them through, intimidated by his expression, though questions came from all sides. Rainey bowed her head, wishing the small car park was closer.

  Pamela Lake, a reporter she knew slightly, shoved a folded newspaper into Rainey's shoulder bag. "Take a look at this, and call me if you have any comments." Intent on escape, Rainey barely noticed.

  A harsh voice rose above the others. "Is it true Charles Winfield died of AIDS?"

  From behind, Nigel Stone laughed nastily. "Probably. Everyone knew he was queer as Dick's hatband."

  Rainey could feel the fury that blazed through Kenzie. He spun around, and for a moment she feared he would strike Stone.

  Instead, he placed a hand on the reporter's shoulder in a gesture that looked casual, except for the bruising power of his grip. Stone gasped and tried unsuccessfully to jerk away.