Phoenix Falling

by Mary Jo Putney

  It would be interesting to find out, in a macabre sort of way.

  Chapter 29

  Kenzie arrived at the wrap party a little late, as tired as if he'd hiked across Death Valley in high summer. Actually, that would have been less draining than spending a good part of the day in bed with his estranged but infinitely desirable wife. Wearing minimal clothing, emoting madly, and with a camera and crew watching every move.

  Crossing directly to the open bar, he ordered a double shot of single malt whisky. He hadn't been drunk in decades and wouldn't be tonight, but he figured he was entitled to one really good, stiff drink. Hell, he was entitled to have a bottle of champagne cracked across his head as if he were a bloody battleship. He'd actually made it through Rainey's wretched movie.

  After a deep, scorching swallow of whisky, he turned and leaned back on the bar. The wrap party was being held in a function room attached to an old London pub. The spacious, high-ceilinged room was decorated like a gorgeous medieval banquet hall, complete with smiling waiters and waitresses in colorful period costume.

  It was a handsome place for a celebration, and the Americans in particular loved it. Rainey had used her tight budget for The Centurion well, not wasting a penny, but not stinting when it came to making her colleagues feel appreciated.

  He took a slower sip of whisky. Wrap parties were always bittersweet. For the duration of a production, cast and crew were like the crew of a ship, sometimes at each other's throats but bound together by their mutual mission.

  He'd been in the business long enough so that there were always familiar faces from the past, and people he'd see again in the future, but each production was unique. Never again would exactly the same group come together to make a movie.

  Still, by the end of shooting there was often a desire to have the blasted thing over with, especially if the production had been plagued with problems. Kenzie had worked on one film where the director had been changed twice, insanely expensive mechanical props had refused to work, the weather had been killingly hot and humid, and the leading lady was a screaming, coke-snorting hysteric. All that plus a scene-stealing dog eager to bite everyone but its handler. He'd certainly celebrated the end of that one.

  Given the strain of working with Rainey, this should have rated as a production he wouldn't miss, yet in most ways, it had been a good experience. First-rate people had done their best, with minimal interference from egos. Moviemaking at its best.

  The script supervisor approached, a wicked light in her eyes, and gave him a smacking kiss on the cheek. "I've been wanting to do that for weeks."

  He grinned and patted her ample rump. "I'm glad you finally let your inner tiger loose, Helen."

  She moved off, laughing. He glanced around the room and spotted Rainey in the middle of a knot of people. With her hair loose around her shoulders and garbed in a flowing green gown, she looked like the ingénue, not a tough, determined producer and director who'd worked tirelessly to bring her story to life. He hoped she was feeling pride in what she'd achieved.

  Tomorrow she'd be gone for good.

  He began to circulate, speaking to everyone at least briefly. Doable with a cast and crew of about seventy-five. Small by Hollywood standards.

  He suspected that his reputation for being courteous and down-to-earth had taken a beating on this production. There had been days on end when he'd barely been able to manage civility. No one seemed to hold that against him, though. Arrogance would have been resented, but he'd been so obviously stressed that his coworkers had been downright protective.

  Halfway around the gilded hall, he'd finished his drink and was considering going for another when a pretty redheaded waitress approached. "Excuse me, Mr. Scott, I know I shouldn't do this, but when I heard you'd be here... well, my little boy would really like to meet you." She glanced around. "Would you mind awfully coming to the cloakroom to meet him? Only for a minute. It would mean ever so much to Evan."

  "Of course I don't mind." He followed her from the hall and down a short passage to the empty cloakroom. Evan was about eleven, with great blue eyes, his mother's red hair, and a thin body confined to a wheelchair.

  As the child's face lit up, Kenzie dropped to one knee so their faces were level. "Hi, Evan. You know who I am. I gather you like the cinema?"

  "Oh, yes! You're my favorite actor, sir, and Sky Quest is my favorite movie, especially the final scene when you have to battle both the villain and your own dark twin." His words tumbled over each other as he delivered a detailed analysis that would have done credit to a film school student.

  When the boy paused for breath, his mother said firmly, "That's enough now, lad. Mr. Scott will be wanting to get back to his friends."

  "I'm in no rush," Kenzie said. "Why not get back to work and return in ten or fifteen minutes?"

  She gave him a smile that brightened the room and complied. By the time she came back, Kenzie and Evan had discussed Sky Quest, The Scarlet Pimpernel, and were well into Lethal Force. Kenzie signed a movie poster Evan had brought, then shook hands and said good-bye.

  As he and the boy's mother returned to the hall, she said softly, "I don't know how to thank you enough, Mr. Scott. For the first year after Evan's accident, movies were the only thing that made him smile. Meeting you is a dream come true."

  "It was my pleasure. He's a fine boy, with a mind like a steel whip." And how lucky he was to have a mother like this one. "Don't discourage him if he wants to work in the film industry someday. There are jobs that can be done from a wheelchair."

  Her eyes widened. "Really, sir?"

  "Really." If Kenzie could make it in show business, a boy as clever as Evan could. "He has the passion. Skills can be learned."

  A man who looked like the hall's supervisor stepped up, glowering. His gaze on the waitress, he said ominously, "Come along, Mrs. Jones. You know our rules."

  Suspecting she was on the verge of being fired, Kenzie said to the supervisor, "Sorry, was I out of line? I heard that Mrs. Jones has a son who's a cinema fan and asked if I could meet him. We had a fine time. I'm sorry I took her from her work."

  The supervisor's expression changed. "You asked to meet the lad, Mr. Scott?"

  "Yes. I find it very useful to keep in touch with my fans." He gave a full-wattage movie star smile. "I'm dreadfully sorry to have interfered with your staff. It isn't easy to create an event like this and make it seem effortless."

  "Got that right, mate." As the supervisor began detailing the difficulties of running a catering operation, Mrs. Jones gave Kenzie a swift, grateful glance before slipping away to help replenish the buffet tables along one wall. After listening intently to the supervisor, Kenzie signed an autograph for the man's wife, then excused himself and returned to circulation.

  He was close to finishing his task of talking to everyone when Josh arrived at the party, late and harried. "This was just faxed in from California, Kenzie." He drew out a folded paper. "I thought you should see it right away."

  Wondering what could be so important, Kenzie looked at the paper. At first glance the letter was a chaotic, indecipherable jumble of letters, a sure sign of fatigue.

  He closed his eyes for a moment, forcing his mind to slow down and concentrate, then tried again. The letterhead was his lawyer's. A word at a time, he started on the text. When he reached the end, he read through the letter again. The words remained the same. "Good God," he said blankly. "Rainey has withdrawn the divorce?"

  "So it seems."

  Kenzie's mental circuits melted under a clash of mixed emotions. Shock. Anger. Grief. Fear. "Don't tell anyone about this."

  Josh looked offended. "Of course I won't."

  "Sorry." Expression grim, he went in search of Rainey. He found her locked in a long, wordless hug with Rabbit, the hirsute sound man. There was a lot of hugging at wrap parties.

  When Rainey disentangled herself from Rabbit—named for his uncanny sensitivity to sounds—Kenzie asked tersely, "May I have a moment?"

 
Rainey stiffened and looked as if she wanted to bolt. "Of course."

  Rabbit gave Kenzie's arm a friendly punch and ambled off toward the buffet. Taking Rainey's elbow, Kenzie steered her away from the food and the casual circular dining tables. "Josh just gave me the most remarkable fax from my lawyer. What the hell kind of mind game are you playing? Or is this some peculiar kind of joke?"

  "Neither. It's just what it looks like—I dropped the suit."

  His temples began to throb as if he'd drunk five shots of whisky. "Producing movies is an expensive hobby. Did you decide you wanted some of my money after all? Dividing my last three years of income by community property would certainly finance your next movie or two."

  "Damn you!" She jerked her arm free. "What have I ever said to make you think I want your damned money?"

  Nothing. In fact, when she'd first filed, he'd had his lawyer offer her a substantial cash settlement. She'd flatly refused to take anything from him. Well on his way to a rare migraine, he said wearily, "Sorry. That was uncalled for."

  "More like unforgivable."

  "That, too. I'm... not good with surprises." Another dyslexic coping mechanism was to plan and organize as much as possible. Surprises that scrambled his hard-earned strategies were never welcome.

  "I'm not fond of surprises myself," she said more moderately. "The sign of a control freak."

  "Why did you change your mind, Rainey? Surely you can't want to stay married."

  Her gaze went across the room to the glittering ice peacock that presided over the salads. She had the starkly beautiful profile of an exhausted angel.

  "The honest truth is that living inside Sarah Masterson's skin made me realize how... how heedless I was to race back from Crete and immediately file for divorce," she said bleakly. "I didn't spend a single second considering whether I was doing the right thing. Since I don't like seeing myself as thoughtless, I canceled the lawsuit. Don't worry, this doesn't change anything. You've made it clear that you don't want to be married, so go ahead and file your own petition. I won't contest it."

  He stared at her, baffled and off balance. He'd counted on her determination to end the marriage. God knew that he deserved to be left. "I... don't know what to say."

  She sighed, her gaze coming back to him. "This isn't the time or place to talk. After we're both back in California and have caught up on our sleep, we can sort this out with a phone call. Most of the legal work has already been done, so a new petition should go through very quickly."

  The reasons to divorce hadn't changed. She'd just laid the burden of it on him. Diabolical, even though that hadn't been her intention. "Whatever you want, Rainey."

  "What a pity I don't really know what I want."

  Not daring to wonder what that might mean, he said, "Are you coming to the memorial service tomorrow?" When she nodded, he continued, "Shall we go together?"

  Accepting his olive branch, she said, "That would be nice. I wouldn't want to miss it." Very erect, her soft gown rippling like spring water, she turned and walked to the buffet, where she was welcomed with another long hug, this time from Laurie, the line producer.

  So he was going to have to get the divorce. It would be easier to gnaw his arm off like a fox caught in a trap.

  * * *

  Charles Winfield's memorial service packed the small chapel to overflowing. He'd made many friends over the years, and a dozen distinguished members of the British theatrical community had asked to speak in his honor.

  As executor and organizer of the service, Kenzie spoke first. He kept his remarks short, saying only that he owed his career to Charles Winfield, then recounting an anecdote that showed Charles at his most charming and generous. Struggling to keep his voice from breaking, he ended with, "Charles told me once that he had no family, but he was wrong. The British theater was his family, and today we all mourn his loss."

  Rainey gave a smile of approval when he returned to his seat beside her. She wore a severe, tailored black suit, and looked even more alluring than the night before.

  As the service unfolded, she quietly took his hand. He squeezed hers gratefully. Saying good-bye to his mentor and oldest friend was a painful reminder of all of the other losses of his life. For better and worse, Charles had been the last link to his childhood.

  The service ended with a powerful organ rendition of the hymn "Jerusalem." Slowly the crowd began to leave, with knots of people reminiscing and making plans for lunch. Several, including Dame Judith Hawick, paused to exchange memories of Charles and to thank Kenzie for organizing the service.

  Just before they reached the carved double doors, they were intercepted by Jenny Lyme and a man who looked vaguely familiar. She hugged Kenzie hard. "That was perfect, Kenzie. Charles would have been delighted by the turnout." She gestured to her companion. "You remember Will Stryker, don't you? He was with us the first year at RADA, then dropped out to study set design. He's the best in London."

  "Of course I remember." Kenzie offered his hand. "Good to see you again, Will."

  Jenny turned to Rainey and said warmly, "You don't know me, but my name is Jenny Lyme and I'm a huge admirer of your work."

  If her aim was to counter any jealousy caused by the tabloids' stories, she succeeded. Rainey extended her hand, saying with equal warmth, "As a matter of fact, I do know you, or at least, your work. Your ITV series, Still Talking, was wickedly funny. I wish I had your talent for comedy. Have you considered doing movies?"

  Jenny shook her head. "No, I'm the approachable girl-next-door type that does best on television. I can't do larger-than-life the way you and Kenzie do."

  Kenzie suspected that given half a chance Rainey and Jenny would become friends. After a few minutes of chatting, they said their farewells and stepped outside.

  It was an overcast morning, and mourners leaving the chapel were hit by a barrage of electronic flashes and television lights. "Damnation," Kenzie muttered under his breath. "I'd hoped the service wouldn't be noticed by the press hounds, but I suppose that was too much to expect."

  "At least they have plenty of celebrities to choose from," Rainey said as she took his arm. "Look suitably sad for the camera, and we'll be out of here in no time."

  Since the occasion was a memorial service, the reporters were well-behaved. Kenzie spotted the hired car waiting nearby at the curb. The plan had been to drop Kenzie at the hotel, then take Rainey directly to London City Airport, but maybe he'd go with her to the airplane. The longer he could put off saying good-bye, the better.

  They were nearing the car when a harsh, familiar voice barked, "I know the truth now, Scott."

  Blood chilling, Kenzie turned to see Nigel Stone bearing down on them, flanked by a photographer and a television cameraman. The last few days had been so demanding that he'd half forgotten about the reporter and his bizarre crusade. Josh monitored the tabloids daily, and had assured him that Stone was saying nothing Kenzie needed to know.

  Stone's eyes gleamed with vicious triumph. He knew. This was no longer a ploy to increase circulation, but a full-blown, malicious attack. The reporter had remembered their early acquaintanceship. The whole, vile truth would come out, and there wasn't a damned thing Kenzie could do. His vision began to blacken and his stomach twisted with the sick knowledge of inevitable destruction felt by a man plunging from a cliff.

  With one hand Stone shoved a microphone in Kenzie's face while the other held up a copy of the Inquirer. The headline screamed, "The Queer Truth about Kenzie!" "Would you care to comment, Jamie Mackenzie," the reporter sneered, "on your first career as a male whore?"

  ACT III

  Walking the Labyrinth

  Chapter 30

  Rainey gasped. How dare Nigel Stone say something so slanderous!

  Kenzie's arm spasmed under her hand. Glancing up, she saw that his face seemed to have turned to granite. Something was disastrously wrong.

  She gripped his arm hard, digging in her nails in an attempt to jolt him from his paralysis. "That's almost a
s wild as some of your own stories, Kenzie," she said lightly. "Though I think your claim to be the true king of England is more believable."

  She gave him a quick glance. Kenzie had the rigid expression of a man who'd been mortally wounded.

  Guessing that he wouldn't be able to come up with a coherent response, she swung her gaze to the reporter and said with delicate contempt, "Have you considered writing a novel, Mr. Stone? Obviously fiction is your strong point."

  His eyes narrowed with malice. "While researching your husband, I discovered that your mother was Clementine, rock star and drug addict. Father unknown. Care to comment on why you're so ashamed of her you've kept it a secret all these years?"

  "My mother's identity has never been a secret, Mr. Stone." She managed, barely, a cool smile. "I'll admit I don't make a point of mentioning who she was. I never wanted to trade on her fame to help my own career, particularly since I lack her musical talent."

  Anger at her calm reply sparked in the reporter's eyes, but there was no opportunity for further talk because pandemonium had broken out. Other reporters crowded around shouting questions while mourners emerging from the chapel demanded to know what was going on. The twenty feet to the hired car looked like a mile.

  Behind the television camera, Rainey saw Jenny Lyme, her expression appalled. Rainey sent her a fierce mental plea: If Kenzie is your friend, help him!

  Jenny seized her escort's arm and the two of them pushed between Kenzie and the television camera. "How bizarre!" she said with her famous husky laugh. "I've known Kenzie since our first day at RADA, and trust me, Nigel darling, he's not gay." She batted long, dark lashes at the reporter, her voluptuous and totally feminine figure angled to the best advantage.

  "Sadly true." Will Stryker became deliberately flamboyant. "Every gay student at RADA tried to seduce Kenzie at one time or the other. I mean really, who could resist? He was so gorgeous." The set designer gave an exaggerated sigh. "He always declined and went off with a girl. Polite but terribly, terribly straight. Near broke my heart."