Fragments of plays and poetry buzzed through his mind. Some were relevant to his situation, others less obvious. Living with Professor Trevor Scott-Wallace for more than six years had been an advanced course in British literature.
Full fathom five thy father lies;
Of his bones are coral made:
Those are pearls that were his eyes;
Nothing of him that doth fade,
But doth suffer a sea-change
Into something rich and strange.
But he hadn't a clue who his father was—what nation owned him, whether he was living or dead, whether he had any idea that he'd made a son with a beautiful girl too young to understand what she'd been doing.
As a boy, he'd liked to imagine his father as a Highland lad who lay with Maggie among the heather, then joined a regiment and went off to see the world, as Scottish youths had done for centuries. Even today, the regiments sent recruiting units marching into Scottish towns with pipes and banners flying to capture the imagination of bored young men who yearned for adventure. Maybe Maggie's lover had gone off promising to return for her, then died overseas in one of the nasty little skirmishes that regularly flared up around the world.
Of course, Kenzie's father might have been a drunken clerk who'd paid Maggie five quid to spread her legs. Or an incestuous relative who'd molested her and sent her fleeing in terror from the only home she'd known. There was no way to know. He prayed that she'd found some pleasure in his begetting. She'd had little enough joy in her life.
Break, break, break,
On thy cold gray stones, O Sea!
And I would that my tongue could utter
The thoughts that arise in me.
Tennyson had known grief, too.
At the top of the hill he halted, panting from the steep climb. What the devil should he do about Rainey? He'd bought this retreat partly to have a home with no memories of her, yet now she slept under his roof.
He was desperately alone, and she was the only person he could bear to have near. But she wanted to give their marriage another chance, and that was more impossible than ever. He was so knotted up sexually that he wasn't sure they could ever again share the glorious, healing passion that had been the bedrock of their relationship.
Seven long, celibate years had passed between his sexual servitude as a child and his first relationship as a mature male. Those years had let him see himself as a different person. In fact, he'd felt like a nervous virgin with his first lover, an actress fifteen years his senior who had taught a workshop at RADA. Her unselfconscious sensuality had helped him make the transition to an adult sexual identity.
But now he could no longer separate Jamie from Kenzie. The merest hint of a sexual thought about Rainey caused his stomach to clench as images of degradation rose and obscured her.
Agonized, he looked down over his valley. He was high enough to see the glint of moonlight on the small alpine lake, and the A-frame contours of the Gradys' new home beside it. The house was dark, since sensible people were asleep at this hour.
Physically drained but no more at peace than when he came outside, he started back down the path. Tomorrow he'd have to tell Seth Cowan that he would not do the thriller he was slated to start shooting in Australia in two months. He hadn't signed the contract yet so they couldn't sue, but Seth would still go through the roof. Better to leave a message early, on Seth's voice mail, so he wouldn't have to discuss his decision.
What the devil would he do with the rest of his life? To be an actor was to bare parts of oneself, and he felt too raw, too exposed, to ever act again. Most people dreamed of what they'd do if they ever had the time, but his only desire at the moment was to become a hermit and never interact with the world again. But how did hermits fill the empty hours?
Between one step and the next, he found the perfect angle that turned the almost circular lake into a moon-silvered mirror. His mind flashed to the labyrinth at Morchard House. It was strange how walking that winding path had relaxed him. He supposed it was because physical motion used up restless energy, allowing the mind to be still.
He tried not to think of the passion he and Rainey had shared beside the labyrinth. That was another issue, one he couldn't deal with. But the labyrinth itself called to him.
Why not build one here? The work would keep him busy for a few weeks, and when it was done, walking the mystical path might calm his wounded soul.
A jangling sound heralded the appearance of a dog. It was Hambone, the Gradys' friendly mutt, tongue lolling. Kenzie rubbed the dog's head and ears, grateful for a companion whose needs were so easily satisfied. As he resumed his descent of the hill, Hambone trotted amiably by his side.
He'd get a dog of his own. A hermit needed a dog.
Chapter 34
Yawning, Val made her way down the narrow staircase of the bed-and-breakfast where she and Laurie, her travel partner, had spent the night. She'd seen enough of Ireland to realize that yes, indeed, the Emerald Isle was green, and the musical accents made her want to whimper with pleasure. Laurie was sleeping late, but Val was up early and raring to start acting like a tourist.
"And how are you this fine mornin', Miss Covington?" Mrs. O'Brien, the landlady, asked cheerfully as Val entered the breakfast parlor. "Will you be having a wee pot of tea with your breakfast?"
"That would be heavenly." Mrs. O'Brien returned to her kitchen to fix Val's breakfast and brew the tea. Alone in the breakfast parlor, Val picked up the newspapers set on the sideboard and settled down to read.
Most of the headlines were routine, until she found the London tabloid underneath the sober Dublin paper. A huge picture of Kenzie and Rainey dominated the front page of the Inquirer with the headline, "Kenzie Scott: A Gay Blade?"
Dismayed, she skimmed the first paragraphs of the story, then returned to the photo to study it more carefully. Kenzie looked frozen with shock, as well he might. Rainey radiated surprise and fury.
So Nigel Stone had hit the grand crescendo he'd been building toward for weeks. Val's lawyer instinct made her want to dive into the fray. She'd become rather fond of Kenzie, and it went without saying that this kind of scandal would hurt Rainey deeply.
With professional objectivity, she considered whether Stone might be telling the truth when he claimed that Kenzie was gay. Nope, she still didn't believe it. She was good at picking up male vibes.
What about bisexuality? Possible, but that didn't feel right, either. She hadn't sensed any interest on Kenzie's part when he was around men, even though the movie crew had included a couple of good-looking gay guys. She'd stake her right to practice law that Kenzie was exactly what he seemed: an unconflicted heterosexual male.
The next page detailed Stone's evidence. He had a birth certificate for one James Mackenzie, allegedly Kenzie's real name. That meant nothing in itself, unless he could prove in some other way that Kenzie Scott and James Mackenzie were the same person.
Nigel also claimed to have spoken to men who swore they'd paid to have sex with Jamie Mackenzie. Again, that meant nothing unless they were willing to go on the record under their own names. Which they probably wouldn't, since few men would want to admit publicly that they'd solicited sex with a minor.
She swore when she read the next paragraph. Stone claimed to have a child pornography video that Kenzie had made. A carefully cropped image showed a desolate-looking child. She scrutinized the blurry photo. There was a general resemblance to Kenzie, but the features weren't quite right. It was like the best of the photos sent in by readers responding to the Inquirer's call for information. Close but no cigar. If this was Nigel's best evidence, he was on thin ice.
Mrs. O'Brien returned with a tray that held a pot of steaming tea and a plate piled with bacon, sausages, eggs, and a grilled tomato. Val's appetite had diminished sharply, but she managed to eat about half the food. She was going to need her strength.
When she finished her meal, she retreated to her room and dug out her cell phone. It wasn't yet midni
ght in California, so who should she call first? Emmy Herman would be the most tactful choice, and she'd probably know exactly what was going on, but pregnant women needed their rest. She'd have to call Rainey directly.
Though Rainey should be home by now, the call to her private home phone was picked up by an answering machine referring people to her office number. Val left a message, then tried the Gordons. She'd become friendly with Naomi and Marcus during filming since she'd been the major liaison to the producers.
Naomi Gordon picked up the phone. "Hello."
"Naomi, this is Val Covington. I'm in Ireland, and I just saw the Inquirer. What's going on, and what can I do to help?"
"Val, I'm so glad to hear from you. Hang on a second and I'll get Marcus on another extension."
A minute later Marcus said tersely, "Glad you checked in, Val. Maybe you'll be able to think of something we've missed."
"All I've seen is Stone's article, which naturally tells it his way. Can you fill me in on what really happened?"
"Nigel Stone jumped Kenzie with this about six steps outside the church where Charles Winfield's memorial service was held," Naomi said acidly. "The British tabloid reporters really are worse than the Americans."
"That bastard. Then what?"
Marcus picked up the story. "Rainey and Kenzie got away ASAP without making any comments. She was still shaking when she called us and the publicists to let us know what happened. We're doing our best to kill the story before it turns into a major media feeding frenzy."
"I wish I understood the British establishment better," Val said with frustration. "I'm good at digging out facts, and in the States I'm sure I could find some useful defensive ammunition, but I wouldn't know where to start in London."
"We can hire good researchers," Naomi said. "What should they look for?"
Val considered. "For starters, I'd check out dear Nigel's career in Australia. He worked there for years. See if he was ever accused of fabricating stories or evidence, or if he was ever sued for libel. Even if he won a suit, several incidents like that would really undermine his credibility."
"Good idea. I hadn't thought of investigating his Australian past, but I've got contacts in Sydney," Marcus said. "I'll get right on it."
"Have you seen any stills taken from the porn movie that allegedly shows Kenzie as a boy?" Naomi asked. "We haven't seen anything from that yet."
"The paper I just looked at had a still, and I don't think the boy is Kenzie. Right coloring and eyes, wrong chin, wrong cheekbones. It must be some other poor kid."
"So Stone hasn't got much. The problem is that this kind of thing can be hard to disprove unless we can clearly place Kenzie elsewhere at the same time he was supposed to be selling himself in London," Marcus said soberly. "Maybe Kenzie will finally talk about his early life to prove he couldn't be this kid hustler."
"Then again, he might say that he'll be damned if he'll be coerced into giving up the privacy he's protected so long," Naomi said dryly. "Underneath those lovely English manners, he can be pretty stubborn. Why should he have to talk about his private life, now or ever?"
Val frowned as she thought about early lives. "Get someone to look through a bunch of London school yearbooks from the right time and pick out half a dozen boys who looked like Kenzie. Then track them down and persuade them to appear at a press conference. Kick off the conference by showing a picture of the first man and announce, "This is James Mackenzie.'
"Then bring out the man whose photo it is. Ideally, he'll now be short, fat, and balding. Then you say, 'Actually, this is Reggie Smothers of Croyden, but didn't he look a lot like James Mackenzie?' After the reporters get through laughing, repeat that several times. By the time you're done, you'll have demonstrated there's no connection between the birth certificate, a fuzzy picture of a pre-adolescent, and Kenzie Scott."
Naomi chuckled. "Val, Val, are you sure you don't want to work for us? That's brilliant. If you don't want to do law or production, we'll put you in publicity."
"No, thanks. I actually rather like the law. I just need to find the right place to practice it." Val frowned. "I'd also make sure the reporters realized that whoever the boy was, he was so young then that he qualifies as a victim, not a callous hustler."
"I shudder when I think of how many exploited children there are living on the streets," Naomi said softly. "Don't get me started, or I'll be ranting."
The older woman's comment triggered a hunch. "There probably was a real James Mackenzie who was a boy hustler," Val said. "Maybe Nigel Stone genuinely believes that boy grew up to be Kenzie. But street life is hazardous, especially for someone who got into it so young. It's a long shot, but I'd look for a death certificate for the real James Mackenzie."
Marcus whistled softly. "If we could find that, it would certainly close Stone down. Great ideas, Val. Now you get back to your vacation and put this out of your mind. I think we're going to spike Stone's guns without any damage to Kenzie or to Rainey's movie."
Val sighed. "You really think I can put this out of my mind?"
"Call for daily updates," Naomi replied. "Trust us, Val. In a week or two, this will be ancient, discredited history."
Val hung, up, praying the Gordons were right. The movie might survive unscathed, but would Rainey's husband?
* * *
Chunk! Chunk! Chunk! Gradually the banging sounds penetrated Rainey's fogged mind enough to draw her from sleep to hazy wakefulness. She lay with her eyes closed as she pieced together where she was and how she'd gotten here.
A pity she couldn't convince herself it was all a bad dream, but she was definitely in New Mexico. With two kittens purring on the patchwork quilt beside her, so it wasn't all bad.
The sounds and timing of the chunking noise varied somewhat, but overall were pretty regular. The world's largest woodpecker?
Aching in every muscle, she hauled herself out of the deep, comfortable mattress and headed to the bathroom, kittens ricocheting off her ankles. Good grief, was it really two in the afternoon? "Jet lag" was too gentle a term. "Jet victim" came closer.
A quick shower revived her some, though she was still bone-weary from accumulated fatigue. After dressing in khaki shorts and a jade green tank top, she made her way to the kitchen, accompanied by kittens who earnestly assured her that they hadn't eaten in days, possibly weeks, and were now hovering on the brink of starvation.
A search of the cupboards produced a bag of cat food, and the knowledge that Alma Grady had stocked the kitchen well. There were plenty of staples and a good selection of perishables in the fridge. Leaving the kittens diving into their food, Rainey poured herself a glass of orange juice and wandered outside to find the woodpecker.
The ranch had a number of outbuildings, including a barn and a bunkhouse. All were thick-walled adobe, like the main house. In a paddock behind the barn were two horses. She wondered if the Gradys would mind if she or Kenzie rode them occasionally. It would be heaven to get up into those hills on horseback.
On the far side of the bunkhouse, she discovered the source of the noise. Kenzie was chopping wood. Quite a lot of wood. The sun was hot, and he'd peeled off his shirt, showing the powerful, crisply defined muscles of his back and arms as he swung the ax. The sight of him weakened her knees with yearning that was as much emotional as physical.
It seemed like forever since their last night together. She wanted to walk into his arms and kiss the salty sheen of his skin, hoping that the sweet intimacy of sex could heal the searing wounds of his past, and salve her own bruised and exhausted spirit.
Yet desire was overlaid by a horrific image of a helpless child being molested by a sweaty, panting pervert. Knowing where he'd learned to be such a wonderful lover made her almost vomit the orange juice she'd drunk.
Keeping her voice light, she said, "Stockpiling firewood for winter?'
Chunk! The ax swung wickedly through the air, and a half round of wood split into two kindling-sized pieces. He tossed them on the pile stacked agains
t the bunkhouse. "This is about the only kind of ranch work a city boy can do without training."
There were blisters on his hands. He may have figured out the way to swing an ax, but his palms weren't hardened for this kind of work. Of course, firewood wasn't the point. Channeling his rage into productive violence was.
"You chose well when you bought this place, Kenzie." She looked across the valley. "It's beautiful. Serene. A place to be sane."
"Maybe. Let's hope none of the gossip reporters will leave the city and hunt us down here." He set another length of log into chopping position. "They'd have a bad effect on the sanity."
She peered in the window of the bunkhouse, and saw a sizable room with four single beds and wide-planked floors. A door led into another room beyond. "This will make a nice guesthouse."
Chunk! "I don't plan on having any guests."
Did he regret allowing her to stay here? He was avoiding eye contact, and the vulnerability he'd revealed on the flight to New Mexico had vanished behind an impenetrable shell. The trouble with loving an actor is that you never had the least idea what he was thinking if he chose to shut you out.
"Have you had any breakfast? Or I guess lunch would be more appropriate." Assuming his shrug meant no, she continued, "How about I scare us up an omelet? I can't remember my last meal."
He hesitated. "I suppose I should eat."
"An omelet won't take long. If you want to shower, the food will be done by the time you're finished."
He retrieved his shirt from the stacked logs where he'd left it and rubbed it over his sweaty face. "That sounds good."
Side by side but not really together, they returned to the house. She told herself it would take time for him to recover enough to relax with her again. She'd have a week before she had to be back in Los Angeles to start postproduction.
But in her gut, she knew a week would not be enough.
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