"There is no way a
helicopter is going to risk this storm," Allie proclaimed, settling
herself more comfortably into one of the flimsy chairs that ringed their
makeshift conference table. "Face it, Jerry, you’re stuck with
her. At least until the storm blows itself out."
"And you are delighted!"
Jamieson prowled restlessly around the tiny prefab shed, raking
impatient hands through his thinning sandy hair, kicking ferociously at
invisible dust mites. Dammit, he’d done his part. Kayla Farrell’s
mandatory week was over. Finished. He’d satisfied the terms
of her contract. It was high time for her to go back home.
But just when he’d
started to relax, and anticipate regaining control of his tidy little
kingdom again, bad weather had moved into the region with a vengeance.
It was supposed to rain for at least three days, with wind gusts up to
sixty miles per hour. Totally unseasonable for this time of year.
"Damned global warming!" he muttered under his breath, then spun around
again. "Why the hell do you want her to stay? She’s a pain
in the ass!"
"She has all of us on our
best behavior." Nearby lightning flickered across Allie’s
exquisite face, highlighting the laughter brimming in her eyes.
"You’ve said so yourself! Something about Kayla Farrell makes us
want to do our best, Jerry--to reach deeper into our characters and pull
out the very best we can offer. How many retakes have we had to do
in the last week?"
Jamieson scowled, and
kicked at the hapless counter. "None."
"That’s right!
None!" Allie gleefully concurred. "Not one! Not even the
mudslide--and Paul was sure we’d have to redo that one at least five or
six times! We’re three whole days ahead of his best projections!"
"Not anymore."
Jamieson glared impotently out at the pounding rain. Even the
nearest huts were almost invisible through the fierce torrent. He
hoped the equipment shed’s roof wasn’t leaking, or they’d lose
everything they’d accomplished. "This effing storm’s going to put
us back nearly a whole week."
She’d been expecting that
argument, and merely smiled. "Paul factored in thirty-four rainy
days, Jerry. We won’t go over his projection for another month.
And frankly, if it keeps raining that long, we have bigger problems."
Jeremiah Jamieson hated
to admit that he was wrong about anything. Especially a beautiful,
charismatic, pain-in-the-neck scriptwriter. Yet there was no
denying that Matthews and Huntington had done some really fine work
these past few days.
Paul was ecstatic!
By all rights, he should be, too.
But dammit, that woman was
still an intrusion into his secure little world, with her ramps and her
wheelchair and her constant watching! Oh, nothing bossy or
controlling, so that he could work up a righteous rage and kick her off
the set. No, she was quiet as a mouse and unshakably serene, and
she soaked up everything like a sponge! Within moments of her
silent arrivals, his techies were anxiously seeking her opinion
on every angle, her approval on every scene! It was enough
to give any self-respecting producer a nervous breakdown!
And what the hell was
Alex thinking, insisting that everyone call him ‘Mac’ even off-screen
now?
"Kayla brings out the best in
him--but she also scares him half to death," Allie shrugged, when he
rounded on her with that impatient query. "Damned if I know why.
The rest of us don’t have any problems being around her.
"You know how he pulls
out Mac’s character when he’s nervous, Jerry. I think he’s got
some stupid notion that she only came here to see Mac, so that’s what
he’s going to give her. It’s childish, really," she sighed, "but
even the best of us have our moments."
"Hmmmph." Jamieson
kicked the counter again, then ruthlessly threw himself into the nearest
chair. Allie winced as its thin plastic legs creaked in protest.
"Well, that’s better than getting obsessed with the role he’s playing."
"Alex is too much a
professional to let that happen." On that score, Allie could speak
with total confidence. "He’s starting to come to terms with her
disability, more than I think even he realizes. He’ll settle down
soon enough. And in the meantime, you get to capitalize on the
best screen work he’s ever done."
Her saucy grin made him
want to laugh. But he wasn’t through being cranky yet.
Anything that took time and effort to accomplish was worth the energy
needed to properly run its course. He was a firm believer in
orchestrated temper tantrums--when they served his purpose.
"Why do you want
her to stay?" he demanded, thrusting a thick, callused finger in her
face. "Not Alex, or Tommy, or anyone else. You, yourself."
Allie wasn’t fooled for
an instant. She knew how much secret pleasure he derived from
milking his frequent outbursts. It was one of the reasons that
she, of the entire cast and crew, could face him fearlessly on any
topic. And so she laughed for him. "Because I like
her, Jerry! She’s sunshine and fresh air, and she wants to
live so very much! Every time I’m with her, it’s like I’m seeing
the whole world brand new for the very first time."
And she’s so
terribly lonely, she pretends that her dead husband is hovering nearby
like a guardian angel. She even talks to him like a real person,
when she thinks no one’s around to hear.
Alicia held that secret
deep inside, where it could never do Kayla any harm. It was the
least she could do for someone she was starting to consider a close
friend. "She makes me feel young again," she continued instead.
"And she makes me want to laugh at the silliest things. Haven’t
you ever met someone, and known instantly that they were something
special?"
Jamieson glowered at her
across the table. He knew precisely what she meant, but he wasn’t
about to lose ground by admitting it. Especially not now, when
he’d moved from his cantankerous stage to a very credible sulk.
Allie calmly ignored his
disgruntled muttering. "The crew thinks she’s good luck, Jerry.
And you know what a superstitious lot we are. So I want her to
stay awhile longer. For me, and for Alex--and for all of us.
It’s important."
• • • • • •
Blissfully unaware that her future was being decided a few buildings
away, Kayla ignored the booming thunder, and relaxed under Brigit’s
skilled hands. Her hour-long pummeling was almost over. And
every day, she fancied that she could feel the thin mattress under her
legs and feet just a little better.
Brigit was sure that her
damaged nerve endings were regenerating faster in the sultry tropical
heat. Her hair was certainly growing faster. And if one set
of cells was reacting, it made sense that other cells might join the
race.
More than anything else,
she yearned to walk down that long golden-white beach under her own
power. It would happen someday, she’d make it
happen! Somehow!
Even the turbulent
weather seemed to be cooperating, socking them in completely with only a
few hours’ warning. There was no way a helicopter would brave this
kind of tropical storm, just to send her back to the mainland!
Now she only had to worry
about her rickety little hut blowing away in the high winds.
When the storm finally
blew itself out, she’d have to deal with reality again. But for
now, she was going to enjoy her short reprieve. Even if she was
effectively trapped in the script hut for the duration.
Bang!
Bang! Bang!
Startled, she jolted out of a
hazy half-dream. Brigit quickly threw a protective towel over her
nude torso, then hurried to the door.
"Tommy!" Rain
pelted across the floor as she ushered the dripping young actor inside.
"You poor thing, you’re soaked to the skin! We were just finishin’
a therapy session. Why don’t you set the teapot on, darlin,’ an’
warm yourself?"
His teeth were
chattering, but at that moment Tommy Anders didn’t care. Paradise,
he decided, wasn’t found in some nebulous other-realm of existence after
all. It was tucked inside a snug little room on an isolated
tropical island, with two of the loveliest ladies he’d ever seen.
And one of them was lying nearly-nude on her cot, with only a colorful
beach towel protecting her modesty. How lucky could any man get?
"I’ve got better than hot
tea," he grinned, pulling a bulky package from beneath his dripping
raincoat. "Chocolate bars, beer, and poker chips!"
Both women blinked in
amazement, then burst into laughter. "Tommy, you’re amazing!"
Kayla exclaimed, propping herself on one elbow. "What a perfect
way to spend a rainy evening!"
His beaming grin could
have lit a pitch-black cavern. "A few of the guys were wondering
whether you’d like to join us in a game. We drew straws to see who
would brave the hurricane. I won!"
A week ago, Brigit would
have stuttered and blushed crimson at the appreciative gleam in Anders’
eyes. Kayla wanted to laugh aloud as she rose to the challenge in
fine style, meeting his suggestive leer with a bold wink. "You
mean, you cheated. I’m onto the likes of you, me fine lad!
Now who’ll be dealin’ the first hand?"
"We’ll take as much of
your money as you can stand to lose," Kayla eagerly agreed, tugging at
the faded sheet draped around her narrow bed. "But do let me get
dressed first."
"Must you?" Tommy
heaved an exaggerated sigh of despair that, a week ago, would have made
her stutter and blush crimson. How quickly she and Brigit
had adapted, that she could now chuckle and wave him away so casually.
"Yes," she retorted, eyes
twinkling. "I must. My wheelchair is cold and uncomfortable
on bare skin."
"You can sit in my lap!"
Now Brigit did start to
blush. Kayla merely laughed, and interjected a rich Gaelic lilt
into her voice. "Aye now, I could, t’be sure. But we
wouldn’t be playin’ many hands o’ cards! An’ that’s the
only reason ye’re all bravin’ the hurricane, as ye so eloquently phrased
it. We couldn’t disappoint yer friends after they’ve risked life
an’ limb, could we now?"
Tommy Anders enjoyed
matching wits with worthy adversaries just as much as he enjoyed
flirting with them. "Darlin’," he drawled with an admiring smile,
"you could never disappoint us, no matter what you did."
"I intend to make sure of
that," Kayla declared with a smug nod, and twitched the curtain closed.
Tommy surveyed the tiny
hut with dismayed curiosity while she and Brigit fussed behind her
flimsy linen barrier. Jerry certainly hadn’t gone out of his way
to make them comfortable. Even the techies had better digs.
Nothing seemed to faze
her, though. Every day, she emerged fresh and eager to absorb
everything she could. She seemed to energize the very air around
her, so that everyone moved with a quicker step, a lighter heart.
Life on a movie set was one frantic hustle, as everyone tried to be in
at least three different places at once. With Kayla Farrell
nearby, the barely organized chaos seemed more like a merry carnival
ride. It was no wonder the set boys thought of her as some exotic
good-luck piece!
How true were the rumors
that her heart secretly belonged to Alex Matthews? And how
intriguing it was, that Alex suddenly wanted to be called ‘Mac’ all the
time now!
Tommy’s nefarious
alter-ego was a master of deceit and intrigue. Maybe he could
apply some of the tricks he’d learned from the show’s scriptwriters, and
snoop a bit into this tantalizing mystery. He never had been able
to resist a challenge.
"Smells good in here," he
commented, to fill the lengthening silence. "What have you girls
cooked up?"
Brigit poked her head out
to grin at him. "It’s a special healin’ salve my Gran brought from
the old country. All-natural herbs like lavender and willow bark,
skullcap and wormwood, horsetail and marshmallow and white oak.
Other things, too, all a miracle to the body if you know how to prepare
’em right.
"Gran swore by it when my
Gran’tha was hurt in a tractor accident," she added with a sage nod.
"One o’ the blades sheared on a rock, an’ sliced deep into his left arm.
Doctors all said the nerves were destroyed. They stitched up the
gash, but figured he’d never be able to move his fingers again."
Fascination warred with
Tommy’s initial sick revulsion. "So what happened?"
Brigit beamed. "My
Gran had a wise way with herbs, an’ he was too proud to be a burden.
So she mixed a salve of white willow, St. John’s wort, lobelia,
skullcap, mullein, an’ a few other things together. The entire
process takes nearly two months," she added, pointing to three large
glass jars lining the single windowsill. "I always have a few
batches in process."
He’d taken them for some
kind of quaint decoration, the way his mother stored kitchen herbs in
oil, and set them in odd corners to brighten her cozy home. "And
it really worked?" He wandered over to peer at the jumble of herbs
and bark floating in pale amber oil. "He learned to use his hand
again?"
She grinned.
"Rubbing in this salve every day for six months brought his hand back
alive. The year before he died, he won his fourth award as best
fiddle player in Clare County," she elaborated. "I learned to
step-dance to his tunes."
Tommy looked properly
impressed. "He sounds like quite a character."
"Aye, that he was."
Brigit retreated behind the curtain again, her voice soft with fond
memories. "I learned so much from both of ’em. When my
parents got divorced, they took me in for a while--an’ somehow it became
permanent. I didn’t move back to the States for medical school
until after Gran passed away."
The curtain twitched
back, and he turned as Kayla rolled her wheelchair into the room.
As usual, she was clad in a long skirt and colorful blouse. "You
always wear skirts," he commented, cracking open a beer can.
"Don’t you roast in this heat?"
She did, but she wasn’t
about to admit it. "They’re easier for me to wear," she grinned,
reaching for her own can. "I end up flopping around like a
stranded fish every time I try to tug on pants. It’s not a pretty
sight."
Tommy’s compact walkie
talkie buzzed before he could concoct some flattering reply.
"That’ll be the crew, asking if you agreed," he told them, and pressed
the Talk button. "Yo!"
Static crackled through
the room, but he seemed to understand Jimbo’s garbled question without
difficulty. "Yeah, everything’s set. But bring more chairs
and plenty of munchies!" he ordered. "They’re living in abject
poverty over here!"
Brigit flushed and
started to protest, but he cut her off with an impatient gesture.
"No, it’s disgraceful," he complained, frowning around the sparse room.
"Jerry’s out of line, treating you like this. Even our equipment’s
stored in better conditions!"
"It’s only for a week,"
Kayla quietly reminded him. "We don’t mind."
"Well, I mind."
Tommy’s jaw firmed with resolve. "And so would Mac, if he saw
this. No wonder Allie was upset."
The quick flare in
Kayla’s eyes spoke volumes, and he slyly filed that tidbit away for
future consideration. Something was there, he was sure of
it. Did Alex realize it? Did she?
"So," he continued, as if
the interruption had never occurred, "now you’re using this salve on
Kayla?"
"That’s right." If
Brigit noticed his crafty scheming, she kept her opinions to herself.
"After I strain off the herbs through fine cheese cloth, I use a double
boiler and beeswax to bring the oil to the right consistency. Then
I add lavender essence, and let it harden into a salve. It’s part
of our daily therapy session."
"No wonder you both
always smell so good," he teased, leaning closer for a quick sniff.
"I’ll bet it makes your skin silky soft, too."
Sudden pounding on the
door interrupted his blatant flattery. Then fifteen soaking
crewmen, clutching folding chairs and assorted edibles, poured like a
noisy human flood into the tiny room.
"A few of the guys, huh?"
Kayla murmured aside to Brigit. "This should get interesting!"
She wouldn’t have
believed that eighteen people could fit comfortably in such a cramped
area. But they were obviously used to quick set changes, and moved
around each other as if they’d been choreographed. In moments, the
short counter was filled to overflowing with beer, soda, chips, and
leftovers from that night’s dinner. Their makeshift dressers had
been converted into tables. Even their beds were pushed away from
the walls, and chairs slid behind them, so that they could be used for
gaming surfaces.
Jimbo took a long, slow
look around, then shook his dark head in comic dismay. "Next time,
we bring the girls to us," he decided. "Even if we have to carry
that infernal contraption of yours." And he cheerfully canted his
head toward Kayla’s wheelchair.
"Next time," Kayla
grinned, "I’m hoping you won’t need to carry anything!"
That kicked off an avid
round of speculation about her injuries. A week ago, she realized
with a warm inner glow, the topic would have been taboo, too personal to
broach. They, too, had adapted. And if their easy
camaraderie was any indication, she and Brigit had been officially
accepted into their close-knit little enclave. So she answered
their sometimes-intimate questions with an easy smile, grateful that
they were comfortable enough to ask.
The crisp snap of
shuffling cards drowned the wailing wind just outside. Kayla found
herself in the center game, laughing and munching on stale pretzels
while she sipped warm beer and studied her cards. She couldn’t
remember the last time she’d had so much fun.
Brigit winked at her, and
laid down a winning hand that had her own partners groaning in chagrin.
"There’s only one thing the Irish do better than drinkin’ an’ fightin,’
me lads!" she smirked, raking in a hefty pile of chips. "An’
that’s cleanin’ the pockets o’ gullible Yanks! Charlie me boyo,
you deal the next hand!"
Kayla wasn’t quite as
lucky, but she managed to retain a comfortable pile. Patrick had
been the gambler in their family, she remembered with a wistful pang.
Oh, the many cold nights they’d sat by the fire, playing cards until
little Sean had drifted off to sleep at her breast. How she missed
those quiet evenings full of laughter and love...
Tommy had wrangled the
seat beside her, and noticed her pensive expression. The light
touch of his hand brought her back with a jolt. "Sorry," she
murmured with a rueful smile. "My mind was wandering."
"You should never look
sad," he softly chided. "If there’s anything I can do to help,
you’ve only to ask."
He looked so earnest and
sincere, her heart ached. "It was nothing," she assured him.
"Just an old memory. A good one."
"Your hand, Ace!" someone
prodded. "Call it, or fold!"
Tommy threw himself back
into the game as if the moment had never happened. But her lonely
expression stayed with him as he triumphantly raked in the next pot.
Kayla Farrell deserved more than she’d been given--here on the set, and
in her personal life. The first part he could fix easily enough.
For the second--there must be something he could do. He just had
to figure out what.
The door suddenly swung
open again, and the nearest players yelped as icy water pelted them.
"Sorry!" Alicia gasped, dragging in Paul and Alex behind her. "My
God, what incredible weather! Is there room for a few extra deep
pockets in here?"
Chaos reigned as every
man in the hut scrambled up, intent on taking her raincoat and offering
her a seat. Allie simply laughed, and tossed her wet slicker
across the pile in the corner. "Oh, sit down," she urged, with a
sparkling grin. "We didn’t mean to disrupt your games. Jimbo,
you’ve got the only all-male table. Why don’t I join you?"
Paul glanced around, and
opted for the battle being waged across Brigit’s narrow bed. Alex
wearily resigned himself to the inevitable. "Do you mind?" he
asked, forcing a bright smile as he dragged a spare chair in beside
Kayla’s wheelchair.
"Hang on a sec, old man,"
Tommy piped up, a devilish gleam in his dark eyes. "Kayla darlin’,
why don’t you sit in my lap, like I offered earlier. Then there’ll
be room enough for everyone."
Alex’s obviously-feigned
enthusiasm stung enough to make Kayla feel reckless. "Why not?
It’ll give me a better view of the table," she decided, casting him a
challenging look.
Tommy deftly lifted her,
and settled her comfortably across his sturdy legs. Alex’s jaw
clenched as Charlie folded her chair, and stored it in the only open
corner. That did free up more room at the small table--but dammit,
she didn’t have to look like she was enjoying it so much!
Scowling, he snatched up
his first hand of cards, and threw three chips into the new pot.
How in God’s name had Allie talked him into this insanity, anyway?
Kayla found herself
playing even better as the night aged, and the betting became fiercer.
She absolutely would not attribute her heightened awareness to
Alex’s proximity, even though she could feel her legs brushing
against his every time Tommy leaned forward to discard. But it was
hard to ignore the tingling that subtle touch provoked, or the way
liquid heat was curling in her stomach.
"I’ll see your hand,
Kayla Farrell!" Willy, the crew’s crusty, grizzled old veteran,
leaned across the table with an avaricious gleam in his eye. She
realized abruptly that everyone else at their table had folded, and they
were waiting expectantly on her.
She blinked down at her
cards. A seven, two queens, and two wild cards. That made
either two pairs or four of a kind, depending on how she laid them out.
How could she lose?
Willy was almost out of
chips. "What’s your wager?" she demanded, grinning.
He thought for a moment,
then beamed at her, revealing gold caps on his worn front teeth.
"If you win, I’ll build you one o’ those fancy double-bar setups, so you
can practice your walking proper-like."
Everyone had stopped to
watch. Across the room, Brigit’s mouth fell open in wondering
surprise. Did any of them realize how much Willy’s offer meant to
Kayla? This was more than mere acceptance. It was the most
priceless of friendships!
When Kayla forced her
throat into action again, her voice came out husky with barely
suppressed emotion. "And if you win, Willy Barton?"
He let out a raucous
cackle of laughter. "If I win... Soon as you’re walkin’
proper again, I get the first dance!" he hooted, delighted by the
audacious notion.
He looked so much like a
mischievous little imp, Kayla laughed with him, and clapped her hands.
"Win or lose, that’s one bet I can’t refuse!" she challenged. "Lay
’em down, Willy! Four of a kind, queens all! Read ’em and
weep!"
Willy’s wizened
expression was suddenly unreadable. Then he slowly laid down, one
at a time, three kings, a wild card, and an ace.
Groans of disappointment
were evenly mixed with cheers and laughter. Kayla didn’t care.
She’d lost the hand, but gained something infinitely more precious.
"You’ll get that dance, Willy, as soon as I’m able," she promised,
pushing the mound of chips in his direction.
The wiry old man raised
two fingers to his forehead in a respectful half-salute. Then he
grinned. "What the hell. I’ll build you them bars anyway,"
he promised. "Do you good, gettin’ out o’ that fancy chair every
day."
Alex’s own throat was
tight with unexpected emotion. He wanted to say something,
anything. But even Mac’s charismatic character didn’t have a witty
line prepared for this scenario.
Then the moment was lost,
as decks were shuffled again, and cards were dealt, and plastic chips
bounced in untidy piles. "Lay your bets, people!" Jimbo’s
deep voice echoed through the tiny hut, and the gaming began again.
Troubled, Alex stared
blindly down at his cards. Why did he feel, deep inside, as if
he’d missed out on something incredibly precious?
