He’d bury himself in work for the rest of the afternoon. He’d pour himself into his writing through the evening, late into the night, until his mind was too jumbled to think of anything—anyone. He’d stay away from her physically until he could stay away from her mentally. Then he’d go back to New York and pick up his life as he’d left it. Before Ariel.
Thunder rumbled ominously as he docked the boat.
***
Ariel watched the lightning snake across the sky and burst. The night sky was like a dark mirror abruptly cracked then made whole again. Still no rain. The heat storm had been threatening all evening, building up in the east and traveling toward Manhattan. She’d looked forward to it. Wearing a long shirt and nothing else, she stood at the window to watch it come.
Earlier, her neighbors had been sitting on their stoops, fanning and sweating and complaining of the heat. She didn’t mind it. Before the night was over the rain would wash away the stickiness. But at the moment, though her thin shirt was clinging damply to her back and thighs, she enjoyed the enervating quality of the heat, and the violence in the sky.
The storm was coming from the east, she thought again. Perhaps Booth was already watching the rain she still anticipated. She wondered if he was working, oblivious to the booming thunder. Or if, like her, he stood and watched the fury in the sky. She wondered when he’d come back—to her.
He would, Ariel affirmed staunchly. She only hoped he’d come back with an easy mind. She’d thrown him a curve. With a half smile, Ariel felt the first rippling breeze pass through the screen and over her skin. She wasn’t sorry, though his reaction had hurt, then angered her. That was over. Perhaps, for a moment, she’d forgotten that to Booth love wasn’t the open-ended gift it was to her. He’d see the restrictions, the risks, the pains.
The pains, she thought, resting her palms on the windowsill. Why was she always so surprised to find out she could hurt just as intensely as she could be happy? She wanted him physically, but he was miles from her reach; she wanted him emotionally, but he’d distanced himself from her feelings.
She hadn’t been surprised when Booth had absented himself from the last few days of shooting. All the key scenes had been filmed. Nor was she surprised when Marshell had mentioned idly that Booth had gone to his secluded Long Island home to write and sail. She missed him, she felt the emptiness; but Ariel was too independent to mourn the loss of him for a few days. He needed his solitude. A part of her understood that, enough to keep her from misery.
Hadn’t she herself painted almost through the night after Liz Hunter had visited the set?
Ariel glanced around at the canvas frantically slashed with cobalt and scarlets. It wasn’t a painting she’d keep in the living room for long. Too angry, too disturbing. As soon as she’d fully coped with those feelings, she’d stick the canvas in a closet.
Everyone had his or her own means of dealing with dark emotions. Booth’s was to draw into himself; hers was to let them lash out. Either way, any way, the resolution would come. She had only to hang on a little while longer.
And so she told herself when she thought of Scott. The hearing would begin at the end of the week. That, too, would be resolved, but Ariel refused to look at any more than one solution. Scott had to come to her. The doubts she’d once harbored about her right to claim him, his need to be with her, were gone. As time went on, he became more and more unhappy with the Andersons. His visits were punctuated by desperate hugs, and more and more pleas that he be allowed to stay with her.
It wasn’t a matter of abuse or neglect. It was a simple matter of love, unconditional love that came naturally from her, and didn’t come at all from his grandparents. Whatever hardships she and Scott were facing now would be a thing of the past before long. It was a time to concentrate on whens instead of nows. That was how she got through the slow-moving days between the filming and the hearing. Without Booth.
Ariel closed her eyes as the rain began to gush out of the sky. Oh God, if only the night were over.
***
The rain was just tapering off as Booth pushed away from his computer. He’d gotten more accomplished than he’d anticipated, but the juices were drying up. He knew better than to push himself when he got to this point. In another hour he’d try again perhaps, or maybe not for a day or two. But it would come back, and the story would flow again.
No, he couldn’t write anything now, but it was still this side of midnight and he was restless. The storm had cleared the air, making him wish he were on the water again, under the burgeoning moonlight. He should eat. As he rubbed the stiffness from his neck, he remembered he hadn’t bothered with dinner. A meal and an early night.
As he walked through the house into the kitchen, silence drummed around him. Strange, he’d never noticed just how thick silence could be, just how empty a house could be when it had only one occupant. And stranger still, how only a few months before he’d have appreciated both, even expected both. Again, before Ariel. His life seemed to have come down to two stages. Before Ariel and after Ariel. It wasn’t an easy admission for a man to make.
Booth pulled a tray of cold cuts out of the refrigerator without any real interest. Mechanically, he fixed a sandwich, found a ripe peach and poured a glass of milk. The solitary meal had never seemed less appealing—so much so he considered tipping the entire mess down the sink.
Shaking off the feeling, he carried it into his bedroom and set the plate on the dresser. What he needed was some noise, he decided. Something to occupy his mind without straining his brain. Booth switched on the television, then flipped through channels without any particular goal in mind.
Normally he would have bypassed the late-night talk show in favor of an old movie. When Liz’s laughter flowed out at him, he paused. He might still have passed it by, but his curiosity was piqued. Thinking it might be an interesting diversion, Booth picked up his plate, set it on the bedside table and stretched out.
He’d been on the show himself a number of times. Though he wasn’t overly fond of the format or the exposure, he knew the game well enough to understand the need to reach the public through the form. The show was popular, slickly run, and the host knew his trade. With boyish charm he could draw the unexpected out of celebrities and keep the audience from turning the channel or just flicking off the switch.
“Of course I was terribly excited to film on location in Greece, Bob.” Liz leaned just a bit closer to her host while her ice-blue dress glistened coolly in the lights. “And working with Ross Simmeon was a tremendous experience.”
“Didn’t I hear you and Simmeon had a feud going?” Robert MacAllister tossed off the question with a grin. It said, come on, relax, you can tell me. It was a well-practiced weapon.
“A feud?” Liz fluttered her lashes ingenuously. She was much too sharp to be caught in that trap. She crossed her legs so that the gown shimmered over her body. “Why, no. I can’t imagine where anyone would get that idea.”
“It must have something to do with the three days you refused to come on set.” With a little deprecating shrug, MacAllister leaned back in his chair. “A disagreement over the number of lines in a key scene.”
“That’s nonsense.” Damn Simmeon and all the rumormongers. “I’d had too much sun. My physician put me on medication for a couple of days and recommended a rest.” She glittered a smile right back at him. “Of course there were a few tense moments, as there will be on any major film, but I’d work with Ross tomorrow . . . ” or the devil himself, her tone seemed to say. “If the right script came along.”
“So, what’re you up to now, Liz? You’ve had an unbroken string of successes. It must be getting tough to find just the right property.”
“It’s always hard to put together the right touch of magic.” She gestured gracefully so that the ring on her hand caught the light and glittered. “The right script, the right director, the right leading man. I’ve been so lucky—particularly since To Meet at Midnight.”
Booth
set his half-eaten sandwich aside and nearly laughed. He’d written it for her and had made her a major star. Top box office. Luck had had nothing to do with it.
“Your Oscar-winning performance,” Bob acknowledged. “And of course a brilliant screenplay.” He sent her an off-center smile. “You’d agree with that?”
It was the opening she’d been waiting for. And maneuvering toward. “Oh, yes. Booth DeWitt is possibly—no, assuredly the finest screenwriter of the eighties. Regardless of our, well, personal problems, we’ve always respected each other professionally.”
“I know all about personal problems,” Bob said ruefully and got the laugh. His three marriages had been well publicized. And so had his alimony figures. “How do you feel about his latest work?”
“Oh.” Liz smiled and let one hand flutter to her throat before it fell into her lap. “I don’t suppose the content’s much of a secret, is it?”
Again the expected laugh, a bit more restrained.
“I’m sure Booth’s script is wonderful, they all are. If it’s, ah, one-sided,” she said carefully, “it’s only natural. From what I’m told it’s common for a writer to reflect some parts of his personal life . . . and in his own way,” she added. “As a matter of fact, I visited the set just last week. Pat Marshell’s producing, you know, and Chuck Tyler’s directing.”
“But . . .” Bob prompted, noting her obvious reluctance.
“As I said, it’s so difficult to find that right brand of magic.” She tossed out the first seeds with a smile. “And Booth’s never done anything for the small screen before. A difficult transition for anyone.”
“Jack Rohrer’s starring.” Obligingly, Bob fed her the next line.
“Yes, excellent casting there. I thought Jack was absolutely brilliant in Of Two Minds. That was a script he could really sink his teeth into.”
“But this one . . .”
“Well, I happen to be a big Jack Rohrer fan,” Liz said, apparently sidestepping the question. “I doubt there’s any part he can’t find some meat on.”
“And his costar?” Bob folded his hands on his desk. Liz was out for the jugular, he decided. It wouldn’t hurt his ratings.
“The female lead’s a lovely girl. I can’t quite think of her name, but I believe she has a part on a soap opera. Booth often likes to experiment rather than to go with experienced actors.”
“As he did with you.”
Her eyes narrowed fractionally. She didn’t quite like that tone, or that direction. “You could put it that way.” The haughtiness in her voice indicated otherwise. “But really, when one has the production rate this project has, one should shoot for the best talent available. Naturally, that’s a personal opinion. I’ve always thought actors should pay their dues—God knows, I paid mine—rather than be cast in a major production because of a . . . shall we say personal whim?”
“Do you think Booth DeWitt has a personal whim going with Ariel Kirkwood? That’s her name, isn’t it?”
“Why, yes, I think it is. As to the other, I could hardly say.” She smiled again, charmingly. “Especially on the air, Bob.”
“Her physical resemblance to you is striking.”
“Really?” Liz’s eyes frosted. “I much prefer being one of a kind, though of course it’s flattering to have someone attempt to emulate me. Naturally, I wish the girl the best of luck.”
“That’s gracious of you, Liz, particularly since the plotline’s rumored to be less than kind to the character that some say mirrors you.”
“Those that know me will pay little attention to a slanted view, Bob. All in all, I’ll be curious to see the finished product.” The statement was laced with boredom, almost as if she’d yawned. “That is, of course, if it’s ever actually aired.”
“Ever aired? You see some problem there?”
“Nothing I can talk about,” she said with obvious reluctance. “But you and I know how many things can happen between filming and airing, Bob.”
“No plans to sue, huh, Liz?”
She laughed, but it came off hollow. “That would give the film entirely too much importance.”
Bob mugged at the camera. “Well, with that we’ll take a little break here. When we come back, James R. Lemont will be joining us to tell us about his new book, Hollywood Secrets. We know about those, too, don’t we, Liz?” After his wink, the screen switched to the first commercial.
Leaning back against the pillows, his meal forgotten, Booth drew on his cigarette and sent the smoke to the ceiling. He was angry. He could feel it in the hard knot in his stomach. The swipes she’d taken at the film hadn’t even been subtle, he reflected. Oh, perhaps she’d fool a certain percentage of people, but no one remotely connected with the business, and no one with any perception. She’d done her best to toss a few poison darts and had ended up, in Booth’s opinion, making a fool of herself.
But he was angry. And the anger, he discovered, came from the slices she’d taken at Ariel. Quite deliberate, quite calculated, and unfortunately for Liz, quite obvious. She was a cat, and normally a clever one. Jealousy was essentially the only thing that could make her lose that edge.
Naturally she’d be jealous of Ariel, Booth mused. Of anyone young, beautiful and talented. Add that to the bile she’d have to swallow over the film itself, and Liz would be as close to rage as her limited range of emotions would allow. And this was her way of paying them back.
Rising, Booth slammed off the set before he paced the room. She’d bring up the film—and Ariel—in every interview she gave, at every party she attended, in the hope to sabotage both. Of course, she wouldn’t do any appreciable damage, but knowing that didn’t ease his temper. No one had the right to take potshots at Ariel, and the fact that they were being taken through him, because of him, made it worse.
He could, if he chose, book himself on the circuit to promote the film and to counter Liz’s campaign. That would only add fuel to the fire. He knew the best way to make the storm Liz was trying to brew fizzle out was to keep silent. Frustrated, he walked to the window. He could hear the water from there. Just barely. He wondered if Ariel had watched the late-night talk show. And how she was dealing with it.
***
Stretched out in the hammock, plumped by pillows, with a bowl of fresh popcorn resting on her stomach, Ariel listened to Liz Hunter. Her brow lifted once as a reference was made to herself. Ariel munched on popcorn and smiled as Robert MacAllister reminded Liz that the girl’s name was Ariel Kirkwood.
Poor Liz, she thought. She was only making it worse for herself. Perhaps because Ariel had been inside Rae’s skin for so many weeks, she noticed small things. The tapping of a fingertip on the arm of the chair, the brief tightening of the lips, the flash in the eyes that was a bit of anger, a bit of desperation. The more Liz talked, the shakier her support became.
She’d have been much better off if she’d said nothing, Ariel mused. A no-comment, a shrug of that haughty shoulder. Miscalculation, Ariel thought with a sigh. A foolish one.
I can’t hurt her. Ariel shifted her gaze from the screen to the ceiling. No one can take her talent away from her. A pity she doesn’t realize that. It’s Booth she really wants to hurt, Ariel decided. She’d want to make him pay for using Rae to strip off a few of her masks. Yet didn’t Liz realize he was just as bitterly honest with his own character?
Ariel glanced back at the television as Liz’s face dominated the screen. There was a line of dissatisfaction between her brows, very faint. Ariel wondered if she were the only one who noticed it, because she was so intimately involved. I know you, Ariel told the image on the screen, I know you inside and out. And that made her swallow hard. It was just a little scary.
Ariel lay back, tuning out the sound of the set and tuning back into the rain. It was nearly over, only a patter now against the windowpane. Booth had probably seen it, she decided. And if he hadn’t caught the show, he’d know of the content very soon. He’d be angry. Ariel could almost see his hard-eyed, grim-mouthed rea
ction. She herself had been fighting an edge of temper that threatened to dominate her other feelings.
Anger was useless; she wished she could tell him. He had to know that he’d opened the door for this when he’d written the script. She’d opened it a bit further when she’d taken the part. She hoped, when he’d calmed, that he’d see Liz Hunter had done the film more good than harm.
When the phone rang, Ariel leaned over. Years of experience kept her balanced rather than tumbling out of the hammock and onto the floor. Swinging a bit dangerously, she gripped the phone and hauled it up to her. “Hello.”
“That witch.”
With a half laugh, Ariel lay back on the pillows. “Hi, Stella.”
“Did you catch the MacAllister show?”
“Yeah, I’ve got it on.”
“Listen, Ariel, she’s making a joke out of herself. Anyone with two brain cells will see that.”
“Then why’re you angry?”
She could hear Stella take a deep breath. “I’ve been sitting here listening to that woman talk, wishing you the best of luck.” Stella muttered something under her breath, then began to talk so fast the words tumbled into each other. “The best of luck my foot. She’d like to see you drop off the face of the earth. She’d like to stick a knife in you.”
“A nail file, maybe.”
“How can you joke about it?” Stella demanded.
Because if I don’t I might just start screaming. “How can you take it so seriously?” Ariel said instead.
“Listen, Ariel . . .” Stella’s voice was barely controlled. “I know that kind of woman. I’ve been playing the type for the past five years. There’s nothing she wouldn’t do, nothing, if she thought she could get to you. Damn it, you trust everyone.”
“Some less than others.” Though the concern and the loyalty touched her, she laughed. “Stella, I’m not a complete fool.”
“You’re not a fool at all,” Stella shot back, outraged. “But you’re naive. You actually believe the kid who stops you on the