They call her Dana (64 page)

"They were wonderful. I could eat them every day."

"Everyday?"

"Well, at least once a week."

"You're a remarkable creature," he said fondly. "You know, I really know very little about you. Only what I read in the papers. I suspect much of that is fanciful fabrication."

"All of it," I assured him.

"You obviously know New Orleans, but—we have never discussed your background. I know nothing about your childhood, your education, who your parents were, where you were brought up."

"It isn't—it isn't very interesting," I said hesitantly. "It isn't very pretty, either. I was raised poor, dirt-poor, and—"

Robert sensed my discomfort. He squeezed my arm.

"It's not important," he said firmly. "Where you come from doesn't matter. It's what you are that counts, and you're an intelligent, charming, very gifted young woman."

"You're terribly gallant," I told him.

"Just truthful. Did I say lovely, too? You're quite the loveliest woman I've ever known, but I'm sure many men have told you that."

"Never so sincerely. I—I don't really know anything about you, either. You mentioned earlier that—that you had no family. None at all?"

"My parents died when I was seven years old. I was put into an orphanage, broke out at fourteen to make my own way. Make it I did, with a lot of colorful misadventures along the way. I'm afraid I wasn't quite respectable when I was younger. It was only with maturity—and financial success—that I became the solid citizen you see now.''

"What about women?" I inquired.

"I've always adored them.''

'' There 've been many?''

"Many," he confessed.

"But none you cared to marry?"

"There was one ..." His gray eyes turned dark, and I saw the sadness again. "There was one I should have married," he said, and his voice was flat, carefully controlled. "Through my

own foolishness I—lost her. I was very young, but I should never have—"

We were nearing the hotel. Robert said nothing more until we had stopped in front of the elaborate portico. Fashionably dressed couples were strolling up and down the esplanade. The doorman held the door open as a plump woman in purple taffeta stepped out, a flufly gray poodle in her arms. Lost in reverie, Robert made no effort to alight. After a moment he looked at me and shook his head.

"Sorry,'' he apologized.

"You must have loved her very much," I said.

"I did. I think I did. As I said, I was very young. There have been many other women in my life since then, but somehow they all fell short. None of them ever meant as much to me, until—"

He cut himself short. Until I met you, he had meant to say. I could see it in his eyes. He didn't say it. Instead, he alighted from the carriage and helped me down and led me to the door, waving the doorman aside. He was staying at the Fontaine, too, but he obviously didn't plan to come inside just now. He took both my hands in his, squeezing them tightly.

"I have some business to attend to at the bank," he told me. "I won't see you again until after the performance tonight. I know you're going to be brilliant."

"I—I'm a little nervous. I always am."

"They're going to love you," he promised. "I—uh—wonder if you would care to have a late supper with me after the show?''

"I'd love to, Robert, but—I'm not sure."

"I understand," he said. He released my hands.

"I'll let you know after the performance. Is—is that all right?"

"Fine. It's after three. You'd better get some rest. I've enjoyed this afternoon more than I could possibly say.''

He took my hands and squeezed them again, then went back to the carriage. I passed the plant-filled lobby and went upstairs, not to my own suite but to Jason's. He had been extremely moody lately, immersed in the new play, testy and snappish, and if he had checked on me and found me gone, he would be testier still. Already nervous and not wanting an argument before the opening tonight, I decided to take the initiative and do some soothing before an explosion occurred. I needn't have bothered. His suite was empty. The sitting room was in deplorable condition, the

large worktable he had requested strewn with papers and books and empty coffee cups, cnimpled-up wads of paper httering the floor where he had missed the wastebasket. A bottle of ink had been spilled on the carpet—that was going to delight the management—and several cushions had been dumped off the sofa, as though hurled there in anger, Jason was going to have to leave the housekeeper a very big tip.

Walking over to the table, I saw amidst the mess one neat stack of pages, a heavy paperweight on top. The stack was rather high. I wondered if he had finally finished the last act. I had read the first two, and they were quite powerful. Lady Caroline, which he had fashioned especially for me, was based on one of the greatest scandals of the age. Lord Byron's affair with the gorgeous, seductive and very married Lady Caroline Lamb, a neurotic blonde who literally threw herself at the feet of the handsome, amoral poet and declared him "Mad, bad and dangerous to know." Jason had taken the existing facts and woven them into a rich, dramatic tapestry full of high color and heated emotions. When society discovered that Lord Byron was also having an affair with his own half sister, he hastily fled England, leaving Lady Caroline to shatter a champagne glass and slash her wrists, splattering blood all over her sumptuous satin gown.

Incest, adultery, great wealth, glamour, Lady Caroline had all the ingredients. With Michael as Lord Byron, it was certain to create a sensation and be every bit as controversial as The Quadroon, dealing as it did with the tempestuous private lives of celebrated figures of an age just past. Caroline Lamb was a marvelous role but one even more emotionally demanding than Janine. Before I immersed myself in it, I needed a long rest, and that was something Jason couldn't, wouldn't understand. As wonderful as our success had been, The Quadroon had drained me. I wasn't "artistic" or even particularly temperamental, merely a hard woridng actress, but after working so very hard for so long, my nerves needed a respite.

Back in my own suite, I set down my reticule and pulled off my long white gloves, thinking of the man whose life I shared. I had decided to have a bonbon and had had no intention of becoming deeply involved, but Jason had become much more than a bonbon. I still kept him at arm's length, still refused to let him know just how much I cared—this for my own protection—but care for him I did. Deeply. We might fight like two

alley cats, we might disagree constantly, but he still made my heart sing. He was as endearing as he was exasperating, and in the bedroom he was a superbly masterful and satisfying lover. He was mercurial, volatile, a bully, but I was still lucky to have him. I was wise enough never to let him suspect I felt that way.

There was a knock at the door. I stood up. The door opened. Jason came in, his hair all atumble, his expression grim, his green-gray eyes full of silent accusation. He kicked the door shut behind him and stood there, looking at me, cleariy spoiling for a fight. I felt my dander rise. He looked wonderfully appealing in his black broadcloth breeches and frock coat, his green and white striped satin vest and white silk neckcloth, but at the moment I was immune to that appeal. I longed for him to pull me into his arms, to hold me tight and tell me everything was going to be fine tonight, give me the reassurance I so badly needed, but I could see that wasn't going to happen. He continued to look at me with accusing eyes, and my dander rose even more.

"I know you didn't get out of bed on the wrong side this morning," I observed. "I recall the occasion distinctly. You woke me up, grumbling because you had to get back to your own suite before the maid appeared. Something is obviously bothering you."

"Where have you been?" he demanded.

"For the past two and a half hours I've been right here."

"I came down at three. I had something to tell you, something important. You weren't here. No one knew where you were. I thought maybe you'd gone to the theater early. I went there. No one had seen you. I thought maybe you'd gone to see Corey. I went to the little house she and Adam have near the Jewel. They hadn't seen you either. By that time I was frantic.''

"I'm a grown woman, Jason. I'm perfectly capable of going out on my own without answering to anyone."

"Where were you?"

"Out," I said stubbornly.

"You don't intend to tell me?"

"It's none of your bloody business, and I don't like your attitude. You're not my keeper, Jason. I—we've both been under a lot of strain recently, and I'm rather tense about tonight. I'm really in no mood for one of your petulant tirades right now. If

you don't have something pleasant to say, please get the hell out of here."

"You—you're telling me to get out!'' He was appalled.

*'If you don't have something pleasant to say, yes."

"Just because you're a big star now, just because you've received a bunch of paltry offers from other managers, you think— you think—"

"Jason, my dear, I really don't want to fight just now."

"I was worried about you! That's why I went looking for you. I happen to love you, you little slut, and—I didn't know what might have happened to you. This is a great big wicked city. You could have been kidnapped for all I knew!"

"Jesus," I said. "You've written far too many melodramas."

""Lady Caroline is not a melodrama!"

"Ididn't say it was."

"You hate it, don't you?"

"I didn't mention Lady Caroline. You're spoiling for a fight, Jason, and I'm very likely to crown you with that teapot if you don't get out of here right this minute."

"I finished it this afternoon," he said. "That's what I wanted to tell you. I started to work as soon as I got back to my suite this morning, and I finished it at precisely two forty-seven."

"Marvelous."

"You needn't be sarcastic."

"I wasn't."

Jason strolled over to the tea table, picked up my cup, emptied it into a plant and poured himself a cup of tea, tiny spirals of steam swiriing from the spout as he poured. He had calmed down considerably, but I was still fuming. How attractive he was. How infuriating. I really should throw die son of bitch out before I weakened.

"The National wants to see it at once. Did I tell you the kind of money they're talking? We'll leave for Atlanta as soon as we close here. Caroline is a very complex role, full of hidden depths and subdeties. I plan to coach you in the part this summer, while we're mounting the production, and when the rest of the company joins us in September, you'll be ready."

"I told you before, Jason—I'm not going to Adanta. Not until September, anyway. I'm taking the summer off."

"You need the extra coaching, and I need you with me."

"You've been working as hard as I have. It wouldn't hurt you

to take the summer off, too. You've been pushing yourself, driving yourself. You're going to crack if—if you don't slow down."

Jason took another sip of tea. "WeVe got to go to Atlanta, Dana. We've got to be ready to open in—"

"Western civilization won't crumble if we open a couple of months later," I interrupted. "I can't go on at this pace, Jason. You can't, either. Both of us need a break. We've gone over this before. I told you—"

He set the cup down with a loud clatter. Tea sloshed over into the saucer.

"You're planning something, aren't you?"

"I'm planning to rest/'

"You haven't signed for next season yet. Michael has signed. Laura has signed. Everyone's signed but you. You've been evasive ever since we drew up the contracts. It's that weasel Drum-mond, isn't it? He's talked you into going to New York, starring in—"

"No, Jason," I said patiently.

' 'Why won't you sign? You plan to drop me, don't you? I take you m and make you a star and—"

"/ made me a star," I said hotly. "I worked my ass off. I gave my all. You wrote a wonderful play, yes, but how would it have gone with—with Carmelita playing Janine? I believe in credit where credit is due, but you did not create me. I created myself!"

"You ungrateful little—"

"Don't say it," I warned. "Just—don't—say it."

He didn't. He glared at me, eyes flashing emerald fires. I glared back at him. Several long moments passed. I finally sighed and walked over to the door, holding it open for him.

"We're both acting like children, Jason. We have to be at the theater at seven. There—there's no point in going on like this. Both of us are likely to say something we'll regret. I—I need to dress."

He moved past me, paused in the doorway, turned.

"I'll be down for you at six forty-five," he said. "We'll drive to the theater together.''

I closed the door, utterly drained. How was I supposed to give a performance tonight, feeling like this? I probably wouldn't even remember my bloody lines. Tonight of all nights I was going to be abominable, a wreck, a joke, onstage. I went into

the bedroom and dressed and brushed my hair, and when Jason appeared I gave him a cool nod and we went downstairs in silence. He was as cool as I was, his face expressionless, as stony as granite. He handed me into the waiting carriage without a word. I drew my skirts back to make room for him. They rustled crisply. We might have been total strangers as the carriage pulled away, heading toward the theater. New Orleans was never lovelier than at twilight, the sky a deep gray smeared with pink, the air tinted with a thickening mauve-blue haze, the lovely, gracious old buildings spread with velvety black shadows. The soft, splashing music of fountains could be heard from a hundred hidden courtyards, and, as always, the opulent perfume of flowers was heady and tantalizing. New Orleans was one of the most romantic cities in the world, but neither of us felt very romantic tonight.

"I brought the contract with me," Jason said icily. "It's in my breast pocket. I want you to sign it tonight."

"I'll sign it in September," I said.

"How can I be sure of that?"

"I suppose you'll have to trust me," I retorted.

"You'll sign it tonight or not at all," he informed me. "I can't start mounting an expensive production like this one with no leading lady under contract."