They call her Dana (65 page)

I made no comment. Jason thrust his jaw out.

"Did you hear what I said?" he asked sharply.

"I heard."

"And?"

"I don't intend to discuss it, Jason."

Jason said nothing more. He sat stiffly beside me. The haze thickened, growing darker, and lengthening shadows cloaked everything in black. We drove on, passing brightly lighted restaurants and cafes now, music spilling out into the street, the esplanades aswarm with merry couples eager to begin an evening of festivity. Fortunately the theater was now only a few blocks away. I didn't know how much more of this strained silence I could endure. We finally drove past the front of the theater and turned into the narrow passageway leading to the area in back. I sighed with relief when we stopped in front of the stage door, the single lamp hanging over it making a soft yellow pool over the rusty metal steps and landing.

"You're tense," Jason said, "nervous about your perfor-

mance. I can understand why you don't want to discuss it now. We'll continue our talk after you've taken your curtain calls."

"No," I said, '*we won't."

I climbed out of the carriage without his assistance. He hurried out after me and caught up with me on the landing. He took my arm, glaring at me as the carriage drove on.

"I don't know why you're being so unreasonable, Dana."

"I'm not the one being unreasonable. Please let go of my arm."

"You know, sometimes you can be a total bitch."

"I know," I said.

I pulled my arm free. Jason looked exasperated now, worried, too.

"What you said eariier—you're right. We are acting like children. I'm sorry if—dammit, you drive me crazy! I'll take you out to dinner after the show. I'll buy you caviar and champagne and you can sign the contract and we can carry on like civilized adults."

"I'm sorry," I said. "I already have an engagement."

I opened the stage door and stepped inside and moved past stacks of flats and coils of rope toward the passageway leading to my dressing room. He soon caught up with me, seizing my arm again. I stopped, took hold of his hand and unloosened his fingers.

"What do you mean—you already have an engagement?"

"Robert is taking me out tonight."

"Robert?" He was puzzled for a moment, and then dark suspicion appeared in his eyes. "Courtland? You're going out with him? You—you were with him this afternoon, too, weren't you?"

"I was with him this afternoon."

"So that's how it goes," he said grimly. "All those supposedly innocent dinners in Atlanta, that party he took you to in Washington—I thought it was good public relations for our producer to be seen with our leading lady, and I gave you my blessing. I trusted you, and all the while—"

"Robert and I are merely ftiends, Jason."

"Sure," he said. "He's worth millions, and you—that's why you won't sign the contract. You think you're going to land yourself a millionaire, and you don't need—"

"Believe what you wish," I said. My voice was like ice.

I turned and moved resolutely down the passageway to the

door of my dressing room. Jason hurried after me. I started to open the door. He caught my shoulder and whiried me around.

"I haven't even looked at another woman since we've been together. I let you into my life. I let myself fail in love with you. Like the bloody fool I am, I thought—I forbid you to see him tonight! I forbid you to see him ever again!"

"It isn't your place to forbid me anything, Mr. Donovan."

"You can't do this to me!"

"I can do anything I bloody well please."

"Dana-"

"Go fuck yourself," I said sweetly. "You certainly aren't going to fuck me any longer."

I stepped into my dressing room and slammed the door, leaning against it. I was tremblmg inside, and I closed my eyes, telling myself I wasn't going to fall apart, I wasn't going to cry. I leaned there against the door for several minutes and, finally, fiill of steely resolve, stood up straight and stepped over to the dressing table. I had a performance to give tonight. Thank you, Jason Donovan, for making it well nigh impossible to give a decent one. Forty-five minutes later I was fijliy made-up and wearing my buttercup-yellow brushed cotton frock and, like a zombie, left my dressing room and took my place backstage. I could hear the audience settling down, growing quiet. Corey and the boys were already in position onstage. A few moments later the burly stagehand pulled the ropes and, with a creaking ring, the curtain slowly rose.

They were all out there, all those people who had judged and condemned me two years ago. How satisfied they would be when I dropped my lines, forgot ray marks, made a total ass of myself. How they would titter and nudge each other and whisper behind their fans. My cue came. I moved onstage. I spoke the words I was supposed to speak and expressed the emotions I was supposed to express, but I did it by rote, purely by rote. It grew no better as the evening progressed, and in the final scene I was still completely removed, speaking my lines like an automaton. The curtain came down. Corey gave me a big hug and told me I had been brilliant, positively brilliant, and I gazed at her in wonderment. There were eleven curtain calls. I received a standing ovation and more bouquets of flowers than I could carry. It was a triumph.

Robert took me to New Orleans' grandest restaurant that eve-

ning, a splendid place with dark gold carpet and drapes and gleaming mahogany walls and exquisite etched-glass panels enclosing each private booth. He was charming and attentive, but I barely touched my thick turtle soup, my salad of crabmeat and artichoke hearts, my savory and steaming lobster thermidor. Sensing my mood, Robert said I looked tired, suggested I might like to skip dessert and go back to the hotel. I nodded thankfully. He gave my arm a squeeze as we left, so kind, so understanding, such a comfort. He curled his left arm lightly around my shoulders as we drove to the hotel, asking no questions, making no demands. At the door of my suite he told me good night, and I looked into his smoke-gray eyes and saw the veiled yearning in them and the concern, and I rested my hand lightiy on his cheek for a moment, then went inside.

I'm not going to let this throw me, I promised myself the following morning. I'm not going to be hurt like . . . like last time. I can get along very well without Jason Donovan. I can get along magnilficently, in fact. I'm not going to weep and I'm not going to pine. I finished my coffee and dressed and felt empty inside. I had slept litde during the night. I had tossed and mmed and watched the moonlight reflecting on the ceiling and yearned for the weight of his body beside me, the warmth of his skin, the sound of his breathing. I hadn't slept alone in months, and the bed seemed empty, seemed strange and alien without him. I hadn't cried. I was too stubborn for that. I had tried to hold on to the anger, but the anger soon evaporated and the hurt kept right on hurting.

He'll never know, I vowed, smoothing the skirt of my pale rose silk frock over the layers of white petticoat beneath. He'll never know how much he hurt me. He'll never know how much I cared. I sat down at the dressing table to brush my hair, and the eyes that looked back at me in the mirror stubbornly refused to reflect the pain inside. It's your own bloody fault, I told myself, brushing vigorously. You let yourself become attached to him. You let yourself care too much. You said you were merely taking a bonbon, but, admit it, you fell in love with the son of a bitch. Hair spilling to my shoulders in a glossy honey-blond cascade, I stood up, fetched parasol and reticule, and left the suite to go shopping with Laura and Michael.

It was after three when I returned. I was empty-handed, but only because Michael had taken charge of all our packages and

promised to have mine sent up to my suite later on. I had been very bright, very merry, gossiping with Laura, teasing Michael, buying with abandon. We had lunched on crepes in a lovely little restaurant, and Michael had kept us entertained with tales of Texas. I was weary now as I opened the door, glad I no longer had to keep up a front. Hazy silver sunlight spilled through the sitting room windows, making pools on the floor and illuminating the gray velvet sofa. The woman who sat there rose slowly to her feet, and I gasped, startled, believing at first that she was an apparition, for, bathed in the light, that's what she resembled.

She was wearing a soft mauve velvet gown, and the fluffy cloud of silvery hair floated about her head like a dandelion cap. The gentle and beloved face was as delicate, as fey as I remembered, the complexion smooth and clear, like fine old ivory. Her light green eyes were shining. A hesitant smile trembled on her lips. My heart seemed to leap. Tears sprang to my eyes. Delia sighed and took a step forward.

"I do hope you don't mind my coming, dear," she said.

"I—" My voice seemed to catch in my throat.

"I'm afraid I told them a little story downstairs. They said you weren't in, and I told them I was your aunt and asked if I could wait in your suite. I was very convincing and the genrie-man was most kind, escorting me up here himself."

"Oh, Delia—" I cried.

I ran to her then and we hugged and she patted my back and the tears fell and it was some time before I could pull myself together. I brushed the tears away and smiled and asked her to sit back down. I pulled a velvet cord hanging beside the drapes, and a few minutes later a maid appeared at the door. I asked her if she could have a lavish tea sent up. It arrived shortly thereafter: neatly quartered sandwiches of sliced tongue and cucumber, crusts trimmed away, tiny iced cakes and petit fours, steaming hot tea in a silver pot.

"My," Delia declared, eyeing the lavish display. "You do get wonderful service here, don't you?"

I nodded, composed now, pouring tea into the delicate porcelain cups. I handed one to her, and Delia smiled.

"I had to come, my dear," she said. "I couldn't leave New Orleans without seeing you."

'' You—you 're leaving?''

"I am going to Grande Villa again, to visit my friend Alicia

Duvall. You know how dreadfully uncomfortable New Orleans can be in this heat. I '11 probably be away all summer. I 'm leaving tomorrow morning. I always enjoy visiting Alicia. So many parties, so many balls ..."

Delia sighed, fondly remembering previous visits, and I feared she was going to launch into one of her fuzzy monologues. She didn't. She set her cup down and looked into my eyes.

"I was in the audience last night, my dear. I went with friends. I was so proud of you. I wept real tears. That's our Dana up there, I told myself. You can't imagine how very happy I am for you, how pleased I am with your success."

"Thank you, Delia."

"I've read all about you in the papers, of course. Such outlandish stories, my dear. I took most of them with a grain of salt."

"As well you should have."

"Princes, suicides, fortunes in jewels. I knew that wasn't you, my dear. You're still the same sweet child—I can see that—but now you're successful and terribly famous."

"I've worked hard, Delia."

"I know you must have. I'm so proud of you. Would you believe that when I was a girl—back during the Bronze Age, this was—I dreamed of becoming an actress myself. It was out of the question, of course. Respectable girls didn't go onstage back then."

" 'Respectable' girls still don't," I said dryly.

"Do—do you enjoy the life, dear?"

"Yes—yes, I do. It's very demanding and frequently frustrating, but in the theater I—I'm somebody. I have respect. I have admiration. I belong. I'm part of a large, loving family, however quarrelsome, and no one looks down on me because my blood isn't blue, because I grew up in the swamps."

"I fear our people were very hard on you, child."

I thought of those haughty Creole aristocrats in the Quarter she referred to, and I thought of the snubs, the gossip. It all seemed so trivial and unimportant now.

"I wanted to be like them," I said quietly. "I wanted to be accepted. I soon realized that could never happen. Now I'm content merely to be myself. Being Dana O'Malley is—just fine."

"We—all of us were very upset when you left, child."

I looked away, remembering.

"I understood why you left," Delia continued in that soft, gentle voice. ' 'I understood far more than you may have guessed, child, and I realized it was the—the best for all concerned. That didn't make it any easier. I missed you dreadfully. Poor Julian almost went out of his mind."

"I—I did it for him, Delia."

"I know. I think he evenmally realized that, too. He didn't know about you and Charies. Charles never told him—I forbade him to. Julian believed you ran off because you wanted to spare him the ostracism that would have come if he had married you. He threw himself into his work, and—I suppose you've read about his success?"

"Julian has finally come into his own," I said. "I always believed he would."

"Success has been wonderful for him," Delia confided. "He's become an entirely different person, so confident, so self-assured. He loves the attention and the acclaim. He loves being recognized as an authority, loves giving lectures, signing copies of his book. You're right, child—he has come into his own, and he's happier than I've ever seen him."

"Was—was Julian in the audience last night?"

Delia shook her head. "He's in New York at the moment. One of the major publishing houses up there wants him to do another book, and they're negotiating. Once they agree on terms, he plans to vacation in Europe. He—he has a companion," she added hesitantly.

"Amelia Jameson," I said.

Delia looked surprised. "You know about her?"

"One hears these things," I replied. "I met her once. She is a very beautiful woman."

"She's very good for him, too," Delia admitted. "A man in Julian's circle can't afford to—to take the wrong wife, but he can take all the mistresses he pleases."

"I'm glad he has her," I said.

We both had more tea then and sampled the sandwiches and cakes, and I told her about life in the theater and all the friends I had made. Delia seemed to be fascinated. I answered all her questions and told her colorful anecdotes, all the while longing to ask her about Charles. I didn't. I couldn't. I had too much pride. Delia finished another petit four, glanced at the clock and