Honey Moon (12 page)

"Sophie, it's me."

"Who?"

Honey wanted to scream at her aunt, but she knew it wouldn't do any good.

"Sophie, you can't put off coming to California any longer. I need you. Chantal married Gordon Delaweese, that boy I told you about. You got to come out and help me."

"Chantal got married?"

"This afternoon."

"I missed my baby's wedding?"

"I don't think it was much of a wedding. Now write this down. I'm going to send you some airplane tickets for next week through that Federal Express mail. You're going to fly to L.A."

"I don't think so, Honey. The bank said I could live in the trailer for a while."

"Sophie, you can't stay there. It's not safe."

"It's safe. They hired Buck to stay around as caretaker and keep an eye on things."

"Buck can hardly keep an eye on himself, let alone you."

"I don't know why you're always so nasty about Buck. He gets my groceries and watches my soaps with me and everything."

Honey refused to let herself get sidetracked. "Listen to me, Sophie. Chantal just got married to a boy

she hardly even knows. I need your help."

There was a long silence, and then the sound of Sophie's weary voice, no stronger than a sigh. "You

don't need me, Honey. You'll take care of everything. Just like always."

7

Honey curled into Dash's lap. His shoulder was warm and solid against her cheek. She could feel the bite of his belt buckle at her waist and breathed in his particular scent. It was crisp and piney, overlaid with the hint of spearmint LifeSavers.

"I'm too old for cuddling," she whispered, cuddling closer.

His arm enfolded her more tightly, and his voice was husky with tenderness.

"You're not too old until I say you're too old. I love you, Janie."

Silence fell between them, tender and good. His jaw rested on the top of her head, sheltering her. His arms and chest were a warm, snug harbor in a world that had grown too dangerous. The camera pulled back for a wider angle.

Honey closed her eyes, savoring every second. If only he were her dad, instead of Janie's. She had just celebrated her seventeenth birthday, and she knew she was too old to be taking pleasure in something so childish, but she couldn't help it. She had never had a father, but she had dreamed about it, and she wanted to stay in Dash Coogan's arms for the next thousand years.

He picked up her hand and enfolded it in his much larger one. "My sweet little Jane Marie."

"And cut! Print it. That looked good."

Dash dropped her hand. He stirred beneath her, and she rose reluctantly. As he stood, the big front-porch rocker they had been sitting in banged against the wall of the ranch house. Her body had been so warm seconds ago, but now her skin felt cold. He began to walk away, just as he always did when they were done, as if being in her presence for more than five minutes would contaminate him.

She rushed to the edge of the porch and spoke to his back as he walked down the steps. "I think that was a real good scene, don't you, Dash?

"It seemed to go okay."

"Better than okay." She hurried after him, jumping over a tangle of electrical cables on the way. "You were terrific. Really. I think you're a terrific actor.

Maybe the best in the world. I think—"

"Sorry, Honey. I can't talk now. I've got things to do."

"But Dash—"

He picked up his stride, and before she knew it, he had left her behind.

Lowering her head, she dragged her heels as she began walking toward the motor home they had given her to use when they were on location. Maybe her mind was playing tricks on her. Maybe her memory of that first day when he had treated her so kindly was a delusion. If only she knew what she had done to make him stop liking her.

From the very beginning she'd been just as friendly as she knew how to be.

She'd run off all the time to get him coffee and donuts. She'd given him her chair. She'd told him how much she admired him and offered him back rubs.

She entertained him with witty conversation during breaks and brought him newspapers. She'd even begged him to let her wash his shirt one day when he'd spilled coffee on it. Why had he turned on her?

When they were acting in a scene together, it seemed as if she really were his daughter and he truly did love her. Sometimes he looked at her so tenderly she felt as if a whole pitcher of warm wine was speeding through her blood veins.

But then the camera stopped and the wine turned to ice water because she knew he'd do his best to get away from her.

She paused for a moment in the shade of one of the big sycamore trees, ignoring the fact that she had to finish her history assignment before her tutor arrived. They had asked her to go back to school, something she didn't mind too much even though the tutor they had given her was old and boring. Sitting down on the rope swing that hung from the branches, a prop they used from time to time, she pushed herself gently back and forth.

It was January now, and
The Dash Coogan Show
had turned into the biggest hit of the fall season. Reaching into the pocket of her flannel shirt, she pulled out a Xerox of an article that had just appeared in one of the most important news magazines in the country. Everyone had been given a copy that morning, but this was the first chance she'd had to look at it. She scanned it, but then slowed down as she came to the end.

The Dash Coogan Show
has captured America's imagination in large part because of its superior acting. Liz Castleberry's intelligence shines through the stereotype of Eleanor, giving the spoiled socialite a delightfully ironic edge. Eric Dillon, an actor many critics thought to dismiss as another Hollywood hunk, plays her son Blake with the intensity and brooding melancholy of a young man still trying to discover his place in the world, adding layers of nuance to a character who would have been merely a piece of beefcake in the hands of someone less talented.

But most of all, America has fallen in love with the two leading characters. Dash Coogan has been looking for this part all his life, and he slips into the persona of the broken-down rodeo rider without a single misstep. And thirteen-year-old Honey Jane Moon as the feisty little girl who wants to settle down in a real home is the most winning child star in years. She's spunky without being precious, and so real it's hard to believe she's delivering a performance. The relationship between father and daughter as portrayed by Coogan and Moon is the way love between a parent and child should be—full of sharp edges, bristling with conflict, but deep and abiding.

She stared at the page, absorbing the painful irony of the final sentence. Not once since she was six years old had she known a deep and abiding love.

She sniffed and resolutely stuffed the article back in her pocket for Chantal to put in her shoe box along with the others. Some day when she got the time, her cousin planned to paste all of them in a scrapbook. There were a lot of articles in Chantal's shoe box, despite the fact that Ross wouldn't let any of the reporters who were clamoring to interview her get close. He said he wanted to shield her from public scrutiny until she grew more accustomed to the business, but she suspected his real reason for keeping

her away from reporters was that he didn't trust her not to go on one of her talking jags and say things he didn't want made public, such as how old she really was.

She jumped up from the swing, and her heart started a rickety-rack clattering in her chest as she spotted Eric Dillon walking toward his trailer. He was wearing a pair of stone-washed jeans so tight that the outline of the wallet in his back pocket was visible, along with a black T-shirt that had the sleeves cut out.

He turned slightly and her mouth went cotton dry as she took in the clean lines of his profile. Her eyes traced the height of his forehead, the lean straight nose, that thin, strong mouth with its sharply chiseled bow. She loved his mouth and spent a lot of her spare time daydreaming about what it would be like to kiss it.

But the only way that would happen was if the writers made it happen, and right now that didn't seem too likely.

Sometimes it gave her chills the way the writers kept calling her into that conference room and making her talk. In her old life, God had been in charge, but now that she had met the show's five writers, she understood real power.

"Eric!" His name spilled from her lips with embarrassing eagerness.

He turned toward her and she glimpsed something scary in his face, but then she decided it was only annoyance. People were after him all the time. Some of the crew members complained because Eric was sort of temperamental, but she couldn't find it in her heart to hold it against him. Not with all the pressures of stardom bearing down on him. She rushed toward him, telling herself to act casual, but he started walking away, so she had to move even faster.

"Would you like to run some lines, Eric? I've been working on those sensory-awareness exercises I heard you telling Liz about. We're filming the scene by the corral this afternoon. It's an important scene, and we need to be ready for it."

He began walking. "Sorry, kid. Not right now."

It was the dog-dish haircut. How could he ever think of her as a seventeen-year-old woman when she looked like somebody's little brother? She found herself moving faster, occasionally taking two steps to keep up.

"How about half an hour? Would half an hour be good for you?"

"I'm afraid not. I've got some business to attend to." He mounted the steps to his motor home and opened the door.

"But Eric—"

"Sorry, Honey. No time."

The door shut. As she stared at its unyielding surface, she realized that she'd done it again. Even though she kept telling herself to act mature and sophisticated, she ended up acting just like Janie.

She glanced around, hoping no one had witnessed what a fool she'd made of herself, but the only person nearby was Liz Castleberry, and she didn't seem to be paying attention. Honey slipped her hands back into her jeans pockets so she looked as if she were just wandering around with nothing particular on her mind.

On location, the four leading actors each had a small motor home. Liz's motor home was parked next to Eric's. She was sitting in a lawn chair near the door with Mitzi, her golden retriever, sprawled at her side. She had a sweater tossed over her shoulders and was studying her script through a pair of large sunglasses with clear pink rims.

From the beginning Honey had liked Liz's dog a lot better than she liked Liz.

Liz was too glamorous for her to be comfortable in her presence. More than anyone else on the show, she acted like a real movie star, and since the first days of filming, Honey had been steering a wide berth around her. It hadn't been difficult to do. All the show's stars tended to keep to themselves.

Mitzi rose and trotted forward, her tail wagging. Honey was feeling bruised from her encounter with Eric and she wanted to be alone for a while, but it was hard to ignore a dog with a yen to play, especially one the size of Mitzi. She reached down and stroked the dog's large, handsome head. "Hi, girl."

Mitzi began circling her and nuzzling her knees, the rhythm of her tail moving from adagio to allegro. Honey sank down and pushed her fingers into the dog's soft, butterscotch fur. Leaning forward, she rested her cheek against Mitzi's neck, not minding the musty scent of dog breath. Mitzi's tongue scraped her cheek. Even though Mitzi was only a dog, Honey appreciated the affection.

It was getting harder all the time for her to blame other people for not wanting to be with her. There were so many things wrong with her. She was ugly and bossy. Other than the fact that she could cook and she was a good driver, she didn't have any particular talents. When she thought about it, she realized that there wasn't much to like, let alone love.

"Bad day?

Honey's head shot up at the sound of Liz's quiet voice. "Hell, no. I'm having a great day. A great one."

Releasing Mitzi, she sat back on her heels, taking in the actress's billowy chestnut hair and flawless skin and wishing she could look like her. Honey was beginning to think that she was the only ugly person in all of Southern California.

Liz slipped her sunglasses on top of her head. Her eyes were as green as Silver Lake before the water

had gone bad. She nodded her head toward Eric's trailer. "You're way out of your league, kiddo. Be careful with that one."

Honey leaped to her feet. "I don't have the slightest idea what you're talking about. And I don't appreciate other people nibbing into my business."

Liz shrugged and pulled her glasses back down over her eyes.

Honey spun around and began to stomp away only to run into Lisa Harper, the actress who was playing Dusty. When she realized that Lisa was heading for Eric's trailer, she intercepted her.

"I wouldn't bother him if I were you, Lisa. Eric's got some business to attend to, and he doesn't want to be interrupted." She tried to conceal her resentment at the way Lisa's breasts stretched out the front of her purple knit top.

"You're a stitch, Honey." Lisa laughed. "I'm Eric's business." She climbed the steps to his trailer and disappeared inside.

An hour later she reappeared. Her purple knit top had been replaced with one of Eric's cropped-off T-shirts.

* * *

The conference room was dim, with only weak threads of late afternoon light seeping through the closed draperies. Honey sat before them like a sinner on judgment day called to the presence of the Almighty. Except there was only one of Him, and there were five of them.

A woman with burgundy fingernails gestured toward the can of Orange Crush they had set out for her. "Help yourself, Honey," she said quietly.

The man at the center of the table lit a cigarette and leaned back in his chair.

"You can start whenever you're ready."

Honey gazed stubbornly down at the floor. "I don't have anything to say."

"Look at us when you talk, please."

"I'm not saying anything. I mean it this time. I don't have a single thing on my mind."