Heartland (44 page)
“Oh, I don't blame him. I wouldn't want to speak with me either. Would you pass on a message, please? Tell him . . . Tell him, I'm sorry. I think the truth is, I never saw him at all. Both times we met, I was still addressing the man who hurt my daughter two years ago. And that was wrong of me. Very wrong.”
“I'm sure he'll be happy to hear that, Mrs. Channing.”
“Tell him the doctors say Kelly is going to be fine. Tell him Kelly is awake. And she needs him.” Now it was the mother's time to search for strength. “She needs him desperately.”
Peter hung up the phone and passed on the message. And waited while the room brightened with more than the dawn.
Finally JayJay looked over and said, “I got a man down the hall who's waiting for my word. Soon as that's done, I guess it's time to go greet a lady. Then we got us a film to finish.”
Kip and Ahn did the fist-on-fist thing, which from Peter's perspective seemed to include the rising sun. The AD said, “I've always been a sucker for happy endings.”
JayJay reached for their hands. “What say we pray this show onto the road.”
K
elly liked to think she sensed the change before she opened her eyes.
“Hello, darling.” Her mother squeezed her hand. “Welcome back.”
She smiled. Like a child, reflecting on unfinished features in what she saw there before her. Able to do so because she sensed the change in the room. She opened her mouth, dreading what it would cost her to speak. But needing to ask just the same.
This time, however, her mother whispered, “He's just outside. I'll go get him.”
Edith Channing rose from her chair. She looked down for a long moment, then said, “It's not just to the gentleman I owe an apology. You were right and I was wrong.”
Kelly watched her mother turn and leave the room. She felt a tear dislodge and roll down her cheek. And did not care.
He was there. The light in the outer room silhouetted his form. The massive shoulders, the slender waist. She had not noticed until that very moment that his legs were slightly bowed. Or maybe it was his stance. She could tell he was very tired, even though her vision swam such that she could not really see him at all.
He walked over. “Lady, if you don't stop crying you're gonna have me bawling like a baby.”
She smiled again. And felt his hand wipe at her cheeks. First one and then the other. Gentle and hard and soft and strong. The hand came to rest upon her face. She lifted her own hand and held it there.
“I had a billion words I wanted to say.” His voice was so hoarse it sounded sandblasted. “And now that I got my chance, I can't think of a single thing. My heart is that full.”
She blinked hard. Wishing she could clear her vision enough to see him better. Then she decided it was all right just as it was, because maybe the glow that surrounded him might vanish. And she didn't want that. Not just yet. Not until she had embedded the image deep in her heart.
If only he would lean over and kiss her, the moment would be as perfect as heaven's holy song.
JayJay must have understood. Or maybe the moment held the same message for him as well. Because that was exactly what he did.
M
artin stood in the center of his office. He paced. Not swiftly. Just hunting. Making sure of what he suspected.
The light that had followed his every move was gone.
Milo sat in the corner, idly leafing through the latest PR sketches for the promotion of Centurion Studio's first feature film. The location shoot for
Heartland
was four weeks away from wrap. Since the wildfire the previous week, the buzz just kept building. The distribution offers were coming in a steady stream.
And yesterday Paramount had made a public offer. Not for the film. For the studio.
Milo glanced his way. He said nothing because there was no need. They both knew.
The Centurion board was meeting in the next room. Martin had been asked to wait for their summons to join them. And Milo. Of course it was the board's prerogative to ask them to wait. Martin was not, after all, a board member. But only twice in his period as CEO had the board ever conducted business when he was not present.
Martin pulled out a cigarette. And put it back. He was not certain he could smoke and keep his fingers steady. He crossed the room once more. And found himself standing in front of his favorite photograph.
His office had no trophy wall. He did not care to boast about people he had stood with, or once greeted, or shaken hands with, or been given awards by. The only images on his walls were a couple of original movie posters, one of Garbo and another of Bacall. And this photo. A black-and-white masterpiece taken of Marilyn Monroe shot by Sam Shaw. The week he had taken this job he had attended an auction and acquired the photographer's proof. Shaw's scrawled notation in the bottom right corner stated that the picture was his choice for
Life
magazine. The photo was taken in 1956 on the set of
The Prince and the Showgirl
. Marilyn stared into the makeup mirror. Another photographer, hidden behind the massive frame of a Speed Grafex, was readying a shot. Marilyn stared into this second camera, revealing that special magic all stars needed and few had. She was known for her singular ability to shine for the camera. Just reach out and
embrace
it. But because the magic was directed at another camera, Sam Shaw's picture revealed not just the magic, but the humanity. He had captured both the star's unique magic and her fragility. Marilyn had never looked so appealing, or so human. So destined to crash and burn upon Hollywood's altar.
Martin's eye tracked left. Upon the wall between the photo and the bookshelves containing his Emmys and other awards was a line of four small frames. Each contained a single sheet of paper. Two were personal letters. One was a page from a private journal. The fourth was a sheet from a reporter's notebook. They contained unique insider takes on Hollywood. Original words in their original form.
He read them again now. Studying them carefully. As though he had never laid eyes on them before.
The first was from Orson Welles: “Everything you hear about Hollywood is true, including the lies.”
Then Shirley Temple: “Any star can be devoured by human adoration, sparkle by sparkle.”
Then the famous Hollywood reporter Hedda Hopper: “Our town worships success, the goddess whose smile hides a taste for blood.”
And finally his prize, the favorite of many from Marilyn Monroe herself: “Hollywood's a place where they'll pay you $50,000 for a kiss and fifty cents for your soul. I know because I turned down the first offer and held out for the fifty cents.”
His mental camera traversed over to the awards. Then halted, captured by a dusty volume behind his trio of Emmys. He pushed the shiny brass trophies aside. And pulled out the Book.
Five years it had rested there. He had forgotten the incident entirely. The one time Carter Dawes had visited his office had been the day after Martin had requested the right to plow their rising profits into a feature film. He had thought the studio's owner was coming down to discuss terms. Instead the scrawny old rancher had talked to Martin about his dream for the studio. And his ideals. And the faith behind it all. Then he had given Martin the leather-bound Bible. And asked his CEO to study it. And to call when he was ready, or if he had any questions.
Not about the film project. About religion.
As if religion had any place in Hollywood.
Martin carved a design in the dust. This was the enemy, he knew. What had kept him from his goals. What had stood between him and everything he had fought so hard to obtain. Not the board in there. This Book and what it represented. He'd burn it if he could. Burn them all.
“Mr. Allerby? Mr. Keplar?”
He set the Book back on the shelf and turned to face his secretary. Gloria might be inscrutable to others. But one glance was enough to tell him all he needed to know.
“The board is ready for you now.”
M
ilo's sharp intake of breath was the only sound as they entered the boardroom. Martin moved forward on legs he could no longer feel. He floated on a Novocain blanket. Like a soldier whose body refuses to accept the fact that he has been mortally wounded.
“Please sit down, gentlemen.”
Milo slumped into a seat. Martin remained standing by the back wall. The
Heartland
movie poster would serve well enough when the bullets started flying. He would meet his end without blindfold, and on his feet.
The board members were drawn tightly back around the oval table's other side. Their seats were scrunched closely together, placing as much distance as possible between them and the pair who had just entered.
Behind them, against the far wall, were seated Britt Turner, JayJay, Kip Denderhoff, and Gloria. Even before they started speaking, Martin had all the data he would ever need.
The pastor was their chosen spokesman. He addressed them with a tone suitable for a funeral service. Which, given the fact that Martin lived to make films, this was.
The pastor picked up a sheet of paper and read, “Acting with the full approval of Carter Dawes, the Paramount offer to acquire Centurion Studios has been turned down. Instead, the studio will be set in a trust, to be administered by an extended board. Britt Turner is to become the new acting CEO, pending full approval in twelve months' time. Kip Denderhoff is to take over as Mr. Turner's replacement upon the set of
Heartland
, but only after the feature project is completed.”
Milo protested, “That's insane.”
The pastor chose to ignore him. “Gentlemen, I will come straight to the point. We have spoken at length with Amber Hill, the script girl who admits to acting as your spy on the location, Mr. Allerby. And also as your go-between to the fire crew who ignited the blaze that almost took out the town. The authorities in Salton City have been notified. You gentlemen may wish to speak with your attorneys.”
Milo groaned and covered his eyes.
JayJay Parsons leaned forward in his chair. “What this feller is trying to tell you folks is this. We've just declared open season on skunks.”
T
he estate was not overly large by Hollywood standards, a couple of acres surrounded by a waist-high brick wall topped with ten feet of iron spikes. Planted in the grass outside the wall were shields warning intruders of an armed response. JayJay's windows were rolled down and the truck was full of eucalyptus scent. The shaggy trees dominated the cul-de-sac off Mulholland that contained Neil Townsend's home.
Kelly said, “Remind me again why we're here.”
“I'm trying to do what I feel God has asked of me. You, I'm still trying to figure out.”
“There was no way I was going to let you do this alone.” Kelly's voice still held a raw quality, one that sounded to JayJay's mind like honey-coated sandpaper. “Leastwise, that's what I was thinking when we left the ranch. Now, I'm not so sure.”
“I could take you back to your apartment.”
She reached over and took his hand. The day was warm and she wore a T-shirt from Goody's. Her forearm was still bandaged from where the hospital drip had been inserted. “I told you once before, Slim. I don't run.”
JayJay used his free hand to cut the motor. “One of my new lifelong goals is to try and find a way to show you just how much those words mean.”
The bandage was off her head and the bruise to her forehead had started fading. Kelly had her hair pulled back in a ponytail that accentuated the shape of her neck and ears. She looked both nineteen and a very wise ninety. She gave him a smile that did not need to touch her mouth. “What say we ask for the only help that matters.”
He did so, then followed the amen with, “I don't want you coming up to the house with me.”
“That makes two of us. But I'm not happy with the idea of you going up there alone.”
JayJay opened his door and climbed out. “I won't.”
The drive was sealed by twenty-foot-high metal gates. There was no house number, no name, no mail slot. Just a buzzer atop a security camera set in the right-hand brick pillar. A handwritten sign wedged above the loudspeaker read “Playpen,” but the “Play” had been crossed out and replaced with “Pig.”
He pushed the button, then waited long enough to have a decent reason for turning away. But his gut told him the house was not just occupied, but watching him.
A voice over the loudspeaker finally said, “What do you want.”
“A friendly word is all.”
There was another long wait, then the gates swung silently open. JayJay glanced back at where Kelly sat in the truck watching him. Then he started up the drive.
The lane was paved in multicolored brick. The house was stone. The windows were tall. The lawn sparkled with electronic water. The palms whispered a Hollywood greeting, all empty rattle. JayJay climbed the stairs and found the front door ajar. He glanced back again, but the truck was blocked now from view. So he looked upward, taking in a final glimpse of sky.
He stepped inside. “Neil?”
The house was silent. JayJay crossed the marble-tiled foyer with its thirty-foot domed ceiling and fancy chandelier. He descended the four limestone steps into the living area. He started to call again, when he spotted the actor through the rear glass doors. JayJay crossed a carpet broad as a small lake and stepped through the sliding doors. “Mind if I join you?”
The actor sat with his back to JayJay and the house. He stared through wraparound shades at the sparkling pool. His shirt was unbuttoned, revealing a bloated belly the color of boiled shrimp. “Grab a drink, why don't you.”
JayJay pulled another padded iron pool-chair around to where he faced the actor. “I'm good, thanks.”
The actor shifted his head a fraction. “Come to gloat?”
