Her Leading Man (6 page)

Except her. While Christina was often irked by
Gran’s insistence
upon playing the role of sore thumb,
she never ever let Gran know it. Once Gran
knew
she’d
got someone’s goat, the game was over, and
she’d won. Christina admired Martin’s
ability to
slough off Gran’s slings and arrows this far into
their
relationship, which had lasted—Christina looked to
see if there was a
clock on a wall somewhere and
didn’t find one—well, it had lasted around
twenty
whole
minutes so far. Folks generally gave up after
only a few seconds of trying to
deflect Gran’s missiles.

“
Don’t pay any attention to my grandmother,
M
ar
tin. She enjoys making people feel
stupid.”

“
Heh,” said Gran—but her eyes shone like
little
black beads, and Christina knew she’d scored a point
with the old
lady.

Martin, eyeing Gran with some amusement, nodded.
“I figured as much.
I’ve got an uncle you might
like to meet one day, Mrs. Mayhew. You could
probably
amuse yourselves for years dodging verbal
darts.”

Christina
chuckled. Gran squinted at Martin.

“
Don’t you go getting sassy, young man. I don’t
take
to sassy young people.”

“
Don’t lie, Gran,” Christina shot at her
immediately.
“Sassy people are the only people you like,
young or
not.”

“
Heh.”

The waiter showed up, steering clear of Gran and
her cane, and stood
beside Martin’s shoulder. “Have
you decided, sir?” he asked in a snooty
voice he’d
assumed, Christina figured, for the sake of the
picture
people.

Martin glanced from Gran to Christina, where his
gaze stuck.
“Ladies?”

Never in her life, until this minute, had Christina
ever allowed herself
to be flustered by a gentleman
looking
at he
r.
What was it about Martin
Ta
fft
that
made her act like an idiot?

She didn’t know, and it wasn’t something she’d
better
think
about here, as she sat at the dinner table
with him. “I’ll have the chicken en
casserole,” she
said in her cool,
rich voice, the one she’d cultivated
for social
purposes.

“
Chicken.” Gran snorted. “I wouldn’t trust
these
people with a chicken, either. I’ll take the steak.”
She
thrust
the paper menu at the waiter, who took it
and
seemed
startled.

Smiling, Martin said, “I’ll have the chicken en
casserole,
too, please. I’m sure your chef can cook a
chicken just
fine.”

“
Chef?” Gran grumbled. “They’ve probably
got
some old grandmother in an apron back there.”

“
Er, yes, sir,” the waiter mumbled at
Martin,
clearly trying to avoid acknowledging Gran’s
sarcasm.
“
And would you care for something to
drink?”

Martin lifted his left eyebrow in a gesture of
inquiry,
which shouldn’t have made Christina’s blasted
heart speed up, but
did. “Would you care, to share
a
bottle of wine,
ladies? I don’t know what the Desert
Palm Resort offers, but I’m sure it’s
palatable.”

“
Wine?” Gran barked out. “Give me a
whiskey
and soda, young man, and make it snappy.”

Christina sighed. “Gran, you’re impossible.” Turning
to Martin, she said,
“What do you suggest, Martin?
I’m not much of a wine drinker.”

He grinned. “I’m not, either. Why don’t we try
something white. I
think white goes with chicken.”
He glanced up at the waiter. “Do you have
some
kind of
white wine lying about in a cellar somewhere?”

“
Er, yes, sir.” The waiter had been keeping a
wary
eye on Gran, but at Martin’s question he turned his
attention away from
her. It was a mistake, as he
learned at once, when Gran smacked him on the
arm
with her
cane, a feat which forced her to lean across
the table.

The waiter
jumped and let out a small scream.

“
No need to holler, young man. I asked you
for
a
whiskey and soda. Did you hear me?”

“
Yes, ma’am,” the waiter stammered.
“Yes,
ma’am. Coming right up.”

Gran sat back, satisfied
that
she’d managed to intimidate
someone. Christina knew she’d have
been
upset if
the waiter had been impervious to her, as
Martin was, so she guessed it was
just as well that
she’d succeeded with one of them. Sometimes she
wasn’t sure how her
grandmother got away with some
of the outlandish things she did. One of these
days,
somebody would strangle her, and then where would
they all
be?

Martin gazed at Gran for a moment, then at
Christina. “Is she
always like this?” He said it with
a grin and loudly enough for Gran to hear,
but
Christina
sensed he was honestly curious.

She
nodded. “Oh, yes. Sometimes she’s worse.”

“
Don’t you dare talk about me as if I weren’t
here,
girl. And you”—she poked Martin’s arm with a bony
forefinger—
“
I come along with Christina to
these
idiotic
picture things because I’m not about to let
anyone take advantage of her. I’ve
read about the
lousy morals you people have. But you’re not going
to get the chance to
corrupt my girl, and you’d better
know it from the first.”

“
Corrupt her?” Martin blinked at the old
woman
as
if her words astonished him. “Why do
you think
anyone wants to corrupt her?”

“
Oh, don’t give me that,” Gran said in a voice
so
disparaging it could have withered spring leaves. “I
read the newspapers.
Why, just yesterday another stupid
young woman threw herself off the roof of
a
building in
Los Angeles. You’re a nest of
vipers, is
what you are. If you didn’t pay so well, I
wouldn’t
let
Christina get within ten miles of any of you.”

“
Oh.” Martin
appeared
nonplussed.

Made sense to Christina. One of Gran’s diatribes
was enough to
nonplus anyone.
S
he turned to her
grandmother and said mildly,
“I’m sure Mr. Tafft
isn’t one of the immoral picture types, Gran. I’ve
only ever heard good
things about him “ She shot
Martin a smile to make him feel better about
being
discussed like this.

“
Heh. I wouldn’t believe a word a picture
person
said to me, especially if it was a good word about
some other picture
person. They’re all snakes.”

“
Goodness,” murmured Martin. “I didn’t know
we
were considered all that bad.” He appeared truly
unhappy,
and
Christina wondered why. After all, the
whole world knew how immoral and
disgraceful actors
were.

Gran turned on him
.
“Don’t try to be
funny, you.
And don’t try to humor me. I know what I’m talking
about. I’ve got
eyes. I see what goes on when a picture
crew goes on location. I’ve seen it
before, and
I
expect to see it again, but I’ll never see it with
Christina. That’s
why I’m here, and that’s why I’m
going to keep my eye on my granddaughter.”
She
poked him
again. “And you’d better never forget it.”

“
Not
much chance of that,” Christina muttered.

“
No indeed,” agreed Martin. “In fact, I admire
you
for keeping an eye on your granddaughter.” He sent
smile Christina’s
way. “I wish more young women
had family to watch out for them.”

Gran stared at him for a moment and then gave
him one more
“Heh!”

Christina, who’d detected honesty in Martin’s
voice, was
impressed
.

The set construction crew, led by George Peters,
along with the
materials to build the elaborate Egyptian-style set around
which
Egyptian Idyll
was to be
filmed, arrived the next morning. So did the
camels.

Martin was pleased to see George, whom he liked
a lot, and the
materials for the set. He was less happy
about the camels.

He eyed the six mangy-looking beasts with disfavor.
They eyed him back
and didn’t look any more
pleased with him than he was with them. From
experiences
as a child that he wouldn’t forget if he lived
to be a hundred and
ten, Martin knew camels were
all difficult to get along with, no matter what
kind
they
were. Their predictable
temperaments
, however,
did not make them all equal.

“
These
are the wrong kind,” he stated flatly.

The burly man who had driven the creatures from
Clyde Beattie’s Wild
Animal Circus in the city
of El
Monte to Indio spat into the dust at their feet.
“These
was
the ones they loaded into the wagon. I don’t
know nothin’ about
camels.”

One of the camels gave a disparaging hoot. Martin
recognized the sound
as being the prelude to ruder
behavior, and he stepped away from the six
animals.
The
wagon driver, who evidently knew enough about
camels, too, did likewise. Martin fingered a tuft of hair and
began
tugging
at it. “I specifically asked Mr. Beattie to send
blond
camels.”

The driver squinted at Martin. “Blond camels? I
don’t know nothing
about blond camels or brunette
camels or redheaded camels. These is the ones
they
loaded
into the wagon.”

This wasn’t going well
.
His tour of duty on
this
picture
had barely started, and already things were
going wrong. Martin didn’t put any
stock in premonitions,
but he’d had a funny feeling about this
picture
from
before he’d even arrived in Indio. The
camels made for a bad start, in his
considered opinion,
especially since Clyde Beattie had never failed
him
before.

He and the driver exchanged a few more words.
The driver was
stolid in his defense of the cargo he’d
brought, claiming that if there was a
mistake, it
wasn’t his, and he wasn’t responsible for making it
right. Martin
thought the driver should reload the
camels on the truck, cart them back to El
Monte,
and
bring
him
some blond ones.

The driver balked. Martin pressed. An even-tempered
man, Martin seldom
allowed mistakes to jar
h
im
.
He chalked up his present unnerved
disposition
to his overall uneasiness about
Egyptian Idyll
. When
the driver continued to refuse cooperation
in exchanging
the camels, Martin stood aside, baffled.

It was then, when he was at a total loss as to what
he should do, that
Christina Mayhew and her ogre
of a grandmother showed up. Terrific. Just what
he
needed: a
battle with a nasty little old lady. He forced
himself to smile at the two
women.

“
Good
morning, Martin,” Christina said pleasantly.

Was it? He didn’t think so. Nevertheless, as he was
a polite man, he
said, “Good morning to you,
Christina. And to you, Mrs. Mayhew.”