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“There is only one bad thing about fame,” he said. “Once you have had it you can never do without it again.”

“Is that really the only bad thing about it?” asked Selena.

“You bet it is,” said Tim. “And don't believe any of the nonsense you read that tells you differently. Don't take the movie queens seriously when they tell you how rough it is to be rich and well known and in demand. They all whine about lack of privacy, but leave them alone for five minutes and they're on the phone to their agents asking where everyone is.”

“You too?” asked Selena.

“No,” said Tim. “At least I'm honest about that.”

“And is that all you're honest about?”

He turned her hand over in his and kissed her palm.

“No,” he said. “I'm going to be honest about you.”

It was after midnight when they walked to Selena's house.

“Come in and meet my brother Joey,” said Selena.

“I'd love to meet your brother Joey,” said Tim. “And your mother and father and anyone else who concerns you.”

Selena felt her hand stiffen in his. “My mother and father are dead,” she said. “There's only Joey. Just Joey and me.”

Tim had felt the change in her. “I'm sorry,” he said. “But I'd still like to meet Joey. And I have to call a cab.”

“A cab?” asked Selena.

“Yes,” said Tim. “I have to get back to Silver Lake somehow.”

“But how did you get here?”

“With that newspaperman—what's-his-name?”

“Seth Buswell,” said Selena. “And I have sad news for you. There are no taxicabs in Peyton Place. I thought you had your own car with you.”

“No problem,” said Tim, as they walked into Selena's living room. “I'll stay at a hotel.”

“Not in Peyton Place,” said Selena. “We don't believe in hotels here. They attract tourists.”

“Hello,” said Tim.

Joey Cross looked at Tim for a long moment. “Hello,” he said at last.

“Joey,” said Selena. “This is Tim Randlett.”

“I know,” said Joey.

“Do you?” asked Tim, laughing. “Has my minuscule fame spread so swiftly in Peyton Place?”

“Nope,” replied Joey and found himself laughing along with Tim. “Heard you and Selena had met down at Hyde's at suppertime.”

“And that,” said Selena, going into the kitchen to make coffee, “is the story of Peyton Place. Joey, get some sheets and a blanket out of the linen closet. Tim is staying here for the night.”

“Fine,” said Joey. “Tomorrow the town will really have something to talk about.”

Later, Selena lay still in bed. The house was so quiet that all she could hear was the sound of her own breathing and the beat of her own heart. She could not relax but lay stiffly, every nerve in her body tensely aware of Tim, asleep on the couch in the living room. A sharp resentment went through her.

How can he sleep? she wondered angrily, as annoyed with herself as she was with him.

But a few minutes later she heard a sound. Tim coughed, and then she heard the scrape of his cigarette lighter.

Selena smiled in the dark, and was at last able to sleep.

Within less than a week, Peyton Place talked of little other than Selena Cross and Tim Randlett. Tim was spending every spare minute away from the theater with her, and every day Connie Rossi went to the Thrifty Corner so that Selena could take time off.

“At least it's good for business,” Connie told Mike. “People are coming into the store hoping to gossip about Selena.”

“When are we going to meet him?” asked Mike.

“Friday,” Connie replied. “They're coming to dinner.”

“Good,” said Allison, coming into the room. “He can tell me all about Hollywood.”

“I wonder,” said Mike, “which member of our genteel population elected himself to tell Tim Randlett all about Selena Cross.”

“I don't know,” replied Connie, “but you can bet somebody did.”

And, of course, somebody had. It was the policy of the Barn Theater to take in a group of young people every year whom the management called apprentices. For a sizable fee, the apprentices were allowed to paint scenery, act as ushers, look after props and do every other job that was beneath the dignity of actors. One of these was a tall, leggy girl from White River named Helen Dowd, who had sighted Tim Randlett the moment he landed at Silver Lake and had decided to make him her own. When Tim began to make daily trips to Peyton Place, Helen lost no time in telling him, in explicit detail, about Selena.

“Her stepfather,” she said. “And she murdered him in cold blood. He was in the Navy and he came home on leave and she killed him with a pair of fire tongs. Then she buried him in a sheep pen.”

“Why?” asked Tim, lighting a cigarette and blowing a leisurely smoke ring.

“What do you mean, ‘Why'?” asked Helen, enraged at Tim's lack of reaction.

“I mean, why did Selena kill her stepfather?”

“Oh. Well, it came out at the trial that it was incest. At least that's what they called it. But there are plenty of people around who don't believe it. Maybe Lucas Cross was a drunkard, but lots of people don't believe that he'd do anything like that to Selena.”

“Anything like what?” asked Tim.

Helen blushed. “Well, you know. Like what I said. Incest.”

“Do you believe it?”

Helen was angry. “I don't see that you've got any call to cross-examine me,” she said. “After all, I just told you for your own good.”

The next day Tim went to the public library at White River and looked at the back copies of the Boston newspapers that had carried the story of Selena's trial. When he had finished, he sat for a long time, smoking and staring at motes of dust caught in a sunbeam that slashed across the library floor. Without knowing that it was happening, Tim's personality and character were changing to meet the demands of the new situation which faced him now.

Sometimes, the personality of an actor is like a blank slate. When he is confronted with a new role, the slate is written upon and the actor becomes what he reads until the part has been played. Then the slate is wiped clean and is ready for still another role.

When Tim Randlett left the library at White River that afternoon he knew that he must go to Selena. He would not tell her what he knew directly, but he would, nevertheless, let her know that he knew. He would be gentle with her, yet masterful, and he would teach her not to be afraid and to trust in him. He would restore her faith in love and in men. As he drove toward Peyton Place, Tim was filled with an almost saintlike feeling of gentleness spiced with the emotion of a virile young man and topped with an overwhelming sense of outrage at the thought of Lucas Cross.

Selena watched him walk toward her and, without knowing what had happened, she knew that he was somehow subtly different.

“Hi,” she said, and was annoyed with herself because her voice almost quivered.

“Hello, darling.”

He drove away from Peyton Place without a word, and Selena turned to him.

“Where are we going?” she asked.

“My place,” he said.

Immediately, her arms were covered with goose flesh and she quivered in the hot July sun.

Inside, Tim's cottage was cool and dim and quiet. From very far away, on the other side of the lake, came the faint shouts of the summer bathers and there was a smell of sunshine and water and pine. Selena turned from where she had been standing in front of the empty fireplace.

“Why did you bring me here?” she asked.

“Because I've never kissed you,” said Tim. “And when I do I didn't want it to be in a parked car or in the back room of the Thrifty Corner or on a bench in the park.” He walked toward her and stood in front of her without touching her. “I want it to be here where it's quiet and where no one will come barging in, and I think you do, too.”

“I want to go home,” said Selena in a frightened whisper.

Very gently, he put his hands on the sides of her face.

“Selena,” he said. “Look at me.” He looked long and deeply into the eyes she raised to him. “Who am I?” he asked. “What's my name?”

“You're Tim,” she said, and the color of his eyes was like the ocean. “You're Tim Randlett.”

“Yes,” he said. “I'm Tim Randlett. I'm Tim and I love you.” He put his arms around her then, but still he looked into her eyes. “I'm Tim,” he said again. “I'm not Lucas Cross.”

“Don't!” cried Selena, and tried to pull away from him.

But he held her tightly against him, and with one hand he rubbed the small of her back and then the nape of her neck.

“I'm not going to hurt you, darling,” he said over and over. “Please don't be afraid of me. I love you, darling.”

And at last Selena stopped trembling. “Tim,” she said. “Tim.”

“Yes, darling,” he said softly. “Tim.”

He kissed her softly with his lips together in dry, unhurried kisses, and all the while he stroked her as if she were a frightened kitten he was trying to calm. He undressed her slowly, almost lazily, and when he put her on the bed it was as if she were that same kitten, quieted now, but who might at any moment, jump up and run away in terror. He made her look at him but did not speak as his hands caressed her thighs and pressed gently against her abdomen. He watched her eyes grow dark and heavy and still he continued to stroke her, and when he kissed her the next time it was Selena who opened her lips , who probed against his teeth with her tongue. Only then did his fingertips seek her breasts, caressing and stroking until she responded to him.

“Open your eyes,” he said. “Selena, open your eyes.”

He loved her slowly and watched, exultant, as the wildness grew in her eyes, as her mouth opened to cry out. It was as if a dam had burst within her, as if she were fighting a tidal wave of feeling. Until, finally, she let go and gave in to the strength that claimed her, that took everything from her in one shuddering, screaming, ecstatic moment.

I
T TOOK
M
IKE
R
OSSI
a week to discover that he did not like Tim Randlett.

“I don't know why,” he said in answer to Connie's question. “There's just something about him that rubs me the wrong way. He's like a chameleon.”

“He's no such thing,” said Connie. “He's a very nice boy and I, for one, am very happy for Selena.”

“I agree,” said Allison, smiling at Mike.

But, as Mike often said, Connie had an overworked sense of curiosity.

“What do you mean, ‘chameleon'?” she demanded.

“He talks to everyone in a different way,” said Mike, wishing he'd never brought up the subject. “His manner changes with everyone he meets just as if he were changing color.”

“Mike's just jealous,” said Connie to Allison. “He's jealous because Tim is young and handsome and sleeping with Selena.”

“Mother!” cried Allison, flabbergasted. “How do you know he's doing any such thing?”

“What?” asked Connie, innocently studying her fingernails.

“You know damned well what,” said Allison. “Come on. Tell.”

Connie shrugged. “It's just a look a woman gets,” she said. “And Selena's got it. That slept-with look.”

“Honestly, Mother,” said Allison.

“Well, it's true,” said Connie defensively. “And not only slept with, but slept with damned well.”

“All I care about,” said Allison, “is Selena being happy. And if sleeping with Tim Randlett makes her happy, I'm all for it.”

Mike stood up. “All this sleep talk has made me warm and uncomfortable,” he said. “Anybody for a cold beer?”

“You know, Mike,” Allison said, raising her voice so that he could hear her in the kitchen, “Peter Drake doesn't like Tim Randlett, either.”

“Well, what would you expect?” asked Connie. “Did you think he'd be overjoyed at the appearance of a rival? Peter's been in love with Selena for years.”

“He said that Tim's a big phony and I quote,” said Allison.

“Maybe he's right,” said Mike, coming back into the living room with three brimming glasses of beer. “Not that I'd go so far as calling Randlett a phony. I don't think he means to be phony, but I do think that he's been insincere for so long that he doesn't even realize he's that way.”

“Sour grapes,” said Connie, licking a little rim of white foam from her top lip.

“You've been in Peyton Place too long,” laughed Allison. “You've become a native and now you distrust Tim because he makes a living at something as unorthodox as acting.”

“And not only that,” said Connie, “but you've become a gossip.”

“Ayeh,” said Mike in an exaggerated drawl.

But Mike Rossi was not the only one who was worried about Selena's relationship with Tim Randlett. Dr. Matthew Swain had met Selena on Elm Street and, as he told Seth Buswell later, he almost didn't recognize her. It was as if a light had been turned on inside Selena. She glowed and her smile flashed continually.

“Hello, Matt,” she said.

It was the first time in her life that she had called him anything but Doc.

“Well, hello, Selena,” said Matt. “My goodness, you look radiant this morning. No need to ask how you are. It's obvious.”

“I feel generous, too.” Selena laughed. “Come on into Hyde's and I'll treat you to coffee.”

Matthew Swain waited until Corey Hyde had served them before he spoke.

“Are you in love with him, Selena?” he asked.

“In love with whom?” she teased.

But Matt did not laugh with her. “With Tim Randlett,” he said.

“Yes,” she said. “Yes, I am, Matt.”

“I thought that summertime actors moved around a lot more than Tim does,” said the doctor, lighting his pipe.

“In the first place,” said Selena, “Tim is not a ‘summer-time actor.' He's a full-fledged, year-around actor. And, yes, actors usually do move around in the summer, but the theater at Silver Lake is conducting an experiment this year in repertory theater and Tim is even getting a chance to do some directing.”