Selling Out (32 page)

Deck the peroxide Christmas trees!

Perry thought it might be a gas to get one of these evergreens dyed blond for his living room, but he feared Jane wouldn't appreciate the joke. No, he was playing this safe, traditional. He found a lot on Melrose Avenue with fir trees as green as Vermont, and bought the old-fashioned kind of colored lights and ornaments at Bullocks Department Store. He wasn't even taking a chance on getting any glitzy, expensive decorations in Beverly Hills, he was sticking with down-home values.

Gifts, though, that was something different. He really wanted to lay it on. For the first time in his life, he had the money (the power!) to give his beloved wife the finest, the best, without stint, to shower her with everything he saw that he thought would please her.

And oh, he wanted to please her, surprise her, make her smile and glow, atone for all the hurt he had unintentionally caused her by steering this new course in his career that even temporarily set them apart, put them against each other. One of the positive side effects of the break with Gunn and Archer was that it allowed him again not only to
think
about other aspects of life but even to experience emotions about matters other than the show. As he'd poured himself heart and soul into the series, spent every mental and emotional asset he had on it, he had simply put his other feelings on hold, especially the ones concerning Jane.

The only flaw in this practical if cold-blooded solution had been that Jane kept intruding into his consciousness. The most disconcerting part was the whole business of hearing her voice—that is,
imagining
he was hearing her voice—telling him what to do or not to do, what to think or not to think. The voice was so clear, so immediate, Perry had to take a moment or so to reorient himself whenever he heard it—dammit, when he had the
illusion
of hearing it. And after those occasions there was a kind of lingering sense of her, like a trail of perfume, an ineffable presence. He had to fight it off, close his mind against it as best he could, simply because the aura of Jane was too distracting, it got in the way of what he had to do here to achieve his goals.

Then almost the moment Perry freed himself from what had become—as Gunn himself called it—his serfdom, the feelings about Jane he had struggled to hold at bay came flooding back, with all the force of a dam breaking. In a way, the timing was perfect, coming as it did just before Christmas. He' still didn't want to go back to Vermont, afraid it would break the spell he was in, the concentrated effort to succeed in this new scene.

Shopping for Christmas presents for her was a fabulous high, a joy, a tangible way of expressing in action the powerful love he felt for his wonderful wife, the woman who, he now remembered with electrifying force, was the one he had felt from the first was his preordained, predestined mate for life.

He was clever enough to restrain himself, of course, respecting her taste for simplicity, her natural aversion to the very sort of treasures that spilled so seductively over the velvet displays of the exclusive shops and stores of Beverly Hills. He wished he could buy her something gold, something lavish, but knew it would only turn her off, so in the field of jewelry, he held his flagrant instincts in check and purchased for her only a simple string of pearls, whose elegance was in their very purity, the unadorned naturalness of their beauty, as opposed to any sheen or shine of flash and glitter.

He tried to keep that principle in mind in all his selections of other-type gifts as well—the softly beautiful but practical quilted bathrobe, the elegant but plain white silk blouse, the long, chocolate-brown, Italian-made leather coat, the stunning but simple three-piece fawn suede suit, the sporty Swiss watch designed for outdoor use, the powerful German binoculars she could use to intensify her viewing and appreciation of nature on her hikes and camping trips, the good telescope of a kind she had always wanted for studying the stars.

He spent a little something more than $7,000 on Jane's presents, signing the slips with the power of the new Gold American Express card his accountant had secured for his greater convenience. It would simply come out of his money-market funds and soon be replenished with the flow of new fortune that would soon be flooding in from the sale of the “Springtime Women” project as soon as the holidays were over.

The presents, gift-wrapped by the stores in glorious colors set off by bright silken ribbons and glorious bows, further spangled with bells and stare and decorative toy figures of reindeer and elves and angels tied on for extra, dramatic effect, were artistically stacked cornucopia-style beneath the tree, looking like some ultimate symbol of lushness, largesse, the plunder of love.

Staring down at them, Jane looked out of place in the picture that Perry was about to flash with the new fully automatic camera he had given himself for Christmas. Holding her small armful of home-wrapped presents, bending down and placing them tentatively against the glistening flood of the others, she seemed like some Parisian match girl brought into a wealthy home to share Christmas.

She looked good, but a little gaunt, though maybe it was just her new hairstyle that produced that effect. It was hard to get used to—the shorter trim, cut straight at the chin line, parted in the middle, and combed straight down on the sides. It looked nice, damned attractive even, but it didn't look like Jane. It didn't look like the woman he had fallen in love with on the spot almost six years before, the woman who became his wife, mate, best friend, and lover, all rolled into one. He was disappointed with the subtle but significant transformation, and felt in some vague way he'd been duped, yet he tried to concentrate on the main, the real point of wanting her to come here: renewal of love, reconciliation of differences.

She gave him a pipe, a sweater, one of her new photographs, a pair of fur-lined moccasins he used to like to wear when he worked in his study, a first edition of Flannery O'Connor's essays, a jar of his favorite Vermont maple syrup. He made the appropriate oohs and ahhhs of appreciation (as she had done when she opened her own presents) but there was something odd, out of kilter, about this whole transaction. It were as if each was making a silent statement by bringing to the other the treasures of the two distant lands they had come from—Marco Polo exchanging gifts with Pocahontas.

Perry knew she wouldn't want to go out to some fancy restaurant for Christmas dinner, yet he didn't want her to have to cook in his tiny kitchenette with its all-electric appliances (like all real cooks, she preferred gas burners). He even considered making the stew she had taught him how to make when they met, yet felt it wasn't festive enough.

Ravenna had of course been the one with the answer to solve this culinary dilemma as she had all others: she knew a gourmet caterer who made up a splendid dinner of duck à l'orange with wild rice and puree of chestnut, and apple tart for dessert; all you had to do was heat it up.

They drank two bottles of fine Chardonnay with dinner and had brandy after, and when they went into the small bedroom to lie down for a nap, their hands met and fingers interlocked. When Jane arrived the night before, she was too exhausted and too tense to make love, and besides, they still felt awkward with each other. Now, in the darkened bedroom, full of food and spirits, they moved toward one another, explored each other as if renewing acquaintance, rephrasing their bodies' rapport, and joined, a bit awkwardly, after all that time of separation, but tenderly.

They didn't talk about “it” till the next day. Their future.

They walked the water's edge of the beach in Venice, as they had when they first came out. That was almost a year ago now. More like a century it seemed.

“I miss you,” he said.

“Seriously?”

“Like fury.”

“You managed to hide it pretty well. I mean, I didn't hear from you much, till the last few weeks.”

“Well, I was all tied up with the show till then. All the upheavals. The whole mess.”

“So you really mean you missed me when you didn't have the show any more.”

“Dammit, Jane. I don't want to argue. I love you.”

“I'm sorry. I love you too. I miss you all the time.”

He stopped and hugged her to him, stroking his hand on her back.

“Let's be together.”

“That's what I want.”

She took his hand and they began walking slowly again down the beach, in step with each other.

“You know what my fantasy is?” Jane asked, pressing his hand.

“Let's see—that I throw you down in the surf and ravage you to insensibility as the tide comes in.”

“Not sexual fantasy. I mean the ‘daily life' kind.”

“Whatever turns you on, love.”

“Seriously. I was thinking, maybe you could get together on some project with Mona Halsted. She loves your stories, and I bet she'd love an excuse to come out and stay awhile.”

Perry stopped walking and stared at Jane. She turned toward him and smiled as she continued, eagerly.

“You could work at home, and Mona would come out and go over the script with you, and then you could fly back here for network, meetings if you needed to.”

“What in the world are you talking about?” Perry asked.

“I'm talking about the possibility of your working on a television project with Mona Halsted.”

“Who's she?”

“Don't you remember? That wonderful woman producer we met at the Vardemans' party. She went to Middlebury, and she loves Vermont. I know she would jump at the chance to come out on business, and besides, she's a real fan of yours.”

“Darling. That really is a fantasy, I'm afraid.”

“Why? Why can't it be true?”

“There's about a million reasons, believe me. I'm trying to do a feature right now, not television. Mona Halsted is nobody.”

“She's a bright, sensitive woman.”

“I'm not going to argue with you about Mona Halsted's virtues. That's beside the point—
she's
beside the point.”

Jane turned and started walking again, faster now, and Perry kept up alongside her.

“What is the point?” Jane asked.

“The point is I need you here. I want you to come back and stay with me through the spring. To the end of summer at the latest. Then I guarantee we go back to Vermont for the fall semester.”

Jane stopped again and folded her arms across her chest, looking at Perry with a squint.

“I can't believe you,” she said.

“You don't think I'm telling the truth?”

“Oh, I know you are. I just can't believe your proposal.”

“What's so weird about it? That I want my wife to be with me while I finish some important work?”

“Important enough to give up your tenure for? This is it, you know. They won't extend you any longer, and I don't blame them.”

“Love, this is the script for the Vardemans. This is
real
tenure—more money, in one lump, than I'd make for teaching for the next five years!”

“So to hell with your obligation to Haviland. All the stories you told me of your loyalty to them, how they took you in when no one else would, gave you a home.”

“I'm going back there next fall. Even if I only teach one course. I'll be much more valuable to them.”

“Because you'll be rich?”

“Because I'll have done more, accomplished more, and in a way that will bring national acclaim!”

She looked at him as if he had turned into Dracula's nephew.

“My God,” she said.

She turned and started running down the beach. Perry ran after her, angrily, tackling her on the sand. Both of them were heaving, puffing, glaring, wanting to pound each other. Without a word, they stood up and brushed themselves off. They drove back to the condo in silence.

That night was the Vardemans' annual wassail buffet.

Jane refused to go.

Perry explained that he had no choice; it was business.

“I understand,” Jane said.

He left her lying on the couch, reading the Flannery O'Connor essays she had given him for Christmas. He kissed her on the cheek and promised to get back as soon as he could. He wanted to try to pick up the pieces, see if they couldn't work something out, now that they'd had the explosion and got the hysterics out of their systems.

The Vardemans' wassail buffet seemed very restrained; there was more talk of deals than of Christmas. Vaughan introduced Perry to Evan Shurtleff, the Unified Films mogul. He was a crisp, pale-looking man with thin lips and piercing eyes.

“I understand you worked with Archer Mellis,” he said.

Perry felt the tips of his ears go red.

“Yes, I did. Unfortunately, we didn't part on the best of terms.”

“So I understand.”

“Still, if it weren't for Archer, I wouldn't be here. He's a brilliant guy, and I owe him a lot.”

“Of course.”

Perry was going to change the subject to “The Springtime Women,” but Shurtleff turned his head slightly and smiled at someone who waved at him.

“You'll excuse me?” he said to Perry.

“Of course.”

Perry chugged his cup of wassail and got another. Damn. He wondered if Archer Mellis was bad-mouthing him around town. The arrogant prick. To hell with it. If this cold cucumber from Unified didn't like him there were plenty of other places to go with a hot project like “The Springtime Women.” Especially with Harrison Ford wanting to do it. He looked for the popular star but didn't spot him among the wassailers. He saw Meryl across the room and decided to go over and introduce himself and mention “The Springtime Women.” Maybe Vaughan had an extra copy of the book upstairs and could lend it to her.

Perry started edging his way through the crowd, shoulder first, when he bumped into the last person he wanted to encounter right now.

Cyril Heathrow. He was wearing a tweed suit with knickers, looking like some damn Dickens character.