They call her Dana (57 page)

I got tremendous applause when we took our curtain calls. So did Laura, a favorite. Carmelita got only a smattering of applause and several more rude "Moos." She waddled hurriedly to her dressing room, steaming. Jason grabbed my arm as I stepped into the wings.

"You read it?" he demanded.

"I read it," I said.

"Good. I've got business with Jackson. Why don't I meet you in the lobby of the hotel in, say, an hour? No, make it an hour and a half. I want to count tonight's box office take."

"I'm very hungry," I said. "I don't know if I can wait that long. Why don't I go ahead and eat and then—"

"You can wait," he said sternly. "The hotel lobby. An hour and a half. Be there!"

I was still in my costume when, ten minutes later, a very nervous Freddie knocked on my dressing room door. I ushered him in, along with an even more nervous lass with rosy cheeks, large blue eyes and tumbling blond curls. The youngsters were both tongue-tied. I tried my best to put them at ease, asking them if they had enjoyed the play, relating backstage anecdotes, telling June, for that was her name, that Freddie took marvelous care of me at the hotel. I signed pictures for both of them and walked them to the front lobby, returning to my dressing room via the wings and waving to the stagehands who were busily disassembling the set.

An hour later I was dutifully waiting in the hotel lobby, wondering if I had made a mist^ice in selecting the deep red silk gown. I had loved it when I tried it on, thrilled with the off-the-shoulder puffed sleeves and snug waist, delighted with the very full skirt that spread out over red gauze underskirts, but I didn't remember it being cut quite so low. It would be wonderfully effective onstage, but . . . was it really suitable for a private dinner? Would Jason think I had worn the gown because I wanted him to find me alluring? In all honesty, that was precisely why I chose it, I admitted to myself, and if the sod got too frisky I'd give him what for and no mistake about it.

He was ten minutes late. He didn't even notice the gown.

"Sorry," he said, striding briskly toward me. "Jackson and I were discussing business and I forgot the time. Ready?"

"Ready," I said.

He gripped my elbow and headed toward the staircase. I dug in my heels. He looked surprised.

"What's the problem?" he asked impatiently.

"Where are we going?" I demanded.

"Upstairs. To my suite. I thought we'd eat there. We've got a lot to talk about, and I don't want to be constantly interrupted by hovering waiters and inquisitive maitres d'hotel."

"I see," I said.

"I made all the arrangements earlier, spread tips all over the place so I could have everything set up just right. Come along. If I get out of hand, you can slug me."

I

"Don't tiiink I wouldn't," I warned.

"This is going to be a business dinner, Dana."

"Just so that's understood," I told him.

He led me up two flights of stairs and then along the third-floor hallway, stopping in front of the door to his suite. I had never been to his suite before. He unlocked the door and ushered me into a sitting room done in shades of blue, gray and purple, a deep blue carpet covering the floor, slightly worn gray silk on the walls, the sofa and matching armchairs upholstered in a rich purple velvet. Gray silk drapes hung at the window, plump mauve and gray silk pillows were piled on the sofa, and a small crystal chandelier hung over a table set for two, candlelight gleaming on china and fine silver and the elegant crystal glasses. Beside it stood a cart piled with silver-covered dishes and a silver bucket with a bottle of champagne nestling in ice.

"Very fancy," I observed.

"You were expecting beer and a sandwich?"

"I—I don't know what I was expecting."

"This is a celebration dinner. Lx)ok, would you mind if I slipped out of this jacket? I'd like to be comfortable."

"Go right ahead," I told him.

He smiled at me and stepped through a doorway into the adjoining bedroom, returning a few moments later with a glossy black satin dressing robe over his black trousers and white shirt. The robe had gray satin lapels and cufi's. He was tightening the gray satin sash as he entered, and he looked so wonderfully appealing I felt a tightness in my throat, weakness in my knees and wrists. I could feel the familiar honied warmth stirring below as well and I tried valiantly to ignore it, to remain cool and remote. He gazed at me with those gray-flecked green eyes. A grin spread on that wide slash of mouth. His hair was tousled. This is going to be a business dinner, I reminded myself, holding onto the back of one of the chairs. I feared my knees might actually give way.

"Let's see—what have we here?" Jason said, removing one of the silver covers from a dish. "Ah, scallops and mushrooms, cooked in white wine sauce. And here—giant prawn on a nest of wild rice, with champagne-butter sauce. I didn't know which you'd prefer, so I ordered both. You like prawn?"

"I love prawn. Scallops, too."

"There's also broccoli and baby carrots and, for dessert, cream and chocolate gateaux, which, I am told, have seven layers with a delicate cherry paste between each layer, whipped cream on top."

"You want me to leave this room looking like Carmelita?"

"I want you to leave this room completely sated." he said in that light, scratchy, utterly enchanting voice. "Champagne?"

"I—I'm not very good with champagne," I confessed. "It goes straight to my head."

"Live dangerously," he said, uncorking the bottle.

Ice rattled and tinkled as he lifted the botde out of the silver bucket. He removed gold foil and carefully twisted wire and the cork flew out, popping loudly. I jumped. He poured fizzling amber liquid into the two tall crystal glasses and brought one of the glasses to me. Our fingers touched as he handed me the glass. He smiled again, a smile that managed to be both boyish and wicked. I loved that slightly crooked nose. I longed to touch it. I longed to trace the quirky slant of diose dark black eyebrows with my fingertip. The honied warmth was spreading, sweet torment in my blood. It had been so long, so very long ... I took a generous sip of champagne. Jason placed his hands on my bare shoulders and helped me into the chair, his fingers pressing heavily yet gently into my flesh.

"Sit. Relax. You're my guest. I'll serve you."

The fingers still pressed and I wanted to arch my back like a cat. I was trembling inside now. I took another generous sip of champagne. Jason moved around the table, the long skirt of his dressing robe making soft, silken music. He began to uncover the rest of the dishes, humming quietly to himself as he ladled food onto our plates. Heavenly smells wafted on the air. The food was steaming hot, looked delicious. I couldn't eat a bite. My throat was too tight. I sipped more champagne. Jason sat down across from me and looked at me with those marvelous eyes and slowly lifted his own glass.

"To The Quadroon,'' he said.

"To—to The Quadroon,'' I echoed. "It—it's a wonderful play, Jason. It's touching and true and very, very moving, but—"

"But?"

"I don't see how it could possibly be produced—at least not here in the South."

"It's going to be produced," he told me. "In Atlanta. In September, at the National Theater."

"They-"

"There was some resistance—quite a lot of resistance, in fact—but the managers of the theater felt pretty much the way you do about the play, touching, moving and so on. They realize it will be controversial—extremely controversial—but Atlanta prides itself on its sophistication and likes to believe it's every bit as advanced as New York. The managers finally agreed to let The Quadroon open at the National in September, to run as long as the public decides it shall. The National, as I'm sure you know, is the Mecca of every theatrical company in the South. Only the finest productions are allowed to grace its hallowed stage."

"That—it's wonderful, Jason, but—"

"Due to the highly controversial nature of the piece, the worthy managers wisely refuse to put a penny of their own money into the production, will, instead, merely collect an exorbitant fee for every week the play occupies their highly expensive boards. It's going to cost a fortune to mount the right production."

"You don't have a fortune," I reminded him.

"Alas, that's all too true," he agreed. "However, Robert Courtland does have a fortune, and he's going to finance the entire production."

"Robert Courtland?"

"Chap I met in the hotel bar in Atlanta. Businessman. Lumber. Cotton. God knows what else. Divides his time between Atlanta and Natchez, where he owns a palatial mansion and, I understand, half the real estate in Natchez-Under-the-Hill. He's quite interested in the drama and we had several drinks together and I told him about the play and he asked to read it. I really didn't expect anything to come of it, of course, but—a potential backer is a potential backer, and you never know. The next day he had his lawyer draw up a contract and, when I signed it, gave me a generous check to start things rolling. He wants a first-class production—first-class all the way."

Jason reached for the champagne bottle and refilled my glass, which I had emptied as we talked. A smile was playing on his lips, and he looked extremely pleased with himself, like . . . like a little boy revealing a particularly delightful secret. For all

his bravado and bossiness, for all his theatrical posturing, there was much of the little boy in him. Deep sensitivity as well, I thought, yet he was undeniably virile, as masculine as canvas and incredibly appealing. I watched the smile curling lightly on those lips and wondered how they would feel caressing my own.

I took another very large sip of champagne. It was delicious and didn't seem to be affecting me at all. The candles glowed, making a wann golden haze in the air. The tension I had felt earlier seemed to vanish, but it had nothing to do with the champagne, I was certain of that. The tension was gone, but the warmth still spread through my body like thick, sweet honey, and the sound of his voice, that marvelously unique voice, was curiously titillating.

"This prawn is delicious," he said, "and the wild rice has a wonderful flavor—I suppose it's the champagne-butter sauce they poured over it. Great meal."

"Yes," I murmured.

"We'll spend the summer in Atlanta—the entire company, sans Carmelita, of course. It'll take the entire summer to get the production ready, sets and costumes, blocking everything out, rehearsing. I'll probably be impossible to live with. I want perfection in every detail, and I'll probably drive you all without mercy.''

"You probably will," I agreed.

"You really should eat something, Dana. More champagne? You're sure you want another glass? There are parts for everyone. Billy will play Travis and Bart and Ollie will play his parents and Laura will be a perfect Lenore. The guy who appears in the last scene, the one who brings Janine diamonds as she's getting ready for the Quadroon Ball—I'm going to build that up for Michael. It'll still be small, he won't be a leading man, but I doubt he'll complain as long as he can be close to Laura. Chap's hopelessly smitten with her."

"They're having a glorious time," I said, and my voice sounded peculiar, as though it were coming from a long way. "Laura says I need a bonbon," I added.

Jason gave me a look, arched one brow and helped himself to more rice. I toyed with my champagne glass. It was almost empty again.

"Jessie presents a problem, of course," he continued, "but I'm determined to use a real Negro. Courtland was telling me

about a small theater in New Orleans where free people of color give performances for their kind. Some of the people are extremely gifted, I understand. I intend to go to New Orleans and check it out—I'll find my Jessie, I'm sure of it, and I'll have real Negroes for Rufus and the boys, too,"

' 'Will—will the public accept that?''

"We'll make 'em accept it. These scallops are fabulous. I didn't realize I was so hungry. Eat your carrots, Dana. I warn you in advance that I'm going to be very, very hard on you. You're going to give the performance of a lifetime as Janine, even if I have to beat it out of you.''

"You—you want me to play Janine?"

"Of course I do, you silly bitch. Why do you think I wanted you to read the play right off? I wrote it for you."

"You wrote it for we?"

"That's what I said. No, I don't think you need any more champagne. Oh hell, there's just a little left in the bottle, you might as well have it. Do you remember the talk we had on the verandah after you wowed the paying customers in your first performance? After you slugged Carmelita and I had to spend hours calming the trollop down? You told me some of my lines were very clever and on occasion some of my scenes were genuinely touching but most of the situations were wildly contrived—Jesus! What a lippy little thing you were. I wanted to smack you in the mouth. Almost did, too."

"I—I probably deserved it."

"Then you added you had the feeling I could write a real play if I really wanted to. I agreed with you. I told you I had been toying with an idea and you asked me why I hadn't written it and—I knew the time had come. I knew I had found the perfect woman to bring my Janine to life. You've been my inspiration, Dana. Every line I wrote-1 was thinking of you. I wanted to please you. I wanted to show you what I could do."

"I'm—touched."

"I wanted to show you I wasn't just a noisy scamp. I wanted to show you I had real stufi'in me. I wanted to—oh hell, I happen to be in love with you, dammit, and—"

"You're in love with me?"

"Of course I am."

I stood up. I wasn't terribly steady on my feet. I gripped the back of my chair with one hand and gave him a disdainful look.

"You—you are just saying that," I informed him, carefully enunciating each word. Was my voice slightly slurred? "You— you just got me up here so you could ply me with champagne and get me drunk and have your way with me. I think that is perfectly despicable.''

"Get you drunk?" He stood up, too, outraged. "You certainly didn't need any help from me. You've been guzzling down that champagne like the town lush ever since I opened the bottle."