Demon Rumm (5 page)

“I’m not going to have another love affair. Not with you. Not with anybody.”

“You sound positive of that.”

“I am.”

“Why? Because you loved your husband?”

“Yes.”

“All right. I’ll buy that. Temporarily. But tell me, what made your relationship with your late husband so special that it ruined you for other men? What was it like being in love with Charles ‘Demon’ Rumm?”

Three

“Read my book.”

“I have,” he replied evenly. “At least the chapters that were made available to the screenwriter.” He lowered his voice. “The book has been promoted as a ‘tell
all.’ I don’t think you’ve told all. I think you’re leaving out some very pertinent information about your relationship with your husband.”

Kirsten removed her napkin from her lap and slapped it on the glass table. “Are you finished?”

“With this subject? No.”

“With dinner.”

“With dinner, yes,” he said, and stood up.

She led him out of the dining room and into one of the spacious living areas. Alice had stacked and lit a fire in the fireplace behind a fan-shaped brass screen. This close to the beach, the evenings were cool enough to have a fire. It was a beautiful addition to the contemporary but cozy room. The shiny tile floor reflected the dancing orange flames.

But Kirsten seemed to regard the fire as a necessity more than an aesthetic contribution. She moved as close to it as she could, as though seeking warmth. Curling into the corner of a plush sofa, drawing her feet up beneath her hips, and hugging one of the bright batik pillows to her breasts, she stared into the flickering firelight.

With no more respect for decorum than he ever showed, Rylan dropped onto the rug in front of the sofa. Lying on his side, he propped himself up on one elbow and stared at Kirsten until his gaze became as warm as the fire.

“Stop looking at me like that,” she said crossly.

“Like what?”

“Like I’m about to start spouting ugly truths like a fountain with rusty water.”

“
Are
there any ugly truths?”

“No.”

“Then why do you get so touchy when we broach the subject?”

“When
you
broach the subject.”

“I want to know what kind of relationship you had with your husband.”

“It was wonderful. But, just for the record, I don’t like your prying into my private life with Charlie.”

He raised one knee and casually swung it back and forth. “I find it terribly interesting that you should say that. If you didn’t want people to know about your private life with him, why did you decide to write the book? Isn’t that a contradiction?”

Even the pillow she clutched to her chest like a shield seemed to expand with her heavy sigh. “Sometimes I wish I hadn’t.”

“Why did you, Kirsten? Money?”

She looked down at him scornfully. “Of course not.”

“Glad to hear it. I wouldn’t have approved. Why then?”

“I wanted to preserve Charlie’s image.”

Rylan sat up, Indian fashion, facing the sofa. “How do you perceive his image?”

“Like everyone else. All-American. Strong. Courageous. Moral. He was a good hero for the country’s youth.”

“You’re referring to the antidrug rallies, the commercials against drinking and driving, and so forth?”

“Yes.”

He knew she wasn’t going to like his next question, but he had to ask it anyway. “Did he do one thing and preach another?”

Her eyes narrowed angrily. “No. He was an honest-to-goodness role model.”

“Okay, I’m sorry. I just have this keen notion that you’re protecting his sterling reputation.”

“It doesn’t need protecting.”

“He had critics, don’t forget. Many thought that he encouraged recklessness. He made stunt flying look so easy that he tempted unqualified, weekend pilots to give it a try.”

Kirsten shook her head. “Every time he was interviewed, he stressed the danger involved. He was a nut for taking every conceivable safety precaution.”

“But he glorified speed. That’s right up the alley of a teenager whose parents are harping for him to slow down in the family Volvo.”

“Speed and gravity were Charlie’s challenges. His point was to let kids know that any obstacle, no matter how seemingly insurmountable, can be overcome if one works at it long and hard enough. He encouraged diligence and determination, the good old American work ethic. He didn’t promote irresponsibility and recklessness. In light of some of the subculture heroes kids have, I think Charlie was a positive influence. I want him to be remembered for that and not for . . . for . . .”

“The accident.”

The softly spoken word hung between them ominously.

Kirsten lowered her head until her chin almost touched her chest. “Yes.”

Rylan scooted over to the wood box and added a log to the fire. Once the screen was back in place, he dusted off his hands and returned to sit near the sofa again. This time, he propped his back against it, placing his shoulder near Kirsten’s knees.

“Other than continuing the legend of Demon . . .” he began, then added, “By the way, there was an argument on the set last week about which sports announcer actually dubbed him with that nickname.”

Kirsten laughed. “Once he got so famous, many claimed to have. The fact is, no one really knows for certain. The story goes that someone said he flew his airplane like a demon out of hell.”

“So some very clever person tacked your last name onto that and, voilà, a play on words.” She nodded. “Okay, where was I? Oh, yeah, why did you write the book?”

“I’ve told you.”

“You’ve told me why you did it for him. To preserve his heroism. Why did you do it for . . . or rather to . . . yourself?”

Rylan regretted having to put her through this. If he thought he could get to the heart of Demon Rumm’s character through articles and photographs and film clips, he would have spared his widow this inquisition. But his intuition, which had been the bane of producers, writers, and directors for years, was telling him that Kirsten was the key to the man behind the all-American smile. If he had to probe her until her spirit was sore, he would. He’d gone to much greater lengths before to research a role.

When he had played a Depression-era bum, he had lived like one for weeks, riding the rails and living hand to mouth. When he had played a football player, he had worked out with the L.A. Rams, sparing himself none of the physical punishment a professional athlete puts himself through. When he played a Polish Jew in a Nazi concentration camp, he had had his head shaved and went without solid food for weeks.

He would take whatever measures were necessary to “walk in the shoes” of the character he was portraying on film. Now he was trying to get into Demon Rumm’s skin through his widow. To all appearances, it was a very thick skin. It was going to be extremely uncomfortable for both of them.

“I had to lay it to rest,” Kirsten said in response to his question. Rylan turned his head slightly to look up at her. She was gazing into the fire. “After the accident, there were so many details to take care of. The National Transportation Safety Board’s investigation of the crash, the funeral.” She shuddered. “It was such a circus. Press everywhere. Wailing fans clamoring to get close to the coffin.”

She covered her face with her hands, dainty hands with a fragile tracery of veins and slender fingers with tapering, manicured nails. Her visible suffering affected him deeply. He ached to touch her and, with some small gesture, express his apology for this necessary lancing of her wounds.

But what could he do? Take her in his arms and hold her as he wanted to? No. She might read pity into that, and he knew she was too proud and independent to want anyone’s pity. Holding her head between his hands and covering her incredibly sad face with kisses was also out of the question. He wouldn’t be able to stop with light, comforting kisses. If he ever touched her lips with his, he would kiss her in the way that counted.

He settled for slipping his hand just beneath her skirt to cover her knee. He felt one tiny reflexive motion, a sudden contraction of muscle, but she allowed his hand to remain on her smooth leg.

She lowered her hands. Her eyelashes were wet, but she wasn’t actually crying. “I felt separated from everything. Removed. I went through the motions, but I wasn’t really there. Do you understand what I mean?”

For answer, he applied slight pressure to her knee. Her skin was as soft as satin. He had to will his fingers to remain still and not caress her.

“America grieved publicly, but I couldn’t,” she said. “I had always resented our high public profile, but never more than after Charlie died. I couldn’t even mourn my husband’s death without it being reported on the eleven o’clock news.”

“Writing the book was a way for you to mourn privately, to bury him, to get it all out of your system.”

She murmured an agreement. “When it’s published, when the movie is released, I want to be done with it. I want to live a private life, to be just plain me. I’ll never forget being Mrs. Charles Rumm. I don’t want to. But I wish everyone else would.”

The silence that followed was broken only by the snapping of the burning logs and, finally, by Alice’s inquiry from the wide, arched doorway. “Kirsten? Would you like coffee served?”

Kirsten looked down at Rylan. He shook his head. “Thank you, but no,” she told the housekeeper. “Go on to bed, Alice. I’ll see you in the morning.”

Alice said good night, then let herself out the front door. Rylan had learned earlier that her apartment was separated from the house by a gravel, shrub-lined path. It wasn’t until after she had left them that he wondered if Alice had noticed his hand resting on Kirsten’s knee, partially covered by her skirt.

Perhaps Kirsten was wondering the same thing because she shifted her legs and sat up straighter. It was as though the demarcation lines on the playing field had become smudged and she had to draw them again, should there be any question of his stepping out of bounds.

“Are you sure you wouldn’t like something?” she asked courteously to cover the awkward movement. “A drink? Dessert?”

“No thanks. What kind of date was Rumm?”

It took her a moment to assimilate his two unrelated statements. “Date?”

“Was he polite, shy, amorous, aggressive, extravagant, a tightwad, what? Tell me about the night you met him.”

“I’m sure you’ve already read that part of my book.”

“I have. But I want more detail than you went into. What was the first thing he said to you?”

“No way.”

“Please, Kirsten. I need—”

“I’m telling you! That’s the first thing he said to me. ‘No way.’ ”

“Ah, so
you
must have been the first to speak to him.” Rylan propped his elbow on the edge of the couch, rested his cheek on his hand, and looked up at her with the grin that had beguiled half the population of the world. “Tell me about it.”

She drew a deep breath. “I had just gotten my master’s degree. I was feeling rather snooty, superior.”

“Nothing’s changed.”

She glared at him, but he was relieved to see that her mouth was twitching with the need to smile. “Most of the men I went out with were academicians. A girl-friend of mine invited me to go with her to a night spot. I knew it was frequented by servicemen and didn’t want to go. But she had met this naval pilot, and he was going to be there that night, and she wanted to go, and I didn’t have anything else to do, so . . .”

“You went,” Rylan said, picking up the story. He extended both hands, palms out, thumbs together, and looked through the square they made as though framing the picture in his mind. “I can just see you. There you are, a pretty, petite lady who felt woefully out of place in a crowd of boozy, bawdy sailors and . . .”

“. . . and after my friend deserted me to dance with this jet pilot, I was sitting alone at the table, trying not to look conspicuous. I noticed this guy across the room.”

A smile broke across her face. A genuine, unguarded, natural, beautiful smile. Rylan’s gut was wrenched by a spasm of jealousy for Charlie Rumm.

She continued. “He was tall, blond, good-looking, broad-shouldered, and he had a smile as arrogant as all get out. It said, ‘Eat your hearts out, girls.’ ”

“And you hated that type,” Rylan said intuitively.

“With a passion. But he wove his way through the crowd over to my table and sat down.”

“How?”

“How?”

“How did he sit down? Did he slide into the chair? Drop into it? What?”

“Actually he turned it around and straddled the seat, then folded his arms across the back of it.”

“Okay, thanks. Pardon the interruption. Go on.”

“Well, he didn’t say a word. He just sat there, wearing this sappy grin and staring at me. I said, ‘Stop staring at me.’ And he said—”

“ ‘No way.’ ” They laughed together. “Then what happened? Did he buy you a drink?”

“He offered. I declined.”

“How cruel.”

Kirsten jumped as though she’d been shot. Her reflective smile was replaced by a look of astonishment. “That’s almost exactly what Charlie said. He pressed both hands against his heart like Romeo and said, ‘You wound me, fair damsel.’ ”

Rylan grinned. “Maybe I’m getting to know him better than I thought. Go on. What happened next?”

“His silliness made me laugh.”

“That was the ice breaker.”

“Yes, and during that weak moment, I agreed to let him buy me a glass of white wine.”

“White wine, huh?” Rylan asked with amusement. “Were you wearing your glasses as you prissily sipped white wine amidst the hard Scotch and beer drinkers?”