One Night With You (14 page)

Desi wasn't quite sure which scene this was or where in the movie it would eventually belong. But then, she was never fully certain of where any of the scenes belonged. And she was always amazed at the actors' ability to keep the scenes straight in their own minds. Nothing was ever shot in sequence—or rarely ever—and it must take intense concentration, she thought, to summon up the proper emotions when, in one scene, you were supposed to be fighting with your lover and in the very next you were meeting him for the first time.

But then, that wasn't her problem, Desi thought absently, her mind still on other things, as she watched the two actors continuing their scene as quarreling lovers.

"He looks exactly like my Richard used to when he got angry," Dorothea said softly from behind her. "Exactly. Gives me goose bumps just to watch him."

"He's going to be angry for real when he sees you standing out here in the rain again," Desi warned her. She turned briefly toward the older woman, taking her arm with the intention of walking her back toward the trailer.

"Ah, now that
really
gives me goose bumps," Dorothea whispered, and Desi's head whipped around to focus again on the quarreling lovers.

It gave her goose bumps, too—or something, anyway, she thought as her stomach curled into a fierce, tight knot of what she stubbornly refused to acknowledge as jealousy.

Jake, or rather Richard—he
is
playing Richard, she reminded herself—had ended the quarrel by grabbing Audrey roughly by the shoulders and dragging her to him, his dark head bending to subdue her with a masterful kiss. The kiss seemed to go on for an endless time, Desi thought. Audrey-Dorothea struggled against it at first, beating against his shoulders with her clenched fists and then, slowly, she melted against him and, finally, her arms wound themselves tightly around his neck in total surrender.

Every woman on the set sighed rapturously, as if she was the woman in his arms—those on the crew as well as the onlookers behind the police barricade. At that very minute he could have made love to any one of them, Desi most definitely included.

Stupid, stupid, stupid
, she berated herself.
It could have been you, for real. It could have been you loving him now in his trailer if you hadn't been so concerned about the might-have-beens. What he might think, might feel.

"Cut," yelled the assistant director.

The two actors drew apart slowly, appearing reluctant to part. Desi watched, stricken with jealousy but unable to look away as they stood there still clasped in each other's arms. Then Jake grinned at Audrey and Desi saw his lips move.

"Good girl," he said approvingly to his female star. "Great scene," and then began to move with her, his arm still around her shoulders, toward the trailer.

He looked up at the group that suddenly surrounded him. "That'll be it for today, kids," he said.

Behind Desi, Dorothea began to sneeze again.

"Come on," Desi said, watching Jake escort Audrey to her trailer. "That's it for today. Let's get you back to your hotel before you catch your death," she said sternly to the older woman, turning away so that she wouldn't have to see whether he went in with Audrey or not.

By the time they had gathered up their things and driven to the hotel, it was obvious that Dorothea was in no condition to be left alone. Her face was flushed with fever, her eyes were red and watery, her nose was stuffy, and she had developed a nasty sounding cough to go along with the sneezing.

"Haven't you got a thermometer?" asked Desi, standing in the middle of the plush hotel room, hands on her hips in an attitude of half-amused exasperation.

"Never needed one," Dorothea croaked.

"Well, sit down right there." Desi pushed her gently onto the bed and then rummaged around until she found a suitcase. Efficiently she began folding clothes into it. "You're coming home with me. And don't argue—" she held up a slim hand "—it won't do you any good. I'm not leaving you here alone," she said firmly. "A hotel room is no place to be sick. You need hot tea and aspirin and lots of tender loving care. And you're most certainly not going to get it from the hotel maid."

Dorothea tried feebly to argue, but she was feeling sicker by the minute and in the end made no more protests as Desi summoned a bellboy to deal with the luggage while she bundled Dorothea into her car.

Teddie came out to the foyer when they pulled up in front of the dove-gray Victorian on California Street.

"Teddie—" Desi performed hurried introductions "—this is Dorothea Heller. Teddie Moffet, my landlord."

"
The
Dorothea Heller?" Teddie exclaimed. "The
Devil's Lady
?"

For once Dorothea was silent and allowed Desi to answer for her. "The very same," she said as they brushed past him to hurry up the stairs. "You'll have to excuse us now though, Teddie. Dorothea has come down with a nasty cold, and I want to get her straight to bed." She paused on the landing, leaning over the carved stair rail. "I'll be down to get Stephanie just as soon as I've got Dorothea settled in, okay?"

"Sure thing, Desi." Teddie disappeared back into his apartment as Desi hustled Dorothea into hers.

"This way," she said, leading Dorothea toward her own bedroom. "Bathroom's right here. Fresh towels are in that cupboard. Now you get yourself into that bed, pronto, okay? I'm going to fix you something to eat."

"Anything but chicken soup," Dorothea called after her in a feeble attempt at humor.

Desi returned to the bedroom in a surprisingly few minutes to find Dorothea snuggled down under the blue-and-white quilt, coughing into a lace-edged handkerchief. She settled the footed tray on the bed securely over Dorothea's knees. No chicken soup, as requested, but a tempting light supper of fluffy scrambled eggs, toasted English muffins with blackberry jam and a small pot of hot fragrant tea. All very attractively served on delicate rose-strewn china with a pale-blue linen napkin tucked under the fork.

"Open," Desi ordered then, popping a thermometer into the older woman's mouth before she could protest.

Dorothea glared at her silently.

"Who's Stephanie?" she asked as soon as Desi removed the thermometer.

"One hundred one," said Desi, ignoring the question. "Take these." She handed Dorothea two little white pills and a larger orange one.

"What are they?" Dorothea's voice was faintly suspicious.

"Aspirin and vitamin C. They won't hurt you." She stood over her reluctant patient, watching to make sure that the pills were taken.

"Who's Stephanie?" Dorothea repeated obstinately when she had swallowed the pills.

Desi glanced down at the woman on the bed and sighed. She'd have to tell her. There was no way to hide it now. Besides, she was tired of hiding it, tired of never being able to show off pictures of Stephanie or brag about her daughter on the set like other proud parents because Jake might see them. Sick and tired.
Must be my day for it
, Desi thought with a flash of humor.

Stephanie's my daughter," she told Dorothea, her voice full of unconscious pride.

The older woman's mouth dropped open and the cup of tea nearly slipped from her fingers.

For once I've actually succeeded in shocking her
, Desi thought with perverse pleasure.

Dorothea recovered herself quickly. "I didn't know you'd been married," she said with admirable calm.

Desi sat down on the edge of the bed. "I haven't," she said, "and before you ask, I'm not married now. I'm not engaged or going steady or living with anybody either. That's all I'm going to say on the subject. And I'd appreciate it if you didn't say anything else, to
anyone
, either. Clear?"

Dorothea nodded. "Quite clear," she said and picked up a toasted muffin. "Am I allowed to ask how old she is?"

"Yes, of course. Stephanie's almost four months."

Dorothea was silent for a moment, chewing on her muffin. "That's her?" Her sharp black eyes indicated the framed picture on the nightstand. Desi nodded. "A very pretty baby," Dorothea said at last. "Looks remarkably like you."

"Thank you." Desi jumped up from the bed. "If you have everything you need for a few minutes, I'll go down to Teddie's and get her." She caught the speculative look on Dorothea's face. "Teddie is my landlord, Dorothea, and my baby-sitter. He works at home," she explained easily. "The creative half of an interior-design business—and he's crazy about Stephanie. But that's all he is. Okay?"

"Certainly," Dorothea said a bit huffily, "I never thought he was anything else." She chuckled. "I could see
immediately
that you're not his type."

Desi grinned and hurried out of the room, making a quick stop in the bathroom to wash her hands before going to get her daughter. She was always so eager to see her baby at the end of the day. To find out what miraculous new changes had taken place. She was acutely aware of how fast Stephanie was growing and of how much she had already missed by being away from her for most of the day. But she loved her job, too, and she knew that she made a much better mother for Stephanie because she had something interesting and fulfilling to do during the day. Besides, someone had to make a living for them. Still, she reflected, it was hard.

"She's been an angel, as usual," bragged Teddie, bundling Stephanie up as if she would be traveling across town instead of just going upstairs.

Desi smiled lovingly down at the baby in her arms, and the tight ball of misery that had been forming inside her seemed to melt. Here was her salvation, her daughter, the tiny being who made everything worthwhile, everything better.

"Hello, darling." She kissed the silky cheek of her child, nuzzling the tender folds of the baby-scented neck. "Mommie missed you today."

She looked up. "Thanks, Teddie," she said, and impulsively she reached out to touch his arm. "I can't tell you how much I appreciate everything you're doing for us. How grateful I am for your friendship. You know if there's
anything
I can do for you, you only have to ask."

"Well, there
is
something," Teddie said slowly.

"Anything," she said eagerly. Teddie would not allow her to pay him anything for his loving care of Stephanie. "I'm home all day anyway," he'd said when she tried to make some sort of financial arrangement with him. He had accepted a new ficus tree, though, and she'd bought him the latest Pavarotti album as a surprise gift, but that was hardly enough, Desi thought.

"I'd like to meet Dorothea Heller. I just
loved
reading
Devil's Lady
," he gushed.

"Oh, sure. She'll probably be in bed for a few days with this cold, but as soon as she's better you and Larry can come up for dinner, okay? I'll make Mexican." She headed up the stairs with Stephanie in her arms. "I'll let you know when," she promised.

Chapter 8

The dinner party was a complete success, as Desi had been sure it would be. Dorothea and Teddie turned out to be sisters under the skin—so to speak—and had a truly marvelous time topping each other's outrageous stories. That they had little regard for the strict truth or the reputation of their victims only made it more fun. Desi found herself laughing until the tears flowed and she had collapsed weakly onto the floor in front of the fireplace. Even the quieter Larry had lost most of his reticence under the spell of Dorothea's warm charm—and the cold bubbling champagne that she insisted on buying as her contribution to the dinner party. She had overruled Desi's suggestion that a good Mexican beer, like Dos Equis, would go better with the planned menu.

"Nonsense," was Dorothea's characteristic reply. "Champagne goes with everything," she said, and ordered a whole case of the stuff.

"There's only going to be the four of us," Desi tried to tell her when she came home from the set that evening.

"Well, we don't have to drink it all tonight, dear girl," Dorothea said reasonably. "Put some in your orange juice tomorrow morning." She skillfully opened a bottle and poured some into a fragile, etched wineglass. "Here, take this into the bath with you. It will get you in the mood for the party. And wear something pretty," she ordered, "not those old jeans of yours." She looked very festive herself in a heavy black satin caftanlike dress—a Halston, Desi thought—and, of course, it was adorned by all of her magnificent rubies and the snowy crown of her braided hair.

So Desi took her champagne with her into the bathroom and sipped at it as she bathed and powdered and perfumed and dressed herself, as ordered, in something pretty. A "lounging outfit" put together from special finds in local secondhand shops. Satiny, loose-fitting pants with an elastic waistband and a tiny camisole-style top that, she was sure, had once been a pair of pajamas belonging to a slinky siren of the twenties or thirties. The material was a tissue-thin silk, and the color was the pale lavender of an orchid. Over this she added a floating, knee-length kimono wrap in a delicious shade of strawberry sherbet, delicately embroidered with a single exotic flower on the back, and more flowers scattered randomly down one sleeve.