The Jewels of Tessa Kent (12 page)

“ ‘Establishment’—I imagine that’s a highfalutin word she used, or did she learn it from that degenerate, that pervert, Roddy Fensterwald?”

“Agnes! What does he have to do with her moving out? I disapprove totally of what he is, but I believe that he sincerely wants the best for Teresa—he’s devoted to her—he’s used all his skills to advance her career. How could she possibly have won an Oscar without his casting her and directing her?”

“Without me she’d have no career at all,” Agnes said savagely. “And as for Fensterwald, who was responsible for that degrading piece of pornography we saw last night?”

“Now you know why I wouldn’t allow you to take her to New York to be seen by talent agents when she was twelve, Agnes. I remember how frustrated and resentful you were then, but I knew that beauty is always exploited, even that of a twelve-year-old, and I prevented it as long as I could.”

“So you approve of
Gemini Summer?
”

“Of course not! But it’s out of our hands. We have to accept that, no matter how much we hate it.”

“Damn you, Sandor! For a lifetime you insist that everything in our lives be as strictly Catholic as if you were the Pope’s brother, and then, when you see Teresa becoming rich and famous, you suddenly turn into a philosopher! She’s a sinner, Sandor, a sinner, have you forgotten? And she’ll sin again once she lives in that ‘establishment’ she talked you into.”

“I’ve forgiven the sin, Agnes, I’ve told you that before. Once the Church of Christ forgave her, once she received the Sacrament of Reconciliation, who was I not to forgive her?” Sandor asked, trying to keep his temper. “Since that time, Teresa has never been alone with a young man, as far as either of us knows. Her ‘dates’ are all arranged by the publicity people and she’s always in a group. She’s never been kissed except on the set with dozens of crew members watching. I consider her chaste, even if her film wardrobe was disgusting. But you’ve never forgiven, never forgotten, have you?” he said, his voice trembling with anger. “You’ve been clinging to your anger for years, holding and nourishing that anger in your breast, and that, Agnes, is most clearly a sin in the eyes of the Heavenly Father.”

“Don’t you try to tell me how to live in the eyes of God,” she shouted, flooded with fury at the lofty, holier-than-thou voice in which he spoke, which always showed her so clearly that he considered her a less
devout Catholic than he. “I’m the one who preserved our family’s standing, I’m the one who figured out what to do about Maggie, I take care of her every day of every year. I had the vision to work and plan to give Teresa her chance, what would she be without me but another single mother with a kid to bring up …?”

“Oh but you’re proud, Agnes. You constantly commit the sin of presumption, you think you can save your soul without God’s help.… Have you ever prayed to stop being angry at our daughter? Have you ever confessed that anger to a priest? Of course you haven’t, because it’s still with you and you can’t let yourself give it up. Agnes, you’re consumed by the deadly sin of envy. You envy our daughter her success. I see it on your face every day. Envy and pride, two of the deadly sins, Agnes, the mortal sins, the capital sins. Can you deny them?”

“You know nothing about me and you never have,” she retorted, drawing herself up in rage and scorn. “But you, Sandor, have you looked at yourself? Where are your precious spiritual values now? Drowned in the sin of covetousness, that’s where. Not for yourself but for your daughter. You’ve become greedy for her, willing for her to flaunt herself in any piece of trash if it pays well enough.”

“ ‘Covetousness,’ ” he said slowly, shock on his fine features, “covetousness.… I hadn’t thought, but perhaps you’re right. I hadn’t seen that in myself, but yes, it’s not impossible … I’ll discuss it with Father Vincent tomorrow, face-to-face in the rectory, the way we do now. ”

“Enjoy yourself, Sandor. Split hairs like a couple of cardinals. Perhaps Father Vincent will give you a little red biretta for your qualms of conscience. I’m going upstairs. I’ll sleep in Maggie’s room.”

“Brian,” Sandor Horvath said to his friend, Brian Kelly, Maggie’s godfather. “We’ve come to know each
other pretty well in the past few years, wouldn’t you say?”

“Sure thing, Sandy. I’m only sorry that our wives haven’t managed to hit it off better. When that happens it keeps couples from seeing as much of each other as I’d like.”

“But at least you and I don’t have that problem. I look forward to our lunches more than you realize.”

“Same here, Sandy. Is there something wrong? You don’t sound happy at the moment.”

“Nothing wrong, just a favor I’d like to ask you, in your capacity as a godfather.”

“Ask away.”

“I’ve written a letter I’d like to have delivered thirteen years from now, if I’m not around to deliver it myself.”

“Come on, quit kidding.”

“I’m perfectly serious.”

“Delivered to whom?”

“Maggie.”

“You’re not talking about a will?”

“You don’t need a godfather for that, Brian.”

“All right, assuming that you’re not around, which isn’t going to happen, what about Agnes?”

“It doesn’t concern her. It’s between me and Maggie. That’s why you’re the one person I can count on to make sure this letter gets to her, wherever she might be, when she’s eighteen.”

“Give it to me and forget about it, unless you change your mind. I’ll keep it in my safe-deposit box until she’s almost eighteen. It’s not a date I’m likely to forget, is it? And if, God forbid, I’m not around myself, I’ll have arranged for it to be delivered. People with as many kids as I have keep their wills in good shape … every year or so I disinherit another kid. Keeps them on their toes.”

“You’re not curious about what’s in the letter?”

“Of course I am, but I know you wouldn’t go to this trouble if it were something you could tell me.”

“Thank you, Brian, you relieve my mind more tha can tell you.”

“I’m glad to help, Sandy. We all love Maggie, y know. Whenever she comes over to play the kids ca get enough of her. What a funny little doll she is! No let’s order and talk about something important, like
I
golf game.”

Y
esterday, David Lean had told her that Mary Queen of Scots was the first woman known to have played golf, Tessa thought, trying to keep her mind occupied with that bit of trivia. Was the young queen also the first woman to have almost frozen to death in a room of the royal apartments of Edinburgh Castle while waiting for the sun to come from behind a cloud, or would Tessa Kent enjoy that distinction, she wondered? Clad in the elaborate construction of a dressing gown, fit for a nine-months-pregnant queen, with the great necklace of black pearls Mary always wore, and a mound of padding on her belly, Tessa stood motionless, framed by an imposing medieval window. Every rampart and sentinel tower of the castle was penetrated by the chill of hundreds of years of Scottish weather. The castle’s dramatic height above the city exposed it to the wild wind whistling in from the sea.

Tessa, riveted to her mark by the window, from which there was a 270-foot sheer drop down basalt cliffs, told herself firmly that it was a warm afternoon in mid-June of 1566 when no woman of the period, much less a robust, hot-blooded, golfing queen, could possibly
have felt the cold. Alas, she wasn’t royal; she didn’t golf; and her blood must have been thinned by years of exposure to the California climate, Tessa realized, despite her best attempts at time travel. After all, Macbeth had murdered Duncan not far from where she stood and what’s more, she hadn’t been warm, except in bed under two quilts, since the film company had arrived in Scotland.

Behind her she felt the tension of a unified crew praying for the precious rays of light to return, all conversation stilled in anticipation, every technician at the ready, the camera operator ready to roll film as soon as the director spoke. There was no question of her being replaced by her stand-in because of the potential waste of time. There were barely ten seconds left to be shot in this scene as the queen looks through the window into the distance of the Firth of Forth and speculates aloud about the importance of the sex of her anticipated child; but they needed those ten seconds to set the scene for the birth of the baby boy, James VI, who eventually became James I of England, heir to Queen Elizabeth I. Thank God, Tessa thought, for the next two days the script called for her to be in labor with James … that should be warmer work.

She began to shiver, slightly but uncontrollably. She didn’t dare turn her head or move so much as a fingertip, for that would interrupt the continuity of the scene. She could only hope that when the sunlight reappeared, the shivering would stop as she became Mary Queen of Scots again. She should never have allowed her attention to wander during this pause in the work, it was totally unprofessional, she scolded herself. Suddenly Tessa heard the sound of quick footsteps moving toward her and, almost before she could wonder that anyone would dare to move on the set, she was engulfed in a heavy garment, deliciously warm from body heat, held around her tightly and protectively by a man’s strong arms.

“What the hell do you expect from this girl, David?
Death in the line of duty?” a voice shouted as the sun appeared.

“You bloody, bloody fool!” her director screamed. “Take that thing off her and get the hell out of my set, you ass!”

“Can’t,” the strange voice said calmly. “There seems to be a button tangled in her wig.”

“Wardrobe!” someone shouted, and Tessa felt quick, familiar fingers attempting to separate her wig from whatever was enveloping her so comfortingly. She stood as still as a mannequin until the coat was removed.

“Now look at her,” the wardrobe woman cried in dispair. “The wig’s all crooked and her necklace is broken! Hair, props, quickly!”

“Never mind, we’ve lost the light,” David Lean said with immense frustration.

“Shit, I didn’t realize …” the strange voice said.

“If I thought you had, I’d kill you with my bare hands, you crazy son of a bitch. Oh, Tessa, sorry. You can move now. Eddie, tell everyone it’s a wrap for today.”

Tessa turned, expecting to see the intruder being manhandled roughly off the set. Instead, he and Lean were wrapped in a laughing bear hug.

“Next time you do that, Luke, I’m throwing you headfirst through the nearest window.”

“Just keeping an eye on my investment, David. You should really have somebody posted to keep out people like me,” her would-be rescuer replied. “I didn’t know you were shooting; there wasn’t the slightest sound in here.”

“You might have asked yourself why we were all standing around holding our breath, but all you saw was a lady in distress. I expect nothing less of you. Tessa, this is Luke Blake, unfortunately one of my most cherished friends. Luke, this is Tessa Kent.”

“I appreciated feeling warm, even if it was only for a second,” Tessa said, taking the hand he held out to her. It was the single warmest object she’d felt in three
months, she thought, but she couldn’t very well stand there and slip both her hands into its shelter as if it were a muff. Although she’d dearly like to, more than anything she could possibly think of. With her hand in this man’s hand she felt more than warm, she felt safe, she thought in confusion—safe in a way she couldn’t begin to explain, safe in a way she’d never felt before in her entire life.

Unconditional safety was not a state of being but a state of emotion, Tessa realized suddenly, an emotion stronger than any other, and until this very minute, unknown to her. A feeling of amazing discovery was rising in her chest, so powerful that she was afraid she was going to burst into tears. Such a thorough conviction … how was it possible? Her eyes sought Luke Blake’s. Warmth was in them, too, a warmth as powerful as any force of nature, not the physical warmth of his hands but human warmth, telling her that he approved totally of everything about her and always would. His gaze had intelligence and humor, but it was the warmth that was all-important. Luke Blake must be the most likable man in the world. No wonder David Lean had forgiven him for spoiling the shot.

“Here, have my coat back,” Luke Blake said. He was big and burly in his heavy ribbed wool sweater, with dark red, curly hair, cut very short; open, weathered features; a dominant nose; and a most authoritative flash in his blue eyes. He was obviously an urbane man, yet he had the look of someone who spends his life outdoors, Tessa thought, to say nothing of the unmistakably commanding set to his shoulders and his interestingly firm, imperious mouth with amused corners.

“Tessa’s going right down to wardrobe,” the director replied.

“Have it anyway, you don’t need to freeze on the way there,” Blake insisted, helping Tessa carefully into his duffel coat, giving her padded stomach a friendly pat. “Hello, James, you little rotter,” he said. “Never even
protested when Auntie Elizabeth cut off your mother’s head, did you? Kids—always looking out for themselves.”

Australian … why did it take me so long to realize? Tessa wondered as his slight but perceptible accent registered.