Love's Last Chance (18 page)

He and Elsa attracted attention from the
media when they dined in expensive restaurants. She flashed the
jewelry he gave her at every premiere. She was a good addition for
a wealthy, successful producer.
They’d laugh at Dorrie, with her
simple tastes and shy ways. She’d never have been a real movie
star.
He shook his head and chuckled at his own naiveté.
What made me think I could have molded her into an Elsa? I was a
fool.

On the way to the parking lot, he thought
about how much Dorrie was like Laurel.
I didn’t notice it until
she mentioned it on the plane.
He’d never admit to her that she
was right about him. When she had broken her ankle, he had been
terrified she’d take the end of her career the same way Laurel did.
And he was a coward, so he left her, dumped her so he wouldn’t feel
responsible or have to face her devastation at giving up her
lifelong dream.

Shame filled him at the thought.
I gave
her money, helped her get back on her feet.
But in his heart,
he knew those acts had been to assuage a guilty conscience. The
truth was—he had deserted her when she needed him most.

Now she wasn’t part of the plan, his great
scheme to be the biggest and the best. He wanted to be mentioned in
the same breath as Steven Spielberg, Rob Marshall, Robert Zemeckis,
George Lucas, and Martin Scorcese.
Hustle and Dance
was a
great opportunity, although he wasn’t the only producer on the
film. He planned to hog as much of the credit for the movie as he
could.
After all, I’m doing more work than anyone else.

Learning everything there was to know about
musicals was a top priority. While Spielberg and Lucas had their
niche, Gunther had decided to make his mark in big, successful
musicals—a challenging specialty as the market for that type of
film was much smaller than for sci fi and action films. He’d
studied everything Rob Marshall had done on
Chicago.
Now, it
would be Gunther’s turn.

After his own intelligence and ability, his
next greatest asset would be the right woman by his side. Although
Dorrie had a small piece of his heart—perhaps the only piece
left—Elsa was the woman to play the part of Mrs. Gunther Quill.
While she wasn’t as good in bed as Dorrie, Gunther figured his
outside
activities
would supplement any sexual frustration
in his relationship with Elsa.
She’ll be fine as long as I have
a few adventures on the side to spice things up. I’ll stay with
her, even
if only for a few years, until I reach the
top.

He planned to find a younger woman when he
had it made. Then he’d have children to pass his wealth and legacy
to, and to provide the love he lacked in his life.
Only children
love you unconditionally.
Elsa and he had already made a pact
to have no offspring so they could focus on their careers. Little
did she know, that pact had a time limit. Even at fifty, he could
still have children, and he intended to, hopefully before then.

His mind turned back to Dorrie as he got
into his red
Ferrari
and started the motor. The soft purr
made him smile.
This car is the most prestigious in Hollywood.
Another Gunther Quill step toward top-ten producer image.
He
had proposed to her simply to see her reaction.

He was surprised she hadn’t turned him down
with more hostility. He never expected her to accept, but now he
was worried.
What if she changes her mind? The plan will be
ruined. Still, to be with her is wonderful. Can’t afford to think
that way if I’m going to be number one.

A sadness he didn’t see coming crept into
his heart. He shrugged his shoulders.
The price of fame and
success? Guess so. Love can come later, if at all.
Struggling a
bit to push thoughts of Dorrie out of his mind, he put the car in
gear and headed toward The Satin Club, the exclusive, private club
where he lunched with powerful men almost every day. While he
drove, his mind drifted back to Dorrie.
What I wouldn’t give for
just one more night with her.

Working night and day at the studio meant
that two weeks flew by in a flash. Dorrie never saw the light of
day as she was squirreled away indoors from sunrise to way after
dark. Rehearsals, workouts to keep everyone limber between shots,
meetings with the director and even Gunther—who was all
business—kept her hopping. She barely had time to eat or sleep, let
alone think about the three men who would be calling her, if all
went well.

Weary long before the day was finished,
Dorrie took a break, hoping herbal tea would renew her energy and
spirit. Too keyed up to sit still, she walked from the craft table
to the ladies room and back again. The whistle of the kettle caught
her attention. She poured a cup and sank down in a comfortable
chair. After one sip, she was interrupted by the ding from her cell
phone. Dreading an irate message from Gunther or another change in
the schedule from the assistant director, she reluctantly cast her
weary eyes on the screen, only to be pleasantly surprised.

She’d received a text from Rick.

You’re working? On my way to the Hamptons.
Call me tonight, I’ll be up late.

Love,

Rick

Love, Rick?
She smiled.
He’s the
first to respond. Does that mean he’s anxious to connect? Love?
Her energy increased, and she attacked the exercises with renewed
vigor. When her ankle began to ache, she sat on the sidelines and
supervised the dancers.

A lightness filled her heart. The growing
fear that none of the men would call was now alleviated. Even if
she didn’t hear from Archer or Johnny, at least Rick called. That
must mean he wanted some sort of relationship with her. She
couldn’t keep a grin off her face and raced home after rehearsal to
call him.

“Hey, Dorrie.”

“Hi, Rick. I’m calling like you asked.”
Exhausted, nervous energy raced through her body. She paced in her
small apartment, too jumpy and excited to sit still.

“Right. This is the two-week mark.”

She waited, but the silence grew longer, so
she jumped in. “Have you thought about what we discussed?”

“I have.”

“And?” she prompted.

“Oh, you’re waiting for me. I get it. It’d
be great having you back in New York, and yes, I’d love to see you
more often.”

Dorrie’s smile melted off her face.
What
does that mean?
“What do you mean, more often?”

“As many days during the week as you want to
see me.”

“But the weekends?” She bit her lip.

“I’m still in a house in the Hamptons and a
ski house in Vermont.”

“So, for about six months a year, you’d be
away on weekends?”

“That’s about right.”

“No room for me there?”

“Shares have belonged to the same people for
seven, eight years. I don’t see anyone giving them up.”

“But you wouldn’t take me?” She bit her
lip.

“There isn’t room.”

“We couldn’t share your bed?”

“It’s a twin. I’m six two, Dorrie. Besides,
I share a room with Gordon.”

About to speak, she hesitated and clamped
her teeth down on her forefinger. She walked the length of the
apartment twice.

“Dorrie? You still there?”

“I’m here.” Weariness took over, and she ran
out of steam, plopping down into an overstuffed chair.

“Well? Was that what you were looking
for?”

“Not exactly. That’s what we had five years
ago.” She began to massage her ankle.

“We didn’t see each other more than once a
week back then. I’m hoping to take up most of your weekdays when
you come back. That’s different.”

“It is.” A calm settled over her as she
understood what he was offering. “Would you be dating anyone in the
houses on weekends?”

This time it was his turn to be silent. “I
don’t know. Hadn’t thought about that. Maybe, but maybe not.”

“Oh.”

“This is really hard, Dorrie. A lot of ‘what
ifs.’ I don’t have the answers. Why don’t you come back, and we’ll
work it out, deal with the reality instead of a hypothetical?”

“Are you sure you want me to?” She rested
her foot on the coffee table.

“Oh, baby, do I. You’re so hot. I’m falling
for you, and I never thought I would.”

“Really? Never?”

“Well…I mean. Uh…I didn’t see myself falling
in love for another couple of years.”

“I changed your plans?” She knew she was
painting him into a corner but kept it up.

“Yeah, you did. You’re special.”

Tears came to her eyes.
I want someone to
think I’m special, special enough to give up dates with other
women.

“That’s sweet, Rick.” Her voice
trembled.

“You think about it. I’ve got to go, it’s
late here, and we start early in the summer. Love you, babe.” And
he was gone in a flash, before she could say anything.

“Yeah. Things start early. Your ‘other’
life.”

Dorrie put down her phone and crawled into
bed. She stared at the ceiling.
Is what he can give enough?
Should I give up the chance to do a series on a ‘maybe’ from Rick?
We get along so great. I don’t know. Why is this so hard?
She
tossed, coming up with various scenarios of life with Rick in New
York.

Unable to get comfortable, she punched her
pillow, tried lying on her side, but still sleep wouldn’t come. All
the while, her mind raced from idea to idea. She tried to weigh
their sexual chemistry against Rick’s lack of total commitment.
Each time the equation didn’t balance.

She looked up at the moon, shining in her
window. The vision was so romantic. “Don’t mock me, Mr. Moon.”
Can’t get lost in the romance of it all. “
I mean it. I want
to be special. I have to be the Saturday night date. Or I’m gone.”
A bit of resolve entered her heart as exhaustion took over. She
rolled over and was asleep within seconds.

* * * *

Dorrie awoke feeling sluggish. One peek at
the clock told her she was late.
Shit, it’s five thirty!
She
bounded out of bed and threw on her clothes. Her pulse went out of
control when her old car wouldn’t start right away.
Gotta
replace this tin bucket. When?
There wasn’t time to shop for a
car, and she still hadn’t been paid everything yet, so she’d have
to wait.

When she scurried through the studio door,
Gunther shot her an angry look while pointing to his watch. She
shrugged.

“Dancers! Front and center. Warm ups,” she
hollered as she grabbed a bagel and coffee from the catering
buffet. She took a seat and barked instructions as she put them
through their paces. Gunter wandered over.

“So, are we going to shoot this scene
today?” she asked, looking up at him.

“Plan to. But that’s up to the director and
that damn camera!” His face clouded.

“Ah, the problems of a producer.” She shook
her head slowly.

“Save your sympathy,” he said, coldly.

“Just a joke.”

“I’m not in a joking mood today. Are the
dancers ready?”

“Yep.”

“Good. One thing off my list. Amy!” He
yelled, looking around for his assistant. “Where the hell is that
girl? Never around when I need her. Amy!”

“Easy, Gunther. She’s the fifth assistant
you’ve had this year.”

“And each one is worse than the one before.
Amy! Dammit, where are you?”

“You’re lucky none of them has come in with
a shotgun and blown you away.”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re the worst boss I’ve ever seen.”

A mousy girl with stringy brown hair
appeared as if by magic. “Amy! Thank God. Where the hell have you
been?”

“The ladies room?”

“Stop drinking so much water. I need you. No
more bathroom breaks. Where’s that list I gave you this
morning?”

Amy pulled out a pad from her bag and
grabbed a pen. “Here.”

“Good. Cross off ‘dance scene.’ Now let’s
check out that camera…” Gunther strode away mumbling to Amy, who
scurried after him. Dorrie couldn’t stifle a chuckle.
Some
things never change.

She stood up and did some stretches and
bends before joining the others as they rehearsed the routine. At
break time, she checked her cell and found a text from Archer.

Don’t know best time to call. So sent
text.

Please call whenever you can.

Love,

Archer

The assistant director strode over. “You’re
next.”

Dorrie put her phone away and called the
dancers over. She led them to the set, and as they took their
places, she turned her thoughts to his message.
Love, Archer?
Does he mean that, or is he being polite—as only Arch can be. No
time now.

Hoping a few quick breaths would quell the
rapid beating of her heart, she forced Archer Canfield out of her
thoughts and focused on the scene. Once everyone was in place, she
heard muttering and turned to see Gunther in a huddle with a
cameraman, who was pulling at his beard.

“God damn fucking camera!” He bellowed and
strode off the set. Gunther turned toward her. “Take ten,” he said,
before following the angry technician.

“Break!” Dorrie said in a loud voice and the
troupe scattered, grabbing water bottles and sinking down
cross-legged on the floor in small groups.

Gunther returned, his arm around the
shoulders of the cameraman. He was speaking softly to the man,
walking slowly. The man was nodding, his hands jammed in his jeans’
pockets. “They’re sending a new camera,” Gunther called to Dorrie.
She shot him a questioning look. “Won’t be here for at least two
hours.”

The dancers groaned, as did Dorrie. She
moved to a private place and picked up her phone.
Time to call
Archer.
She held her breath and dialed.

“Dorrie, darling!”