No. No. No. She would never go back to being Mrs. Christopher Douglas.
Mary finally fell asleep about four in the morning and three hours later her alarm rang. She felt heavy-eyed and sluggish as she made her way down the path to the dining room. She collected coffee and a muffin from the buffet and sat down at an empty table. There was no sign of Kit.
She finished her coffee and went to get a second cup. When she arrived back at her table it was to find she had company. Eric Lindquist was sitting there, and as she reseated herself he gave her his endearing boyish grin. The Sunshine Kid, Mary thought sourly, and started on her second cup of coffee.
“Have you heard who George snagged to play Gertrude?” he asked enthusiastically.
“No. Who?” She was not in a talkative mood.
“Margot Chandler.” Mary’s eyes widened and he laughed. “I’m not kidding. Dr. O’Connor. Margot Chandler has actually consented to play Hamlet’s mother.”
“She’s too young,” Mary said incredulously.
“Not really. She must be at least forty-five. Well preserved is the proper word for her, I think.”
“Has she ever done any stage work?”
“Not to my knowledge.” His grin widened. “This is definitely a ‘Hollywood Goes Arty’ summer at Yarborough.”
“Kit has played Shakespeare on stage many times,” Mary said astringently and suppressed a sudden urge to smack the handsome young face across from her. There was nothing on earth, worse than a condescending twenty-two-year-old, she decided.
“Actually, I know he has. He had a damn good reputation at drama school—they still talk about him. But I’m certain as hell that Margot Chandler hasn’t ever put her luscious mouth around a Shakespearean phrase.”
“What on earth was George
thinking
of?” Mary asked despairingly.
“Well, he didn’t have a whole lot of time to pick and choose. And apparently La Chandler has decided that her days of playing sexy leading ladies are numbered and so she had better look for a new métier for her talents. I shouldn’t be at all surprised if Liz Taylor’s big hit in
The Little Foxes
galvanized her. And, then, few women would pass up the chance of acting with Chris.” His blue eyes were widely innocent in his suntanned face.
“As his
mother?”
Mary asked ironically. Eric grinned. He rather overdid that boyish smile, she thought cynically, and rose. “I’ll see you in class,” she said.
“Sure thing.” He paused. “Mary,” he added tentatively.
She stopped, turned and looked at him. She had always maintained a carefully formal relationship with all her students. It had been necessary. She was only a few years older than most of them and she was well aware of her own sexual attractiveness. But everyone at the summer school was on a first-name basis and she was here for too short a time for any of the boys to have a chance to become overly familiar. So she smiled briefly at Eric, nodded, and went on her way.
* * * *
Her lecture on the Elizabethan concept of tragedy went very well. The students seemed resigned to the fact that she expected them to work and a few even became quite enthusiastic in a discussion she initiated on the concept of catharsis as it applied to Shakespearean tragedy. After the class was finished they all disappeared in the direction of the theater. Mary’s lecture went from nine to ten-thirty and after that they rehearsed.
Mary took her books back to her cottage and decided to run into town to the drugstore. Accordingly, she got into her car and headed toward the college gates. There didn’t appear to be any reporters around and she drove in a relaxed frame of mind. She did her shopping and was coming out of the store when the now-familiar flash went off. She stared for a moment in angry frustration at the man who was now approaching her.
He had curly brown hair, a crooked nose, and was wearing a shirt that was halfway open, showing what Mary thought was a disgusting amount of hairy chest. She hated men who didn’t button their shirts.
He trained a smile at full tooth power straight at her. “Hi,” he said ingratiatingly. “I’m Jason Razzia, free-lance writer and photographer. I’m planning an article on you and Chris, Mrs. Douglas. I wonder if I could talk to you for a few minutes.”
“I have nothing to say to you, Mr. Razzia,” she replied coldly. “And I do
not
wish to have my picture taken. I would appreciate your going away and leaving me alone.”
“Aw, come on now, it’s my livelihood, you know,” he said coaxingly. “Just a few short questions. Like is it true that you and Chris are getting back together again?”
“No, it is
not
true,” she said firmly. “I wish I could make you understand that there is no story here, Mr. Razzia. Mr. Douglas and I have ended our relationship and we have no intention of resurrecting it. That is all. Good-bye. And please go away.” She walked to her car, got in and slammed the door. He took two more pictures of her before she drove away.
Mary was seething as she drove back to school. For the past month of her life she had felt positively hunted, and it was all Kit’s fault. He could have played Hamlet out in California somewhere. Why did he have to come to Yarborough to do it?
She worked for an hour or so in the library after lunch, looking up some material for an article she was planning on Elizabethan songbooks. As always, the academic discipline soothed her nerves and she was in a calmer frame of mind when she walked down to the waterfront later in the afternoon. Rehearsal had ended and the lawn was filled with people, some swimming, some playing volleyball and others simply soaking up the sun. Mary had her bathing suit on under a terry-cloth sundress, and when she reached the waterfront she stood to unzip the cover-up while her eyes automatically searched the area for Kit. She didn’t see him and so she dropped her dress on a chair with her sandals and towel and made for the lake.
There were a few students stretched out on the dock as she walked out to dive off and the male eyes all regarded her approvingly. She wore a plain navy maillot suit that showed off her slender figure tastefully but unmistakably. Her skin was like magnolia petals. She pulled her black hair back on the nape of her neck and secured it with an elastic band. Then she dove into the water.
It was cold. She came up gasping for breath, treaded water and looked around her. There were three rubber boats floating about in the water near her, two of them occupied by couples and one apparently empty. The lake was not very wide at this particular point and there was no sign of other boats. Mary struck out for the other side.
She was an excellent swimmer, not fast, but strong and steady. The youngsters on shore watched her unwavering progress toward the far side of the lake. And they watched as well the yellow rubber boat that followed her.
Mary didn’t see the boat until she was three quarters of the way across. She paused then to tread water and get her bearings, and almost the first thing she saw was Kit leaning on the oars of the boat. “Where did you come from?” she demanded.
“I was snoozing in the boat when I saw you take off across the lake. I thought I’d follow to make sure you didn’t get run down by a passing motorboat. There
are
some around, you know.”
“Are there? I didn’t see any.” She was a little out of breath and was beginning to tire. “If you don’t mind, I won’t stay here chatting,” she said pleasantly.
“Why don’t you climb in? The water’s cold and you’ve had quite enough of a swim for one day I should think.”
He was right. It had been a longer swim than she had anticipated. “All right,” she said and swam over to the side of the boat. She put her hands on the side. “I hope I don’t swamp you.”
“You won’t.” He moved to the far side of the boat to help balance it, and Mary pulled herself out of the water and into the rubber dinghy. She sat down and shook water out of her eyes. “Have a towel,” he said hospitably, and gratefully she reached out and took it. She dried her face, pulled the elastic band out of her hair and began to towel it.
“I bit off more than I was ready to chew,” she said candidly.
“You would have made it,” he replied, moving back himself to the center of the boat.
“Oh, I know that. But I would have been tired. And then I would have had to go back.” She finished toweling her hair and looked at him closely for the first time. He was wearing only bathing trunks, also navy, and around his neck hung a St. Joseph medal. She had given him that medal for his birthday four years ago. He caught the direction of her stare and his hand went up to finger the medal. “I still have it,” he said. “I don’t know if I really believe in it, but I’ve always worn it. It’s about all I’ve got left of you.”
Her eyes dropped. “Don’t, Kit,” she said softly. There was silence as the boat drifted and then she said, “I hear Margot Chandler is to be your mother.”
He laughed. “Isn’t that a surprise? I suppose she’s getting too old for glamour-girl parts.”
“Can she act?” Mary asked bluntly.
“It won’t matter, I think,” he replied thoughtfully. “Gertrude is hardly a complex character. In fact, in some ways she resembles many California women: beautiful, loaded with sex appeal, essentially good-natured, but shallow. I have a feeling all Margot Chandler will need to do is play herself. She’ll probably do very well. And the theater is small enough that voice projection needn’t be a problem.”
Mary was silent for a minute, digesting what he had just said. Then she smiled mischievously. “Eric Lindquist says that this production should be labeled “Hollywood Goes Arty.”
Kit’s answering smile was rueful. “He’s exactly the sort of kid I’d like to punch in the nose.”
“I know,” Mary answered longingly. “That boyish grin...”
He began to row the boat toward the far side of the lake. “You never did appreciate youthful male arrogance,” he said. “You knocked it out of me fast enough.”
“You were never really arrogant,” she said quietly. “Just determined.” She watched him row, watched the smooth ripple of muscle across his arms and chest. He was so slim that his impressive set of muscles always came as something of a surprise. He had gotten them working in a warehouse, he once told her. It had been one of the many jobs that put him through school.
The boat was almost on the shore and Mary noticed, with surprise, a strip of sand along the water’s edge. “I didn’t know there was a beach here.”
“I noticed it yesterday and I thought I’d take a look. I don’t think it’s private property—there’s no dock or boat at any rate.”
Mary had been brought up on the shore of Long Island Sound and a beach always beckoned to her. Kit jumped out of the boat into waist-high water and she followed without hesitation. They towed the boat to shore and walked out onto the sand.
“This has been put here by someone,” she said, wriggling her toes luxuriously. “It’s too fine to be native.”
Kit was looking through the trees that surrounded the small sand crescent. “I think I see a house. It must be private property after all. I suppose we’d better go.”
“Yes,” she said regretfully. It was so peaceful and sheltered and quiet here. She walked back to the water and helped Kit push the boat out. He got in first and had reached out a hand to help her when a man with a camera jumped out from behind some trees on their left and began snapping furiously. Kit swore and made a motion to get out of the boat.
“No, don’t!” Mary cried. She was in the boat by now. “Just push off. Please, Kit.”
He hesitated a minute and then did as she asked, propelling the small dinghy with hard furious strokes away from the shore and the intruder.
“Goddamn parasites,” he said. “Bloodsucking bastards.” He was in a quiet, concentrated rage and his own fury served to dampen hers.
“It was a man called Jason Razzia,” she said in a low shaking voice. “I met him this morning in town. He said he was doing a story about—us.”
“Razzia,” he said with loathing. “I know him. A free-lancer. The scrapings of a particularly rancid barrel. He’s made me his pet project lately.”
“Is it like this all the time?” she asked dazedly. “Don’t they
ever
let you alone?”
“It’s worse now than usual,” he replied, a bitter twist to his mouth. “Most of the time, when I’m going about my work, they leave me alone. I have a house that’s pretty well isolated out in a canyon, and photographers don’t bother to camp at my door. It’s you who are the interest now.”
“Don’t I know it,” she returned even more bitterly. “All because you decided you had to play Hamlet at Yarborough.”
“I wanted to play Hamlet,” he said.
“You could very well have played Hamlet in California,” she retorted.
He went on as if she had not interrupted. “And I wanted to see you again.” He stopped rowing, rested his hands on the oars and looked at her. “Do you think the pursuit by media hounds is the worst part of living in California? Well it’s not. The worst thing is the artificiality of so much of the place, the superficiality of so many of the people. Not everyone. There are some fine and talented people—people who are interested in doing good things. Like Mark Stevens, who directed my last film. But somehow I always have the strangest sensation of touching many people without being touched in turn myself.” He smiled a little crookedly. “When I saw you again in May it was as if I had come home again.”
It was exactly the feeling she had had when he kissed her, and his voicing it now jarred her unpleasantly. She frowned, not wanting to hear this, not wanting to respond to it. He was so clever, she thought. He knew just what to say to get to her. “You can’t go home again,” she said fiercely, staring at his feet. His toes were so straight. Hell, she thought, why did everything about him have to be so damn beautiful? She looked up into his face. “Thomas Wolfe wrote that many years ago, and it’s true.”
“Mary.” He leaned forward and put a hand on her knee. “Listen to me, sweetheart...”
The sensations emanating from that lean brown hand reached all the way to her loins and stomach. “No!” she said violently. “Leave me alone!” And, precipitously, she dove off the boat and swam back to shore under the interested eyes of the assembled students.