Once in a Blue Moon (2 page)

It would be relatively easy to avoid him. When she did have to be around Michael, she could manage to be coolly polite. Seeing him had hit her hard this afternoon only because it was so sudden and unexpected. Once she became used to his being around, it wouldn’t bother her so much. After a time, even, she might be totally unaffected.

Isabelle paused in her thoughts and smiled wryly; she wondered if any woman who was still breathing could be totally unaffected by Michael Traynor. Perhaps not, but she was armored against him better than most, she thought; she knew what could happen to her if she used poor judgment.

He wouldn’t necessarily learn about Jenny. Isabelle had been careful to keep her private life separate from her job. She presumed a lot of people knew that she had a daughter, but less than a handful knew anything about that daughter. She never brought Jenny to work with her. Michael Traynor would certainly never be at her house. Even if, by some remote chance, he did see Jenny, he wouldn’t necessarily assume that she was his. Isabelle could see the resemblance in her, but that wasn’t to say that anyone else would. Jenny was quite small for her age; she looked more like seven or eight than ten.

The important thing, of course, was that Jenny not find out the truth. Jenny’s tender feelings were easily hurt, and she could hold on to the pain for much longer than Isabelle would have thought possible. It would never do for her to know that she had a father alive and well, a father who had run out on them before he even knew about her. Worse yet would be for her to know it and see him pull away from her now. No, Jenny must not know. But that would be easy.

There was a rap on her door, and Isabelle’s head came up with a snap. Her heart began to pound. For one crazy moment she thought it was Michael, coming after her to talk to her. But then Tish Klegman’s voice sounded in the hall. “Miss Gray? You start shooting again in fifteen minutes.”

“Oh.” Isabelle pulled herself into the present with difficulty. “Yes. Of—of course. What scene?”

“Three. You and Paul and Phil, in the restaurant.”

“Oh, yes.” It was the scene they had been rehearsing when Danny and Carol had waltzed into practice with their new acquisition.

Isabelle glanced around her, looking for the script. All her lines seemed to have flown from her head in the last few minutes. It took her a moment to recall that she must have left the script out on the set. She sighed and closed her eyes for a moment.
She had to pull herself together. She couldn’t go back out there in this frazzled condition.

Isabelle checked her image in the mirror, straightening her clothes, tidying her hair, smoothing away a smudge of mascara beneath her eye. Callie would refresh her makeup right before they shot, of course, but she needed the confidence of looking perfect when she walked onto the soundstage. No one must suspect that Michael Traynor’s arrival had upset her.

Isabelle stood up, drawing another deep breath. Then she opened the door and marched out into the hallway, head high, a faint smile on her lips as she strode along the hall and onto the soundstage.

“Isabelle,” the director said, smiling. “Great. Now maybe we can get back down to business. Need to run through it again?”

Isabelle smiled, picking up her script and glancing down the page. “No, I’m fine, Lyle. Let’s go ahead and shoot.”

* * *

It was a long two hours later when Isabelle finally left the soundstage. She walked tiredly back to her dressing room to remove her makeup and change clothes. Despite her confident assurance to the director, she had had difficulty with the scene, blowing her lines three times in a row before she got them right. Her nerves had infected the others, with the result that the two scenes they filmed had taken them much longer than normal. She was going to have to retain control of herself better than that, Isabelle thought in disgust as she kicked off her spike heels and wriggled her toes in relief.

“Feet hurting?” a sympathetic voice said as Amanda from Wardrobe stuck her head in the door.

Isabelle cast her a wry smile. “As usual. The worst thing about playing a silver-plated bitch is the stiletto heels I have to wear. Come on in. I’ll have the suit off in a sec.”

Amanda came farther into the room, closing the door behind her, and picked up Isabelle’s shoes from the floor. Then she took down a hanger and hung up the skirt and jacket of the elegant business suit that Isabelle had pulled off and handed to her.

“I saw the new hunk,” Amanda said jokingly and fanned herself with an imaginary fan.

“Mmm,” Isabelle replied noncommittally. Now she understood why Amanda personally had come to retrieve her outfit for Wardrobe. A middle-aged woman with short graying hair and no makeup, Amanda looked more like a librarian than someone in charge of glitzy costumes, but she had razor-sharp taste in clothes and loved to indulge it with the studio’s money. She was equally fond of gossip and could usually be found at the center of any studio rumors.

“Word has it that you know him,” she went on when Isabelle said nothing to relieve her curiosity.

“Briefly, a long time ago,” Isabelle replied casually, pulling on her own jeans and a simple short-sleeved sweater. She strove to keep her tone light and uninvolved; she had to set the pattern right from the beginning. The show’s gossip was the best place to start, she supposed—as long as she managed to hide all traces of residual emotion.

“We worked in the same summer theater—Shakespeare,” Isabelle went on. “He was one of the professionals who had come down from New York to work with Dr. Carlysle, and I was a mere intern. I was only eighteen. I hadn’t even started college yet.”

She would not mention the afternoons of drinking coffee with Michael in the café across from the amphitheater or the evenings when he had walked her home, the long kisses on the porch of the big old house where the interns had roomed. She would not reveal how everything inside her had turned to Jell-O everytime Michael looked at her.

“But he remembered you. Phil said he did.” Amanda gave her a conspiratorial smile. Her eyes were alight with the greedy flame of an inveterate gossip. “You must have made an impression on him.”

Isabelle chuckled. “I was surprised he remembered me, truthfully. We did work together on a play, but he was Mercutio in
Romeo and Juliet,
and I was one of the townspeople.”

She pushed out of her mind the memories of lying beneath a tree with him, the sun dappling her legs and the branches rustling over their heads, the green summer grass a tangy scent in her nostrils and the heat of Michael’s body lying only inches from her as his smooth voice rolled out the lines of the play, the Shakespeare on his tongue as intoxicating as wine. There hadn’t been a time, before or since, when she had felt as alive as she had that summer.

“Mercutio! I would have figured Romeo was more like it, the way he looks.” Amanda fetched up a grandiose sigh.

“As I remember, he liked the part better. It suited him, anyway—charming and cynical.” There had been something dark and mysterious about him. It was intriguing that his charm had a slightly rough edge, that he was not the familiar Southern boy that she’d grown up with, but a Yankee, and one with a sad history, as well. He had been orphaned at thirteen and had been bounced from foster home to foster home for a few years. His love of acting had been the thing that had saved him from following some of his New Jersey friends into a criminal life.

Isabelle had fallen for him hard. To give him credit, he had tried to ignore her, but she had been determined to reach him. She had arranged accidental meetings and flirted and schemed. It had been two weeks before he broke down and invited her out to coffee one afternoon. It had been even longer before he had finally kissed her. After that, though, they had become inseparable. Eventually, inevitably, they had come together in a cataclysmic night of lovemaking.

Three weeks later, Michael had gotten a call from his agent in New York. There had been a part in an off-Broadway play for him. He had, of course, taken it, leaving the last week of playing Mercutio to his understudy. Isabelle had been away that weekend, visiting her parents at home, and she had returned to be told by her roommate, in a tone of mock sympathy, that Michael had gone back to New York. He had left her a letter.

Isabelle would never forget the chill that invaded her being as she read that letter. He had told her of the part and said that he must leave. He loved her, the note had gone on to say, but there was no future for them. He was sure that before long she would forget all about him.

Isabelle had been too numb for tears. Those had come later, as had the saving fury, the scorn at her own naiveté. She had played the fool, she had realized; she had given her heart to a man who had wanted nothing beyond a summer fling. His career was all that mattered to him; he wanted no entanglements. All the other girls at the theater were quick to agree; they had, they assured her, seen it coming. It had happened to most of them at one time or another, they told her, and nodded their heads sagely. That was life. She had learned a valuable lesson.

Perhaps she had. But it had taken her a long, painful time to get over him. And she had always had a reminder of Michael and the pain: his daughter, Jenny.

“...but of course she always claims to have the inside scoop on everybody,” Amanda was saying, giving Isabelle’s suit a last straightening twitch.

Isabelle nodded vaguely and hoped she didn’t need to respond. She had no idea what the woman had been saying while her own thoughts had been wandering back ten years in time.

“Well...” Amanda draped the suit over her arm and picked up the shoes from the counter where she had placed them. “See you Friday—you’re not scheduled tomorrow, are you?”

“No. A day of rest tomorrow, thank heavens.” Isabelle smiled at Amanda. Whatever tendencies Amanda had toward gossip, she was always on top of her job. And she had unerring taste. Isabelle was grateful to her. After all, there were those costume designers whose chief objective seemed to be to make their actresses look frumpy or sallow.

“Okay. Just wait till you see the green evening dress I’ve got picked out for you for the party next week. I’ll show you Friday. You’ll look like a million dollars in it.”

“Wonderful.” Isabelle summoned up enough energy for a last smile at Amanda, then sank onto her chair in front of the vanity and began to take off her heavy on-camera makeup. She combed through her heavily sprayed and arranged hair until it was back into its normal loose style over her shoulders.

Free of the makeup and elaborate hairdo, she felt better. She rolled her head from side to side, letting the tension of the day begin to drain from her. She thought about the fact that in a few minutes she would be home with Jenny—and there would be a whole day alone tomorrow to marshal her inner strength before she had to see Michael Traynor again.

Isabelle slipped her feet into her ragged sneakers and grabbed her bag, heading out the door. She walked down the hall, nodding at the people she passed, and out the front door. The sun struck her like a blow, and she hurriedly dug in her bag for her sunglasses. She didn’t notice the knot of people standing on the sidewalk in front of the building until it was too late.

Michael Traynor was chatting with two of the writers. Isabelle’s stomach clenched. She hadn’t been prepared to see him again. But she summoned up a smile and walked past them with a breezy wave and a “hi,” continuing toward her car in the parking lot without breaking stride.

“Isabelle! Wait!” She glanced back and saw with an inward groan that Michael had peeled away from the others and was walking toward her.

I
sabelle hesitated. The nerves in her stomach were jumping. She didn’t have the strength to deal with Michael right now. She would have liked to turn and continue walking to her car. But her pride would not let her. She did not want Michael to think that he was able to affect her in any way. So she squared her shoulders and waited, putting a faintly questioning and impatient expression on her face.

“I’m sorry,” she said, smiling impersonally. “I was just about to leave.”

Michael stopped in front of her. Isabelle was disconcertingly aware of his body, his charisma, the magnetism of his blue eyes. She fought a sudden surge of sensual memories—the warmth and strength of his arms around her, the delicious taste of his mouth, the shivers of delight his hands had roused on her body.

“I’ve been hanging around waiting for you,” Michael began. “We need to talk.”

Isabelle raised her eyebrows coolly, though inside, her nerves were jangling. “We do?”

“Yes.” Michael frowned. “We’re going to be working together. I—It would be easier if things were straight between us.”

“As far as I know, there isn’t anything ‘between us,’” Isabelle answered, pleased at the indifference she had managed to inject into her voice. It was difficult, considering the way Michael’s cobalt-blue eyes were boring into her.

“There was once,” Michael replied seriously. “I don’t want that to be a problem.”

“No problem,” Isabelle returned lightly. “I hadn’t even thought of you in years until Danny brought you in today.”

“I could see that it was a surprise. I had assumed that they’d told you we were negotiating. I’m sorry, I didn’t want it to be a shock to you.”

“Michael...” Isabelle made her voice crisp, using every acting skill she possessed to sound faintly amused. “I’m afraid you don’t have the power to shock me anymore.”

His eyebrows rose lazily. “Ah...a direct hit.” He shrugged. “Well, I’m glad to hear that you’re okay with my joining the cast. I want to work with you without either one of us being submarined by a lot of things from the past.”

“I’m not a teenager anymore, Michael. I don’t fall in and out of love at the drop of a hat. And I used up my supply of tears where you were concerned years ago. If it will relieve your mind, then I’m happy to tell you that my crush on you is most assuredly a thing of the past. I doubt very seriously that you and I will be working together much, but when we do, I’m sure that it will be no problem for us to maintain a professional attitude.”

Isabelle cringed inside at how prissy she sounded. No doubt he would think she had turned into some kind of wooden prig.
Well, what did it matter what he thought of her?

Amusement flashed through his eyes for a moment, lightening them, but then it was gone, and he merely nodded. “Good. I’m glad to hear that. I—uh, guess I’ll see you around.”

Isabelle wanted to childishly retort, “Not if I see you first,” but she refrained. Instead, she nodded briefly at Michael and turned and strode off to her car. She resisted the impulse to look back and see if he was watching her. By the time she reached her car and could turn in his direction without it seeming purposeful, she saw that he had left. She sank into the driver’s seat, the adrenaline that had come to her rescue earlier now oozing out of her system and leaving her more drained than before. She leaned her forehead wearily against the steering wheel.

God, she hoped all the days weren’t going to be like this.

* * *

Jenny was riding her bike in front of the house when Isabelle turned into their driveway. With her little spaniel puppy sitting in the basket behind her seat, Jenny was intently pedaling the three-wheel cycle around and around the drive in front of the garage. It was a large cycle, with a front wheel and frame like a bicycle, but with two wide-spaced bicycle wheels across the back to give it stability. When Jenny had outgrown her tricycle, she had wanted to graduate to a bike, but she still had some difficulties with her balance, making a bicycle too dangerous. Isabelle had seen an old lady with a plastic sack of aluminum cans wheeling along a street in Hollywood on a contraption like this one day, and she had realized that it would be perfect for Jenny.

“Mommy!” Jenny cried when she saw Isabelle, and waved enthusiastically. Her eyes lit up in the way that indicated excitement and pleasure, though her mouth and face retained its usual serious expression. Jenny was not much given to smiling.

Isabelle’s daughter was small and pale. Her hair was thick and black, cut short in a practical bob. Thick dark eyebrows cut startlingly across her face, and it was this that gave her the most resemblance to Michael—that and the penetrating blue of her eyes. She wore big round red-rimmed glasses that emphasized the pixieish shape of her face.

“Hi, sweetheart.” Isabelle parked in the garage, then got out of the car and walked over to her. “How’s my girl?”

“I’m fine. I’m giving Patience a ride.”

“I see. That’s nice of you.”

Patience, their dainty liver-and-white Cavalier spaniel, leapt lightly out of her basket and trotted over to Isabelle, wagging her tail. Isabelle bent to pet her. Patience was an extremely sweet-tempered dog who submitted herself resignedly to Jenny’s play and did nothing but walk away if Jenny unintentionally squeezed a leg or pulled an ear. Isabelle had bought her and named her for precisely that quality. Prudence, on the other hand, their large smoky gray Persian cat, made it a point to stay well out of Jenny’s way and always kept a wary eye on her unless Isabelle was with them.

“Hello, Patience,” Isabelle murmured, giving her an extra few rubs to reward her good nature.

Jenny cautiously disembarked from her vehicle and hurried over to her mother, holding her arms wide for a hug. Isabelle pulled her close and squeezed her. Whatever else she felt for Michael Traynor, she could not help but be grateful to him for giving her this girl.

She had not always felt that way, of course. She had cried herself to sleep night after night when she realized that she was pregnant, almost two months after Michael left her. He had tried once or twice to call her during the summer, but she had stubbornly refused to talk to him. When she discovered she was pregnant, she had fallen into despair and she had considered finally talking to him. But he didn’t call her again, and she would not take the step of calling him.

Instead, she had sleepwalked her way through the first semester of her freshman year, then returned home at Christmas and broke the news to her parents. Predictably, her well-to-do Southern parents had been genteelly horrified at the news. When she told them that she intended to keep the baby and raise it, her father had argued with her incessantly. He wanted her to have an abortion; he told her over and over how it would ruin her life and be a perpetual burden to her.

To Isabelle’s surprise, it had been her mother, always the picture of frail, proper Southern femininity, who had finally said, “Oh, Harrington, hush. Of course she’s not going to get rid of her baby. Whatever are you thinking of? We’ll just have to make adjustments, that’s all.”

The adjustments had been far worse than any of them had expected, however. Jenny had been born with a heart defect, pinched-faced and bluish. For weeks, it had been a daily struggle for her to stay alive. She underwent three surgeries in the first two years of her life and another one when she was six to repair her heart. All her life she had remained small and been slow to develop, and she had been hit hard by any childhood virus or infection. Since the final operation, she had been able to lead a fairly normal life physically, to play and even ride her bike without gasping for breath or having to stop frequently.

However, nothing could repair the damage that had been done to Jenny’s brain in the first few weeks of her life when her weak heart had not pumped enough oxygen-rich blood to her brain. She had been slow to develop both mentally and physically, walking later, talking later and never completely achieving the skills of other children her age.

The first few years of Jenny’s life, she had occupied all Isabelle’s time. College, her plans to act, everything had fallen by the wayside as she had struggled to keep Jenny alive and well. Once again, it had been Isabelle’s mother who had pulled her aside and pointed out that Isabelle could not sacrifice herself for her daughter, that she had to create some kind of life for herself, as well.

Isabelle had been scared, but she had known that her mother was right. She had started in a small way by going back to college, but she had quickly realized that she was light-years away from the carefree freshmen in her classes. Finally, she had decided to move to Los Angeles and try to make it in the career she had always wanted: acting. If she could not make it, there would be time enough later to come back and build another, safer career for herself.

It had been tough, and Isabelle knew that it would probably have been impossible without the extra money her parents had provided for Jenny’s welfare. Isabelle had had no life outside of her work and her daughter. She went to auditions; she took acting lessons; she worked part-time jobs. The rest of the time she spent with Jenny. There had been no time for men and, frankly, Isabelle had had little interest in them. She had gotten a few jobs in commercials and walk-ons in two nighttime series. Then her first real break had come: she had been hired as a daily on one of the soap operas. The response to her had been so good that her two weeks had expanded into two months and finally into a year’s contract. Then, almost three years ago, she had moved to “Tomorrows” and her current role as Jessica Connors O’Neal Randall, the town villainess.

She had become enormously popular in the role. She had the perfect looks for the part of the local siren: thick, long black hair, vivid emerald-green eyes and a voluptuous figure. But it was her acting skills that had brought her such a devoted following. She was able to make her character not only wicked, but was able also to invest her with a sense of humor and even a hint of vulnerability that had made it possible for viewers to love her even as they hated her. Last year, when the writers had put Jessica in a life-threatening car crash in which she had lost the child she was carrying, viewers had written in, frantic at the thought that Jessica was going to die.

Because of her popularity in the role, Isabelle was now financially secure. She had been able to buy a lovely secluded house with plenty of yard for Jenny to play in. She could send Jenny to an excellent school and pay for a housekeeper/companion for her daughter. She had even been able to pay back her parents for the money they’d lent her during her first years in L.A. But money was the only thing that had changed for them. Isabelle still had only one interest outside of work, and that was her daughter.

She squeezed Jenny tightly to her now. “How was school?”

“Fine. I made something.”

“You did? How nice. May I see it?”

Jenny shook her head. “I’m not supposed to tell you.”

“I see. A special present, then.”

Jenny nodded. “We made it this morning. But I can’t tell you.”

“That’s all right. I’ll see it when you bring it home.”

Jenny nodded. “Miss Bright said, ‘Shh.’” She brought her forefinger up to her lips and made an exaggerated gesture of silence. “I don’t like it, they say. ‘Don’t talk.’”

“Who says, Jenny? Miss Albright?”

Jenny nodded emphatically. “Miss Bright says ‘Don’t talk,’ and I only asked... He was drawing, see, like this.” She made big circular motions with her right hand, as if drawing in air. “And he—” She pulled her hands apart as if ripping something.

“He tore up his paper?” Isabelle wasn’t sure exactly what Jenny was talking about; she sometimes had trouble following her disjointed, repetitive way of speaking even after years of experience.

Jenny’s dark head came down in the same hard nod. She was clearly feeling indignant. “Yes! And Miss Bright, she said, ‘Don’t talk.’ I don’t like that.”

“I’m sure not. You just wanted to see what he was drawing, right?”

“‘Whatcha doing?’” Jenny agreed. “‘Whatcha doing?’”

Isabelle repressed a smile. This was Jenny’s favorite question of any-and everyone. No doubt some other child in her class had resented her asking it.

“Well, I’m sure Miss Albright didn’t want you disturbing the other students. Apparently he didn’t like it when you asked him to let you see.”

“He’s a poophead,” Jenny commented. Then she added, “Kevin said ‘He’s a poophead.’”

“I bet Miss Albright didn’t like that.”

“Uh-uh.” Jenny shook her head exaggeratedly. “She said, ‘No, no, no.’”

“And what have you been doing since you came home from school?” Isabelle asked, deciding it was probably better to switch off this subject. Miss Albright would probably not appreciate Jenny’s implanting the forbidden word in her mind with further repetitions.

“I gave Patience a ride.” Jenny leaned down and patted the dog firmly on the head.

“Good. But don’t ride her around too much, or she might get sick.”

“She likes to ride. Lady didn’t like to ride.”

“No. Lady was getting a little old for riding.” Lady had been their first dog, a rather cantankerous old miniature poodle that had been Isabelle’s mother’s dog. Jenny had cried so much at leaving her when they moved to Los Angeles that Frances had given her to them.

“Lady’s gone now. Lady’s in Heaven,” Jenny pointed out.

“I know. And I’m sure she’s very happy.”

“Lady’s in Heaven now. We took her—she went—weeks ago.”

“Even longer than that.”

“She went to the dog hospital. Now she’s in Heaven.”

“That’s right. Why don’t you put up your bicycle and let’s go inside and see what Irma has fixed for supper?” Isabelle suggested.

“Hot dog and chips.”

“That’s what we’re having for supper?” Isabelle smiled. “I imagine Irma’s cooked something healthier than that.”

“
I
had it. Hot dog and chips. That’s what I wanted.”

“When you came home from school? That’s what Irma gave you for a snack after school?”

Jenny nodded and started over to her cycle, saying again, “Hot dog and chips.”