Cottage by the Sea (54 page)

   "I'm sure they'll both be fine," Christopher said, utterly ignoring the ardent attendant when his own napkin was unfurled with a similar dramatic effect. He studied her face closely over the rim of his wine goblet. "Dear, dear Blythe… always so adept at coping with an emergency. I miss that admirable trait of yours, I can assure you… both on and off the set."

   Blythe listened carefully for any hint of mockery in his voice and found none.

   In fact, it seemed to her that his smile kindled with a warmth that had been missing between them for a couple of years. He laughed softly and said, "Jeff Raymos said just ten days ago—you remember him, don't you?" Chris interrupted himself parenthetically. "The production coordinator? Well, Jeff was telling someone on the set about the time you climbed into that big-rig track—when the number-two stunt driver got hurt, remember? 'That amazing woman coolly wheeled that ten-ton monster down the San Diego Freeway during the chase scene in
Good Chemistry
so we wouldn't go into Golden-Golden Overtime!' Now,
that
was something your admiring colleagues won't soon forget, I assure you… nor will I." Chris's handsome features grew somber as he added, "That was a fifty-thousand-dollar shoot that day. It was a pivotal scene, and it would have all gone down the plug hole if it hadn't been for you."

   "I expect the union would have supplied a replacement by midday," Blythe replied mildly, lowering her eyes as she sipped from her water glass.

   "But the Paramount suits would have had my hide for the overtime," he countered.

   
"Our
hide," she reminded him. "
Good Chemistry
was a Stowe and Stowe Production, remember?"

   "I certainly do." Chris's pale-blue eyes surveyed her black silk evening suit with approval. "My darling Blythe, you may have amazing capabilities both as a production designer and a lorry driver," he said fondly, "but damned if you don't also look like a bloody film star tonight."

   To her astonishment her sister's new husband was gazing at her now with undisguised affection, apparently unleashed by a second bottle of champagne. She began to feel uncomfortable under the heat of his ardent gaze.

   "Look, Christopher…" she ventured, and then cast her eyes about Boscundle Manor's elegant dining room in an attempt to catch their crestfallen waiter's eye so they could proceed with ordering their meal. "I'm famished," she lied. "Flag that fellow again, will you?"

   Blythe surveyed with closer attention the details of the manor house-cum-country hotel that had been constructed in

1650 of blushing pink granite chiseled from a local quarry.

   It had been built for an Admiral Truebody, Chris had explained breezily on the ride over. As soon as the RollsRoyce had pulled into the gravel courtyard, they had been effusively welcomed by the proprietors, Andrew and Mary Flynt.

   The Flynts had transformed the small, low-ceilinged dining room into a charming, intimate space where a mere eight tables in various sizes and shapes served a select clientele. Their dapper maître d' had ushered them to a table for two, positioned against one wall, where all the other diners were sure to recognize them. Blythe felt as if she were suddenly thrust back to the days when Chris's Hollywood publicist engineered center stage for his boss whenever they went to Spago's or Morton's.

   At their seats a crystal vase with yellow water iris welcomed them, along with the second bottle of champagne cooling in a silver ice bucket. On the dining room walls, their waiter had earnestly explained, were the works of celebrated local artists. The paintings depicted Cornish scenes on sunny days—in stark contrast to Ennis Trevelyan's moody views of the windswept coastline.

   Blythe pulled her thoughts back from her musings as Chris spoke up again, interrupting her reverie.

   "I'm not too proud to admit that I've sorely missed your professional contributions," he said. He reached for her hand across the crisp white damask tablecloth. Out of the corner of her eye Blythe saw that one woman was staring at them with avid curiosity, poised over her potted shrimp. "And that's certainly not all I've missed, Blythe, darling."

   She gently withdrew from his grasp and took a sip of her mineral water. Chris had looked at her with puzzlement when she had refused all repeated offers of spirits.

   "Ellie came to the cottage yesterday," Blythe disclosed conversationally, although her pulse rate felt as if it were speeding up at the mere mention of their previous encounter. "Did she tell you?"

   Chris nodded. "She did, indeed—quite fulsomely." He took another draft of champagne and then gazed at her steadily over the rim of his glass. "I hope you'll believe me when I say that I didn't ask her to do that. In fact, I told her to stay away, as you requested."

   "It felt just like old times," Blythe replied sardonically.

   "Pretty poisonous, I gather."

   "She demanded that I sign over the Scottish property, of course."

   Christopher began to toy with his fork. Then he cast a glance across the dining room at their waiter, who leaped to attention as if galvanized by an electric cattle prod. The attendant uncorked the Lafite Rothschild '89—a spectacular claret—and, before Blythe could decline, poured them each a glass. Then the waiter took their orders and discreetly retreated to an alcove, awaiting, she supposed, the next wave of Chris's hand.

   
He just makes movies!
she wanted to yell at everybody in the room.
He's not the Dalai Lama!

   After a moment Blythe's former husband looked up from the silverware and declared quietly, "Surely you must also feel—as I do—that Ellie is sometimes driven by demons even she doesn't understand." When Blythe offered no further comment, he ventured, "Was your sister always such a… volatile, solitary soul?"

   "Are you asking me, 'Is she moody?' or 'Does she prefer spending time on her own?'"

   "Both," Chris replied. "I've discovered, to my shock, that she hates to travel. She cannot stand living on location, she says… and she utterly detests the industry functions one must attend constantly."

   "I could have told you that, if only you'd asked earlier," Blythe commented evenly.

   Letting the remark pass, Chris set his fork back down beside his plate. "Everything seems such a drama to her," he added glumly, "especially since the baby arrived. She's sure I'm having it on with every bit of fluff who looks at me cross-eyed."

   "Well, are you?" Blythe inquired, taking another sip of her Perrier. She certainly didn't want to play Mother Confessor to her ex-husband about her sister, for God's sake!

   "No!" Chris replied, draining his wineglass. Just then the waiter appeared without being summoned and refilled it. "One major disaster in my life will suffice, believe me."

   Blythe ignored his leading statement as another white-coated waiter accompanied by a grinning assistant arrived to serve their dinner with elaborate ceremony. She and Chris began to tuck into their roasted rack of lamb encrusted with mustard and rosemary-mint sauce while he guided their conversation in a safer, more amusing direction. He recounted witty tales about the shooting of In
Kenya, including
astonishing anecdotes starring her replacement, Patrick Corrigan, and the havoc the Irish production designer had wreaked on the film's budget.

   As soon as the waiter had served their chocolate soufflé with appropriate ceremony, Blythe's former husband emptied another wineglass and stared somberly across the table.

   "You've been a model of restraint through all of this, you know," he declared abruptly. "Any other female would have tried to ruin me… to punish me for the dreadful things inflicted on you this past year." Then he added morosely, "And before."

   Blythe nearly choked on her Perrier. Was this a fullfledged apology she was hearing? From Christopher Stowe?

   "Thank you for acknowledging that," she responded quietly.

   Chris reached across the table and clasped Blythe's hand for a second time, his thumb fingering the spot where she'd once worn her diamond anniversary band.

   "We were a good match, you and I," he continued in a regretful tone, "and then I went and blew it all to hell!"

   "Christopher, this isn't going to solve the problem you came all the way to Cornwall to talk about," she reminded him, deliberately lowering her voice almost to a whisper.

   Then he made an admission that startled her into utter speechlessness.

   "I was a proper bastard to have denied you a child and then allowed Ellie to get pregnant," he confessed. He lowered his eyes to the wilting scoop of soufflé that lay on his plate awash in vanilla custard sauce. "However, in actual fact, I may have done you a favor. I don't think I'm much cut out for fatherhood. At least, that's what Ellie tells me."

   So! she thought with a flash of satisfaction. Her sister's vicious parting shot at her cottage door had merely been a projection of her own desperation that Christopher was not enthusiastic about becoming a parent.

   Then Blythe's reflections drifted to poor Kit Trevelyan, who had grieved for little Angela and would have so loved to welcome Blythe's second child—if it had not been conceived in an act of betrayal. There were some men who wanted to be fathers, she reminded herself firmly. Not the ones she fell in love with, though.

   "I don't know what it was, really," Chris mused almost to himself. "A kind of midlife madness came over me last year… a feeling of my own mortality, I suppose… that stupidly drove me to seek the flattering attentions of a younger woman. It was insane!"

   "But why my
sister?"
Blythe whispered harshly, her rigid control starting to slip.

   "Because she was nearly as pretty as you are," he answered with unconscious candor. "And she didn't give a farthing about my shortcomings on the set," he added. "I have a lot of people constantly pecking at me, as you know. In the mood I was in last year, you seemed to be just another pesky duck. I was being idiotic, of course."

   "But there was so much at stake!" she blurted, and then glanced worriedly around the room to see if she'd been overheard. "Our marriage… our business… even the well-being of your film—and you just chucked it all!" she added, sotto voce. "You knew I'd eventually find out. I think now you
wanted
me to find out… to punish me for something I still don't completely understand!"

   Chris now had a faraway look in his eyes. "I resented you… It was a feeling I just can't explain. I suppose I did want to punish you in some way for being right so much of the time." His gaze held hers and his grip tightened. "What I did was unforgivable. I acted like an adolescent fool and I know I've hurt you terribly. I am very sorry for it all, Blythe… believe me." Christopher looked at her for a long moment and then confessed with sudden vehemence, "I wish that baby were ours, Blythe! If she were… and I still had you in my life, perhaps I could… learn to be a decent father. I didn't have much of an example set for me, as you know."

   "Oh, Christopher… don't!" She despised the fact they were in such a public place conducting the most intimate conversation of their lives. Chris's father, a widower still living in the Midlands and retired from chinaware manufacturing, had been an undemonstrative, mostly silent presence during her former husband's youth. "It's far too late for this discussion to be taking place."

   "
Why
?" Chris declared fervently. "Seeing you tonight has only underscored how much I
need you in my life! You and
I could even have a child together, if it's what you really want!"

   "It's too late!" she repeated more loudly than she intended. Upset and embarrassed, again she darted her eyes around the dining room to see if they were becoming an object of attention.

   "Come work with me on the picture," he urged, ignoring her protest. "My God, Blythe," he added with near demonic intensity, "what more can I say than that I realize now I made the biggest mistake of my life last year!"

   She stared across the candlelight, stunned by his totally unexpected expression of remorse and his unmistakable plea for her to come back to him. Was it possible that this man who had caused her such excruciating mental anguish could have finally come to value her as a wife… as a partner, and as a talent on her own?

   The candle's golden glow cast a flattering light on the world-renowned film director. The fine web of lines around his eyes and the thinning of his blond hair were hardly noticeable—as if his living portrait had been airbrushed by some studio still photographer. As she stared at him now, he appeared almost to be the exciting young man of her youth. He seemed to be admitting that he'd made a colossal wrong turn in his life and now deeply regretted it. He seemed to be asking her forgiveness and her permission to retrace his steps.

   She suddenly became aware of how closely Christopher was watching her. She had the uncomfortable sense that he was scrutinizing her every response to gauge her reaction to his startling revelations.

   
How could he have been so reckless?
some voice said in her head.

   Why had this man exercised absolutely no restraint in the way he had behaved toward her—and, at this very moment, was behaving toward Ellie, for that matter?

   Could she, Blythe, ever really trust a person who conducted his life in this fashion? She needed little convincing that Christopher's innate, absurd recklessness had, indeed, made him the brilliant, bloody-minded director he had become—a man who would risk all… who would do virtually
anything
to realize his cinematic vision, or satisfy his personal needs. Oddly, since their agonizing divorce and his difficulties on location in Kenya, he apparently had come to recognize that she had always been a good match for him in many key respects. Even so, it appalled her that he would behave toward her sister tonight with the same brutal lack of regard he had demonstrated toward herself in the past.