Faerie Tale (3 page)

“We better get back,” said Sean. “It’ll be dinner soon.”

“Yeah, dinner,” agreed Patrick, finding it difficult to drag his eyes from the blackness under the bridge. Step by step they backed away, Bad Luck reluctantly obeying Patrick’s command to come with them, whining with his tail between his legs, then barking.

“Hey!” came a shout from behind, and both boys jumped at the sound, their chests constricting with fright. Patrick hung on to Bad Luck’s collar and the Labrador
snarled and spun around to protect the boys, pulling Patrick off balance.

Patrick stumbled forward and Sean fell upon the dog’s neck, helping to hold him back from attacking the man who had come up behind them.

The man held out his hands to show he meant no harm. Bad Luck struggled to be free. “Stop it,” shouted Sean and the dog backed away, growling at the stranger.

Both boys looked the man over. He was young, though not recognized as such by the boys, for anyone over the age of eighteen was a grown-up.

The stranger examined the two boys. Both had curly brown hair protruding from under baseball caps, deep-set large blue eyes, and round faces. Had they been girls, they would have been considered pretty. When older, they would likely be counted handsome. The stranger smiled, and said, “Sorry to have scared you boys and your dog. It’s my own damn fault. I shouldn’t have shouted. I should’ve known the dog’d be jumpy.” He spoke with a soft, musical voice, different from what the boys were used to hearing.

Seeing no immediate threat to the boys, Bad Luck stopped his growling and reserved judgment on this stranger. The boys exchanged glances.

“Look, I’m sorry I startled you guys, okay?”

The boys nodded as one. Patrick said, “What did you mean about Bad Luck being jumpy, mister?”

The man laughed, and the boys relaxed. “Bad Luck, huh?”

Hearing his name, the dog gave a tentative wag of his tail. The man slowly reached out and let the Labrador sniff his hand, then patted him on the head. After a moment the tail wagging became emphatic. “Going to be friends, right, boy?” said the man. Leaning forward, with hands on knees, he said, “Who are you guys? I didn’t know there were any big leaguers around here.”

Sean grinned at the reference to their caps and equipment. “We just moved here from California. We live on a farm.”

“Philip Hastings your father?” Both brothers nodded.
“I heard he’d be moving in at the Old Kessler Place. I didn’t know he was here already. Well, I guess I’d better introduce myself. I’m Jack Cole.” He held out his hand, not in the manner of a grown-up making fun of kids but as if they were just like anyone else he’d met. The boys said their names in turn, shook hands, and silently judged Jack Cole an acceptable human being, even if he was old.

“What’d you mean about Bad Luck being jumpy?” Patrick repeated.

“There’s this bull raccoon that’s been hanging around this part of the woods for the last month, and likely as not that’s what your dog smelled under the bridge. If so, it’s a good thing he didn’t get loose. That coon has torn up most of the cats and half the dogs in the area.”

The boys looked unconvinced. Jack Cole laughed. “Look, take my word for it. This isn’t some little critter from a cartoon show. This coon is almost as big as your hound and he’s old, tough, and mean. And this is his turf, clear?”

The boys exchanged glances and nodded. Jack faced back up the gully. “This isn’t a good place to play, anyway. We get some pretty sudden showers in the hills near the lake, and if we get a big one, this gully could flood pretty fast. I mean, it can hit you without warning. I’d stay clear of this creek in future, okay?” They nodded. “Come on, I’ll walk back to your house with you. Must be close to your dinnertime. Besides, I’d like to meet your dad.”

The boys tugged at Bad Luck’s collar and began to hike back up the gully. As they rounded the corner, Sean cast a backward look toward the bridge and for an instant felt as if he was being watched by someone … or something … deep within the gloom beneath the rocky arch.

Gloria regarded the grotesque carvings cut into the roof lintel over the front porch and shook her head in dismay. She gazed at the odd-looking creatures who squatted below the eaves of the roof and muttered, “Just what every girl dreams of, living in Notre Dame.” Upon first seeing the house, she had inquired into her husband’s mental health, only partially joking. It was all the good things he saw, sturdy turn-of-the-century construction, hardwoods used throughout, and every joint dovetailed and pegged, with nails only an afterthought. It was made of materials a modern builder could only dream of: ash, oak, and spruce now rock-hard with age, marble and slate, teak floors, and copper wires and pipes throughout. But Phil couldn’t see that it was also a living exercise in graceless-ness, a testimony to Herman Kessler’s father’s knowing what he liked without the benefit of taste. The first Kessler had built an architectural hodgepodge. A gazebo, stripped from some antebellum plantation and shipped north to this gentleman’s farm, sat off to the left of the house, under the sightless gaze of Gothic windows. Regency furniture clashed headlong with Colonial, while a stuffed tiger’s head hung upon the wall of what was going to be Phil’s study, looking balefully down upon the ugliest Persian rug Gloria had ever seen. All in all, Gloria decided it would be a good year’s work fixing up Old Man Kessler’s place.

She entered the house and moved quickly toward the back door, expecting to have to shout for the boys for ten minutes before they’d put in an appearance. But just as she was about to open the screen door Patrick’s voice cut through the late afternoon air. “Maaa!”

She pushed open the door, a half-smile on her lips as she watched her twins approach from the woods behind the house. Bad Luck loped alongside the boys and a
young man walked behind. He was dressed in jeans and a flannel shirt, with the sleeves rolled up, and practical-looking boots.

When the boys were within shouting distance, Patrick yelled, “This is Jack, Mom. What’s for dinner?”

Gloria glanced at her watch and realized it was getting on toward five. “Hamburgers or chicken. Whatever your father brings back from town. Hello, Jack.”

“Hello, Mrs. Hastings,” answered the young man with a grin and a decidedly southern lilt to his voice.

“How did you manage to cross paths with Heckle and Jeckle here?”

“I noticed the boys were wandering down a gully. Spring floods can come quickly if you don’t know the signs.” Seeing a tightening around Gloria’s eyes, he quickly added, “Nothing to fret about, Mrs. Hastings. There’s been no rain in the hills for a couple of weeks, so there’s no chance of a flash flood. But it’s not a good place for the boys to play. Thought I’d mention it to them.” Gloria fixed a disapproving eye upon her boys, who decided it was time to vanish into the house in a clatter of sneaker-clad feet on the porch steps, punctuated by a slamming screen door.

Looking briefly heavenward, Gloria turned her attention to Jack. “Thanks, Mr.…”

“Cole, Jack Cole. And it’s no trouble, ma’am. I hope you don’t mind my being in your woods?”

“My woods?” asked Gloria.

“Your family’s, I mean. Your property line runs back a half mile beyond the creek bridge.”

“A half mile. We own property for a half mile from the house?”

“More than that. The bridge is almost a quarter mile from here, ma’am.”

“Gloria.”

For a moment he looked embarrassed, then he said, “Excuse my discomfort, ma’am, but I haven’t met a lot of actresses.”

Gloria laughed. “God! What are you? A fan, out here in the wilderness, after all these years?”

“Well, I’ve never seen you onstage, ma’am, but I’ve read about your husband, and they mentioned your career in passing.”

“Fame, so fleeting,” Gloria said with mock sorrow. “Anyway, just the fact you knew of my humble career calls for a drink, assuming the refrigerator is still working and you’d like a beer?”

“With deep appreciation,” he answered with a smile. “I’d been hoping to meet you and your husband.”

“Then come inside and I’ll scare up a beer for you. Phil should be back with the food shortly.”

Leading the young man into the kitchen, Gloria pulled the kerchief from her head, letting her ash-blond hair fall freely. Suddenly she was aware of a desire to primp, feeling both amused and alarmed by it. She hadn’t been in front of the cameras since before the twins were born, and had lost a lot of the automatic checking of appearance that was almost second nature to young actresses in the film jungles. Now this young man, little older than Gabbie from his appearance, made her wish for a mirror and a washcloth. Feeling suddenly silly, she told herself she wasn’t going to apologize for her appearance. Still, he was handsome in a way Gloria liked: unselfconscious, dark good looks, athletic but not overly muscular. Gloria smiled inwardly in anticipation of Gabbie’s reaction to the young man. He really was cute. Turning toward Jack, she said, “We’re still uncrating around here.”

Jack looked concerned. “I’m sorry if this is an inopportune time, ma’am. I can visit another day.”

She shook her head as she opened the refrigerator. “No, I just mean pardon the mess.” She handed him a beer. “And it’s Gloria,’ not ‘ma’am.’”

Jack’s eyebrows went up as he regarded the white bottle. “Royal Holland Brand,” he said approvingly.

“Phil is that rarest of all birds, a well-paid writer. He buys it by the case.”

Jack sipped the beer and made an expression of satisfaction. “I can imagine, considering the success of his films. Still, I’ve often wondered why he hasn’t written another book.”

“You’ve read one of Phil’s books?” Gloria asked, suddenly interested in the young man.

“All of them. And all the short stories he’s published. They should be put in an anthology.”

“You’ve read all three of Phil’s books,” she said, sitting down.

“Four,” Jack corrected. “He wrote that romance paperback under the name Abigail Cook.”

“God! You’ve done your homework.”

Jack smiled, a boyish grin on a man’s face. “That’s exactly what it is, homework. I’m a graduate student up at Fredonia State—”

Conversation was interrupted by an explosion through the door in the form of the twins and Bad Luck. “Dad’s here!” yelled Patrick, with Sean echoing his cry.

“Hold it down to a dull roar, kids,” commanded Gloria. As expected, she was ignored. The unpacking was a constant pain for Gloria, but the boys thought food from the local fast-food emporiums two nights running a treat.

Phil came through the hall door carrying two barrels of the Colonel’s best. Setting them down, he kissed Gloria on the cheek and said, “Hello! What is this? Cheating on me already?”

Gloria ignored the remark. “Phil, this is Jack Cole, a neighbor. He’s a fan of yours.”

Phil extended his hand and they shook. “Not many people pay attention to who writes a movie, Jack.”

“He’s read your books, Phil. All of them.”

Phil looked flattered and said, “Well then, Jack, there are fewer people still who’ve read my … Did Gloria say all of them?”

Jack grinned. “Even
Winds of Dark Passion
by Abigail Cook.”

“Well, I’ll be go to hell. Look, why don’t you join us for supper. We’ve both original and extra crispy, and there’s another bottle of beer where that one came from.”

Jack appeared about to beg off when Gabbie entered the kitchen carrying paper bags filled with rolls, potatoes, and other accompaniments for the chicken. She was on the verge of some comment when she caught sight of
Jack. For a brief moment the two young people stood facing each other in an obviously appraising fashion, and equally obviously both approving of what they saw. Jack’s face slowly relaxed into his biggest smile so far as Gloria said, “Jack Cole, this is Gabrielle.”

Jack and Gabbie exchanged nods, while Phil ordered the twins to wash up. Gloria fought off the urge to giggle. Gabbie absently touched her collar, her cheek, and a strand of dark hair, and Gloria knew she was dying for a mirror, comb, and clean blouse. And Jack seemed suddenly unable to sit comfortably. Gloria glanced from Jack to Gabbie and said, “Right, one more for dinner.”

Dinner was relaxed. Phil and Gloria, Jack and Gabbie sat around the kitchen table while the twins ate sitting on a crate before the television in the parlor. Jack had spoken little, for his questions had coaxed Phil into explaining the family’s move from California.

“So then,” said Phil, “with
Star Pirates
and
Star Pirates II
being such tremendous hits, and with me getting an honest piece of the box office, as well as a creator’s royalty on
Pirates III, IV
, and however many more they can grind out, I have what I like to call ‘go to hell’ money.”

“‘Go to hell money’?” asked Jack.

Gabbie said, “Dad means that he got enough money to tell every producer in Hollywood to go to hell.” Gabbie had managed to find a mirror, comb, washcloth, and clean blouse and had barely taken her eyes off Jack throughout the evening.

“That’s it. Now I can go back to what I did first, and best: write novels.”

Jack Cole finished eating and sat back from the table. “You’ll get no arguments from me. Still, most of your films were pretty good. The
Pirates
films had darn good
writing compared to most others in the genre; I liked that sly humor a lot—made those characters seem real. And the plots made sense—well, sort of.”

“Thank you, but even so, film’s more of a director’s medium. Even with an editor’s input, a book’s a single person’s product. And it’s been too many years since I’ve been able to write without story editors, directors, producers, other writers, even actors, all screaming for changes in the script. In films the writing’s done by committee. You’ve never lived until you’ve been through a story conference.” There was a half-serious, half-mocking tone to his voice. “Torquemada would have loved them. Some idiot from à multinational conglomerate who needs to have every line of
Dick and Jane
explained to him is telling you how to rewrite scenes, so the chairman of the board’s wife won’t be offended. Or some agent is demanding changes in a beautifully thought out script because the character’s actions
might
be bad for the star’s image. There are agents who would have demanded a rewrite of Shakespeare—have Othello divorce Desdemona because his client’s fans wouldn’t accept him as a wife murderer. Or the studio wants a little more skin showing on the actress so they can get a PG-13 rather than a G, ’cause they think teenagers won’t go to a G. It’s a regular
Alice Through the Looking Glass
out there.”