Phoenix Falling (31 page)

The actor lay on his bed, pale and bone thin, but he managed a smile when Kenzie entered. "I knew you'd come." He had the husky rasp of a long-term smoker.

As a nursing aide who'd been sitting by the window quietly left, Kenzie went to Winfield and took his hand. "I should have been here sooner, but I've been engaged in battle royal with the character I'm playing and didn't bother to check my messages yesterday."

Winfield made a rusty, wheezing sound that must have been laughter. "I've done the same thing myself. When the Muse sulks, the world vanishes." His head moved back and forth as if he was trying to get a better view of Rainey. "Are you going to introduce me to your lovely companion?"

Kenzie drew her to the bedside. "My wife, Raine Marlowe." This time he called her his wife more easily.

"I'm sorry I can't bow properly." Winfield's tired smile still had the charm he'd displayed in all his roles. "You should have won that Oscar for
Home Free
."

She grinned. "I'd like to think so, but what actor doesn't believe that every performance is a winner?"

He gave his wheezing laugh again. "So true, so true." His gaze went to the awards on the mantelpiece. "I've had my share of winners, and a great deal of amusement along the way. Don't mourn when I'm gone, Kenzie. Just drink a toast to my memory." He began to cough convulsively.

"I'll get the matron," Kenzie said tersely. "Stay with Charles."

Rainey obeyed, her throat tight. It was easy to understand Kenzie's deep bond with Winfield. If only her grandfather had a fraction of the actor's warmth.

Hoping a drink would help, she lifted a water bottle with a straw from the bedside table and held it to Winfield's lips. He took a tiny sip, coughed, then drank again. The attack ended.

As she set the bottle down, he caught her hand in a bony grip. "Take good care of the boy. He's had much to endure. Too much."

Rainey bit her lip, not sure how to reply. Didn't Winfield know about the divorce? Seeing her expression, he said impatiently, "Don't let him drive you off, child. He'll try, you know, but you mustn't let him get away with it."

Was that what Kenzie was doing? Rainey wanted to ask Winfield more, but Kenzie entered the room with Mrs. Lincoln, who came to the bed and did a quick examination of her patient. Voice thready, the actor said testily, "I'm still dying, if that's what you want to know."

"We're all dying, Mr. Winfield." Unperturbed, the matron checked his pulse. "The question is when."

"I'll fade on the crowing of the cock," he murmured.

"Is that more of your Shakespeare?" She smiled affectionately. "It's been quite the education having you here."

Rainey recognized the twist on a line from
Hamlet
. She guessed that Winfield was forecasting accurately—he wouldn't last the night. He'd wanted to see Kenzie one last time so he'd held on. Now he no longer had to.

Mrs. Lincoln gave her patient a pill and left. Rainey began to browse the bookshelves so Kenzie could sit by the bed and talk privately with his friend. Winfield had eclectic tastes that went from drama to biography to fiction, with lots of mysteries. Audio books had kept him company after his vision began to fail.

She moved to the photos that surrounded the fireplace. Winfield had been on friendly terms with most of the British theatrical world for decades. He'd specialized in witty, debonair leading men, later turning to character roles.

There were three pictures of him with Kenzie, who looked younger, but not really young. Was he born with those ancient green eyes?

One photo included a third man about Winfield's age. He was balding, with a homely, intelligent face. Not an actor, she guessed—he didn't carry himself like one—but he was in several other pictures with Winfield. A close friend, apparently.

The sun had set, so she turned two lamps on low for a gen-de light. Then she chose a lavishly illustrated history of the British theater and sat in the armchair by the fireplace to leaf through it. Though she tried not to listen to the murmuring conversation between the two men, her attention was caught when Winfield said in an effort-filled voice, "I've often wished I had a son. One like you."

"You were my father-in-theater," Kenzie replied. "That's almost as good."

"Better, maybe. Not many sons would support their fathers in such luxury."

Rainey kept her gaze on her book, not surprised to hear that Kenzie was paying for Ramillies Manor. She'd been married to him for two years before she'd learned by accident how much money he gave to charity. His preference was to help people, especially children, who were trapped by poverty and needed help to change their lives.

Winfield sighed heavily. "I always wanted to do a play with you. We won't have the chance now."

"We could do a reading," Kenzie suggested. "Is there something you'd like to perform one last time?"

"Splendid idea," Winfield said, his voice stronger. "Shakespeare, of course.
King Lear
would be the logical choice, but I'm not in the mood for a tragedy about a mad, foolish king." Another wheezing laugh. "I was always best in comedy.
Twelfth Night
? No,
Much Ado About Nothing
. I'll be Leonato, Constable Dogberry, and the friar, since I've played all of them. You did Benedick at RADA, so you know that, and you can do the other male parts. Raine can do the females. I think I know all my lines still. I've a couple of copies of
Much Ado
in the bookcase if you need help."

Kenzie raised his voice. "Rainey, are you up for this?"

Abandoning all pretense of reading, she set the theatrical history aside and rose to scan the bookcase. "I'd love to, and
Much Ado About Nothing
is a favorite of mine. I played Beatrice under a tent one summer." She struck a pose and declaimed, "
'But then there was a star danced, and under that was I born.'"

She found two copies of the play, one in Shakespeare's collected works, the other an illustrated volume of that play alone. Thinking of Kenzie's dyslexia, she gave him the single volume since it would be easier to read, then sat on the opposite side of the bed and flipped to the play in the
Complete Works
.

There was a spark of anticipation in Winfield's eyes, though he looked so fragile that it seemed a breath would blow him away. Rainey wondered if he'd last the length of the play, even though
Much Ado
was one of the Bard's shorter works.

She gave him her warmest smile. "I'll do the musical accompaniment." Trying to sound like trumpets, she sang a clarion fanfare. "Your cue, good Mr. Winfield."

In a frail but beautifully modulated voice, he spoke Leonato's first line. "I learn in this letter that Don Pedro of Arragon comes this night to Messina."

Since they'd all performed in
Much Ado
, the printed plays were needed only for checking the dialogue of secondary characters. Rainey loved the snappy verbal fencing between Beatrice and Benedick. Playing opposite Kenzie made it easy to create the undercurrents of longing and wariness between Shakespeare's frustrated lovers.

Despite the sometimes slapstick humor of the play, the circumstances lent power and poignancy to the reading. Win-field's love of his craft was obvious, the flowing beauty of the words weaving a garland of language.

But his voice became more and more labored. In the fourth act, he quoted the friar:
"Then shall he mourn... if ever love... had interest in his heart....
" He drew a long, rattling breath before whispering hoarsely, "Dying... is... easy. Comedy... is hard."

When he fell silent, Rainey looked up in alarm, but his chest still rose and fell. Kenzie waited until it was clear his friend would not complete the speech, then took over Winfield's parts. He read as if his future career depended on it, his marvelous, flexible voice perfectly capturing the rhythm of the blank verse.

Somewhere in the last act, the spirit of Charles Winfield departed, though Rainey couldn't have pinpointed the moment. When she realized he was no longer breathing, she had to exercise all her actor's discipline to keep going to the end.

After Beatrice and Benedick agreed to marry, still bantering but no longer able to conceal their love, Kenzie as Benedick spoke the last line of the play.
"Strike up, pipers!"

Remembering that she was the accompaniment, Rainey sang, but gay, matrimonial music was impossible. What came from her heart and lips was the traditional song "Amazing Grace." Though often played by pipers, it was a haunting tune, an elegiac thanks for divine forgiveness. Clementine had sometimes sung it to her daughter.

The silence after she finished was broken by a sob. She turned, and was startled to see a small group gathered by the door. The matron, staff members with name tags hanging around their necks, and several residents stood solemnly listening. An elderly woman in a wheelchair dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief.

Expression rigidly controlled, Kenzie stood and rested his hand on his friend's forehead before drawing the blankets over the still face. "Charles asked us to toast his death, not mourn. Mrs. Lincoln, can that be arranged?"

The matron nodded and whispered an instruction to one of her assistants. After the girl left, the silver-haired woman in the wheelchair said unsteadily, "Whenever Charles Winfield was in a play, I was there on opening night. He was always worth seeing, even if the play wasn't. It was such a thrill when he came to live here." She gave a watery smile. "He made me feel like a duchess."

A male staffer said, "He was always a real gent, no matter how bad he felt."

One by one, people contributed their memories. Rainey spoke last, saying, "I never met Charles Winfield before tonight, yet he made me feel like a friend. I wish I'd known him better."

As she spoke, the assistant entered the room with a tray of champagne-filled wine glasses. Rainey accepted one, unable to imagine such a scene in the United States.

Kenzie waited until everyone had been served, then said in a voice that filled the room,
"You asked to be toasted, not mourned, Charles, but I must do both. 'Now cracks a noble heart. Good-night, sweet prince, And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest!'"

He swallowed his champagne in one gulp. Then he hurled the wineglass into the fireplace. As it shattered into bright splinters against the brick, he said softly, "When one drinks a toast from the heart, one must break the glass."

"To Charles Winfield." Tears in her eyes, Rainey followed suit, as did the others. The wheelchair-bound woman rolled close enough to smash her glass into the pile.

As people wordlessly began to depart, Mrs. Lincoln approached Kenzie and Rainey. "It's very late. There are some visitor rooms upstairs, so you can stay here if you like."

Rainey glanced at Kenzie. Her throat was raw and she was weary to the bone. The thought of staying at Ramillies Manor was much more appealing than looking for a hotel at this hour.

Seeing her expression, he said, "We'd both like that, Mrs. Lincoln." After a last look at the mortal remains of Charles Winfield, Kenzie followed the woman out.

An elevator took them to the top of the building, where several doors opened off a narrow corridor. "These were servants' rooms once. They're small but pleasant, and convenient when someone needs to stay over." Mrs. Lincoln indicated one door for Rainey and the next one for Kenzie. "Sleep well. If you like, you can join us for breakfast in the ground-floor dining room."

"Thank you, Mrs. Lincoln. You've been very kind." Fingers clumsy, Rainey turned the old-fashioned key in the lock, then pulled it out and took it inside.

Closing the door, she leaned against it with her eyes closed. She was glad she'd come, but every shred of strength and emotion had been used up.

She opened her eyes to a pretty, gabled room such as might be found in a nice country bed-and-breakfast. There was also a connecting door to Kenzie's room. She smiled tiredly. How very clever of the matron to make this arrangement for two people of uncertain marital condition. She crossed the room and opened the door to Kenzie's room.

He stood at his window, looking blindly at the lights of London, but he turned when she came in. The composure that had carried him through the long night was gone, leaving him dark and hollow.

She opened her arms, and he walked into them. "I'm so sorry," she whispered, aching for him.

"It was time." He buried his face in her hair. "Charles had lived a full, long life."

"That doesn't mean losing him shouldn't hurt." Too tired to talk, she guided them the couple of steps to the bed, kicked off her shoes, and drew him down beside her. In a few minutes, she'd get up and take her clothes off, but for now, she needed so much to rest....

Chapter 24