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  His response was less enthusiastic, but she didn't notice, insulated by her own special happiness. “This may be the last time I have to renew the note, Jason. United Diversified just came through with a marvelous contract. By December-February at the latest-I should be in the clear.”

  “I can't renew the note, Molly.”

  “Do you realize what that means to my company? It's only been two years since I put together financing and-” The apprehension showed in her eyes first. “What did you say, Jason?”

  “I said I can't renew the note.” Picking up a pen, he tapped the point lightly on his pristine desk blotter.

  “Seriously?” Molly's stomach tightened convulsively. “Why not?” Panic was accelerating her heartbeat; she could feel the added flurry tingle through her body.

  “The interest rates are going up on short-term notes.”

  “So rewrite it. I don't mind paying higher interest for a few months.” She waited for the answer with the terrible feeling that her life depended on it.

  Setting his pen down, Jason moved it precisely in line with the edge of his desk. This martinet was concerned with symmetry when her business was at stake, she thought bitterly. “I can't,” he said, not quite meeting her glance. “We're not going to be writing short-term notes anymore.”

  An awful, sinking feeling overwhelmed her. “Does Bart have anything to do with this?” she asked suspiciously, carefully watching Jason's face. He wouldn't give her an honest answer if Bart was involved, but maybe she could read something from his denial. Although not close friends, she'd discovered during one of Bart's infrequent visits that they'd been fraternity brothers in college.

  “Of course not,” Jason replied, adjusting his perfectly arranged tie.

  “Don't of-course-not me, Jason, not after last time. Bart's little dealings through First National and Chip Ballay cost me a business, and you know it.” It annoyed her how the old-boy network supported each other exclusive of their employers, like a well-ordered, smoothly run mutual aid society.

  “That was all perfectly accountable.”

  “But not ethical, and you know it,” Molly snapped.

  “I'm sorry, Molly,” he said in a tone that was bland and hardly sincere. “Maybe some other bank could give you an interim loan. My superiors are on my case. We've renewed this four times now.”

  “I'll be able to pay the balance by the first of the year. Can't you tell them that?” She bit hard on her bottom lip to stop the tears from filling her eyes.

  He only shook his head.

  Composing herself with superhuman effort, Molly heard her calm good-bye, heard her reasonable voice telling Jason she'd call him by Friday and then in numbed panic she spent the next hour walking the downtown streets frantically totaling her assets, re-arranging payrolls, operating expenses, accounts payable and receivable in an attempt to come up with the two hundred thousand dollars she needed to pay off the note. Jason could suggest interim financing all he wanted, but if it was so easy, why the hell didn't he give her the interim financing. All she was asking for was another six months. You work for years to make a dream happen, work and sacrifice and work some more, nights, weekends, holidays, and then zap-a banker's reality.

  Returning to the office, she spent the afternoon with her assistant Theresa, going over expenditures. But everything was cut to the bone already. They had enough coming in to cover monthly expenses, but not enough to cover an extra two-hundred-thousand-dollar note, not until United Diversified's offices were finished and billed out. At four o'clock she left to pick up Carrie from school and tomorrow she'd simply begin with the other banks. If she talked to them all, perhaps someone would advance her the money. Her building was mortgaged to the hilt but she was beginning to see small profits at the end of the month and once the last empty spaces were leased, she could anticipate a healthy financial statement.

  But that eventuality wasn't today and after Carrie was put to bed that night, Molly indulged in a bout of crying self-pity-her responsibilities overwhelming her. As if being a mother, employer, and lease-holder to seven and a half stories of distributors wasn't enough, now, in addition she had to take on Midwest Metro's adjusted policy on note renewals as though it were a matter of accumulating enough dollar bills to fill a cookie jar. It wasn't dollars though, it was two hundred thousand impossible dollars and even thinking of the sum made her stomach constrict. Oh God, she dreaded tomorrow with the necessary calls on the banks. But what she dreaded more was the possibility of losing her business. The anxious fear crept in and filled her mind.

  When Carey called late that night after shooting, after the editing, after Christina had been politely sent to her own room, he almost immediately asked, “What's wrong?”

  “Nothing,” Molly said, valiantly trying to disguise her misery. “Too busy a day at work, that's all. How did the shooting go?”

  “Great. The weather cooperated. We're almost through with the midsummer scene. Probably Wednesday we'll finish, and I'll give everyone a couple of days off and come down. I'd like to meet Carrie, see your business, take you to dinner, all those domestic details I've missed in your life.”

  “I told Carrie I'd met an old friend at the reunion. A dear old friend. She's looking forward to seeing you. When I told her you were a movie director, she asked whether you could get her a date with Chachi from Happy Days.”

  “Tell her I'll check it out.”

  “And then Theresa my bookkeeper thinks you're the hottest thing to come down the pike, and Georgia called early this morning-”

  “What's wrong?” he repeated, interrupting the brittle elan. “Tell me.”

  “Nothing serious. Business stuff. It'll smooth over.” Molly hadn't perfected a gift for dissembling, and her answers were far from convincing.

  “The note?” Carey asked.

  She gulped in astonishment. “How did you know?”

  “Movies, even modest movies, cost millions, love. I've dealt with enough money brokers in my life to anticipate trouble. No renewal?”

  “Right,” Molly dejectedly replied.

  “I'll give you the money.”

  “We went through that last night. I can't take money from you. I'm going to the banks first thing tomorrow. Jason suggested an interim loan, only for a few months. There shouldn't be any problem,” she finished with a forced lightness. She didn't want to take Carey's money. After her bitter experience with Bart, she was wary of some man saying “you couldn't have done it without me.” She wanted her independence. Needed it. It was doubly important to her after having broken out at long last from her closed-in no-win marriage with Bart.

  “Is that the banker you were talking about last night?” Carey asked. “The one at Midwest Metro. Jason Evans?”

  “None other,” she replied, surprised at his memory for detail. “But enough dismal business,” she quickly went on, determined to shift the conversation from something that could cause an argument. Last night, Carey's mouth had clamped tightly shut when she'd refused his money, and she knew that expression from past experience. “Did you miss me today?” she murmured in a wonderfully fey voice that reminded him of splashes of sunlight.

  “Did Byrd want to reach the North Pole first?” he replied in an amused drawl.

  “That much, hey? Thanks.”

  “You're entirely welcome. It was a pleasure thinking of you, remembering you, remembering us, wondering occasionally how a relatively sane man could have been so stupid for so many years-”

  “You're glad I stopped by at Ely Lake, then?”

  There was a sudden silence, and for a moment Molly thought they'd been cut off. “Yes,” Carey said very softly, “I'm glad.” A hundred times that day, he'd been struck with terror when he thought how close he'd come to missing her-again.

  “Good,” she replied with pleasure.

  “I'll call you tomorrow. And if all goes well, I'll be down Thursday.”

  They hung up on whispered good-byes and silly love words murmured in childish
accents that would have shocked anyone familiar with Carey Fersten, film director. But they had their own private world and always had, a world of pet names and lispy silliness and warm, undiluted happiness.

  Three minutes later, Allen was summoned to Carey's motel room. Waving him to the phone before he was completely into the room, Carey said, “Get me George. It's important.”

  “He's on vacation for two weeks,” Allen reminded him. Carey's principle accountant had carefully explained his schedule before leaving, tied up any loose ends with Carey personally, and been wished a bon voyage.

  “Get me one of his assistants, then,” Carey said impatiently.

  “Problems?”

  “Nothing they can't handle.”

  “Care to wait till morning? It's midnight in New York.”

  “If I wanted to wait till morning,” Carey said in a monotonic voice, dangerous in its blandness, “I wouldn't have dragged you out of Valerie's bed. I want someone at CRT in New York,” he directed, his syllables rapid now, “and I want two hundred thousand dollars at Midwest Metro at nine o'clock tomorrow morning, care of Jason Evans.” Allen immediately paid careful attention to all the details because Carey was rarely demanding. This must be important to him. “Don't use my name,” Carey went on, “use the name of one of our corporations. I want the note paid in full and I want CRT to speak to someone in authority at the bank concerning the payoff instructions. Ms. Darian is to be informed there's no further problem with her note and she'll receive the renewal papers in ten days or so. She is to be informed with a maximum, stress maximum, of discretion and no details. I'm sure George knows someone on the board at Midwest who can authorize this discretion. I'd like to wring that prick Jason Evans's neck for making Molly uptight over this goddamned note, but for now we'll bypass the asshole. I don't trust him; Molly said he might be friends with her ex. If she doesn't think she's going to get the renewal papers for a few days, it'll give me time to talk her into my loan. Right now she needs her money problems solved. She and I,” he said in a level voice, “can argue the details later.”

  “The lady won't take the money?”

  “‘Pride,' she says. ‘Won't take it,' she says.”

  “Pride,” Allen repeated very slowly as though the word came from a foreign language. “Interesting concept,” he added with an ironic smile. “Is she left over from some ice age?”

  “She's a throw-away-the-mold, one of a kind,” Carey said grinning. “She's the best.” His eyes went to the phone, then to the clock. He wanted to call and tell her to sleep tight-Jason Evans was getting a kick in the ass tomorrow. But no way would that work. He turned back to Allen. “Got it now?”

  Allen nodded.

  “Report back to me after you hear confirmation from the bank.” Suddenly he stretched out his hand and smiled. “Sorry, Allen, for getting you out so late at night, and thanks in advance.”

  Allen was at the door when he turned and said, “This one's really different, right?”

  Carey looked up, his hand about to reach for the next day's script. Lamplight shone on his gilded head, softened the stark angles of his face, muted the predatory eyes. His thick lashes came up, and his direct gaze answered before his voice did. “She's the girl I left behind. And even though she doesn't know it, she was in every film I ever made. Yeah,” he said softly, “this one's different. She's the first one, and…” a smile flashed across his face, “the last.”

  “Sounds like congratulations are in order.”

  Carey laughed, a carefree, boyish sound Allen had never heard. “Thanks. A little premature. I haven't officially asked the lady yet. But thanks, anyway.”

  When Carey called Tuesday evening, a very different tone of voice greeted him. “My Honeybear sounds happy,” he remarked, stretching out on the hotel room bed.

  “The understatement of the century. They renewed my note, after all! Jason called early this morning. Can you believe it?” Joyous spirits were in every animated word.

  “Amazing,” he replied calmly.

  “This, Carey, my sweet, means I and my business will be totally solid by the end of the year, thriving and out of debt. It was like some miracle!”

  “Probably more like a calculated business decision,” Carey said. “That Evans fellow probably had second thoughts after he had time to sleep on it.”

  “Do you think so?” Molly queried. “It doesn't sound like Jason. Do you think I should call him back and ask him?” she went on, uncertainty coloring her voice. “This morning I didn't ask any questions. Just said, thanks, and hallelujah!”

  “I wouldn't,” Carey quickly interjected. “Hell, it's only business with those guys. No sense in questioning their motives. Bad for their karma. No, my luscious long-lost lover, ask me instead how the shooting went today.”

  “How?”

  “Terrific and finished.”

  “Finished! You finished the midsummer scene? That's a day early!”

  “My accountants sounded almost as pleased as you. Remember, I had the very best incentive. Rode the crew like an overseer.”

  “So when will you be down?”

  “Tomorrow, late afternoon probably. I have some editing to do tomorrow morning. Tell Carrie she can pick out the place to eat tomorrow night. I'm looking forward to taking her and her mom out to dinner.”

  “You always did like kids, didn't you? I remember you helping me baby-sit a few times, and the kids always liked you best. You should have had some of your own.”

  The silence was abrupt.

  “Oh, God, I'm sorry,” Molly apologized. “I forgot.”

  “Don't apologize. I shouldn't react that way. You'd think after all these years,” he finished with a small sigh, “I'd be reconciled.”

  “The government's still stonewalling it on the Agent Orange birth defects, I see,” Molly hesitantly said, wondering if it was better or worse to talk about it.

  “Along with all the other side effects. No one's ever going to admit fault and that's why the vets have taken it to court. At least it'll be out in the open there and the facts will be on record.

  “In the meantime, I've seen Jim Hill's daughter and Leroy Gazinski's son and I'm not taking any chances, regardless of the government's assurances Agent Orange is harmless.”

  “I suppose you're being sensible.” She didn't dare ask what problems the two children he mentioned had because his voice had broken when he spoke of them.

  “I'm not being sensible, I'm terrified of the consequences… and sometime when you have a couple of weeks I'll fill you in on my outrage,” he said harshly. “But let's not ruin my really great mood with this conversation. So-tell me what you want to do when I come down. We could take Carrie shopping or go to the zoo, or both, or something else. What do little girls like to do?”

  “She's not fussy. How long can you stay?” Molly understood his anger, his reservations, and his need to set it aside.

  “A couple of days this time. We have to talk,” he said seriously. “Which reminds me. Do I reserve a hotel room or can I stay with you? What exactly is the protocol involving moms with eight-year-old daughters?”

  “I want you to stay here.”

  “Sure it's okay?”

  “This is a very progressive, liberated woman you're speaking to.”

  “You're sure?” He still sounded uncertain.

  “Besides, I've a spare bedroom for you.”

  “Is that how you remained celibate for two years? I warn you, I sleepwalk at night.”

  “Sounds marvelous. My room is directly across the hall.”

  “How very convenient.”

  “I thought you'd like it.”

  “Are we going to play games?”

  “I don't know if I can remember any.”

  “I'll remind you.”

  “You're probably thinking of Italian countesses or the French model, or-”

  “Honeybear,” he broke in, his voice caressing, “only your games are unforgettable.”

  “Your reput
ation's showing, Carey Fersten,” Molly replied. “You're way too smooth for a small-town girl like me.”

  “My reputation's much overrated,” he retorted mildly.

  “You mean you really haven't slept with every woman between eighteen and forty in the world?” But under her bantering was a very real jibe.

  “Sweetheart, give me a break.”

  “Really?” His voice was so sincere she began to doubt all the stories.

  “Sure. I swore off eighteen-year-olds a long time ago.”

  “Carey Fersten! I'm going to beat you!”

  “Now we haven't tried that before-that's more British boarding school background-but what the hey, if you want to…”

  “You're a libertine.”

  “And available,” he murmured. Her jealousy warmed the heart of this man whose heart had remained untouched for a decade.

  “Damn you, Carey! I don't want to be one of a cast of thousands passing through your bedroom.” Her resentment was real this time, heated and fiery.

  “I burned my bedroom Rolodex this morning. The stench was spiritually bracing.”

  “You did? For me?”

  “Of course,” he said mildly, “you're my Honeybear.”

  From that point the conversation became scandalously amorous. Within minutes of hanging up the phone, Carey, prompted by a healthy libido, decided the editing could wait for a day or two. Leaving Allen with a few crisp orders, Carey was airborne in twenty minutes, copiloting the Lear, only thirty minutes away from Minneapolis/St. Paul International.

  CHAPTER 20