Chapter 7

My Lady's Chamber

Script, Episode #603

(PROLOGUE B: LYDGATE IN LIBRARY. HE IS AT THE DESK WHICH IS COVERED WITH PAPERS. A CLOSE-UP SHOWS HIM BORED AND IMPATIENT. WE HEAR)

AMELIA: Lydgate, the question of Rose Hill Farm must be settled. The tenants have had the use of that field for ten years. We cannot take it from them without compensation.

LYDGATE: Crawford tells me that the matter is settled. I have no further interest in it.

AMELIA: He let the field to his nephew. That's how he settled it. He took it from people who had been farming it for ten years and gave it to his sister's son.

LYDGATE: I repeat, the matter is settled.

AMELIA: (VERY FRUSTRATED) Then at least you must address the situation in Cornwall. You know what has been happening to the price of tin.

LYDGATE: (GLARES AT HER. HE HAS NO IDEA WHAT HAS HAPPENED TO PRICE OF TIN.) You take too much upon yourself, madam.

AMELIA: (STRUGGLING TO CONTROL HERSELF) I do not mean to offend you.

Week by week the ratings kept inching up. The number one show was in the middle of an explosive trial, but it didn't matter. Each week George, the show's executive producer, would come into Jenny's office with a fax of the latest numbers. He'd be shaking his head. "This is unbelievable. We're actually pulling this off. I never thought we would."

Jenny could feel the difference on the street. Neighbors who used to only nod pleasantly now spoke to her, having learned who she was. She overheard people on the subway discussing the characters. The clerks in the bookstore wanted to know what was going to happen next. The girl behind the register at the deli kept wishing for the show to be an hour long. "I really hate it," she said as she wrapped Jenny's sandwich. "It's over so fast."

Jenny loved it. All these people were watching her show, following her stories, caring about her characters. She was making their day brighter. If they were busy, she gave them an excuse for sitting down for thirty minutes. If they were lonely, she gave them companions. If they were curious, she gave them information, she taught them history. It was almost as if she were their mother, taking care of them.

Why couldn't Brian feel the joy that she did? He deserved to. He had worked as hard as she had to get the show started. But the show's success wasn't making him happy. He didn't seem to care. He wasn't happy. And she wanted him to be happy. She would have done anything to make him so. At least one of us should be happy.

My Lady's Chamber

Script, Episode #501

AMELIA: (STARTLED) You cannot be thinking of leaving your husband. (THIS NEVER OCCURRED TO HER.)

GEORGEANNA: I thought you understood. Phillip is so cold. He cares nothing about me.

AMELIA: But he is your husband.

GEORGEANNA: So am I doomed? (A WILD, FRANTIC GESTURE) I have the right to be loved, don't I? Peregrine loves me. Are you telling me I should turn my back on that? Are you telling me that love doesn't count?

AMELIA: I'm saying that—

GEORGEANNA: (DESPAIRING) I thought you were on my side. I thought you understood.

Francine Kenny, the elegant and distinguished-looking actress who played Lady Varley, the show's maternal confidante, stopped by Jenny's office. "Murr and I have been wondering about something." Murrfield Thomas played Lord Courtland. "There hasn't been anything in the scripts all summer about us being in love with one another."

"There hasn't?" Jenny stared at her. "Are you sure? That can't be right." Lord Courtland and Lady Varley were the characters who had loved each other since childhood; their devotion was a steady contrast to the other characters' flighty passions or rigid coldness. Their love had never been an urgent front-burner story, but it was a "tent pole," something that held the other stories up. There was no way Jenny could have gone three months without mentioning it.

"I'm positive, Jenny. Trust me. I'm right."

Of course she was. The actors kept close track of exactly how many pages they were getting in each script.

Jenny tugged at her hair. "I'm sorry. It just fell through the cracks. We have so much material right now, I made a mistake. It doesn't mean anything. We aren't trying to get rid of that element. Honestly we aren't."

Francine looked relieved. Actresses in their fifties did not find other work easily. "We were worried about that."

"Don't be. And thanks for coming in. I should have noticed it myself."

Francine left, and Jenny jerked angrily at the papers on her desk. It doesn't mean anything.

Had she said that? Of course it meant something. It meant everything.

She had modeled that love on Brian and herself. She had done so consciously and deliberately. I thought that's what love was, growing up with someone, sharing your past with him. But she didn't believe that anymore and so unconsciously, unaware, she had stopped writing about that love.

My Lady's Chamber

Story Outline

Episodes #455-520

Georgeanna and Amelia are in the same boat—married to men they have no affection for. Georgeanna's response is stormy, passionate, and rebellious, and she ends up pregnant and exiled. But as much as we disapprove of Georgeanna's wild behavior, we don't want anyone wholeheartedly applauding Amelia's stoic acceptance. There's a cost to making her decision, a narrowing of herself.

When Georgeanna is determined to run off with Peregrine, Amelia withdraws her support. She is not cold-hearted, but her imagination cannot encompass an alternative to marriage.

George appeared in the door of Jenny's office. She spoke first. "Did you realize we haven't said anything all summer about Lady Varley and Lord Courtland?" He had probably come to talk about the latest ratings, but this was more important than the numbers. She had made a mistake with the story. That was awful.

He thought for a moment. "You're right. I guess we haven't. Is it a problem?"

She sighed. "No, I suppose not." At least not a problem with the show. And she just wasn't going to think about what it said about her own life.

"I have some other news," he said. "You know who Edgar Delaney is, don't you?"

"Of course." He was a well-respected Broadway comedian with several Tonys to his credit.

"He loves the show. He wants to join the cast."

Jenny drew back. "Come on, George, you know we don't do celebrity walk-ons."

They had had these requests before—big-time stars who, as a lark, a publicity stunt, wanted to be on the show for a few days. But Jenny felt that those appearances were like winking at the audience; they undercut a show's illusion of reality.

"It isn't like that. He wants to sign a contract."

"He does?" Edgar Delaney wanted to join the cast? This was a different story. People like Edgar Delaney were so often snobs about daytime. The whole soap community loved it when an actor with a solid theatrical reputation joined a soap. "What's the catch?" She could tell by George's face that there was one.

"He wants to start September first, and his agent has declared that that's non-negotiable."

"September first?" It was August seventh.

September first was three weeks away. She couldn't introduce a new character on three weeks notice. It would mean reworking the entire fall outline and revising many of already completed August scripts as well. It wasn't possible.

And she had meant it when she had told Francine that they had too much material right now. Tricia Steckler, who played Georgeanna, was due back from her maternity leave in September. David Roxbury, who played Peregrine, would be back then too. Jenny was going to be underutilizing them. It was no time to add a new character.

But Edgar Delaney? He wasn't knocking on Paul Tomlin's door wanting to join Aspen!! "What did you tell them?"

"That it was absolutely ridiculous, and you were the only writer in the business who would even consider it."

Jenny liked hearing that. She liked what people said about her—that she was the most flexible, most responsive writer in the business. Having that reputation was important to her. "I guess I can think about it."

* * *

Edgar Delaney's interest was not public information, but that night Jenny told Brian. He had always known everything about the show. She had told him automatically. It wouldn't have occurred to her not to. But as she told him about this, she felt uneasy. He was, after all, a member of the cast. One actor shouldn't know about another's contract negotiations.

He listened to her stiffly. "So it's your decision," he said.

"It is, and I don't know what to do. It will be so much work, and we have so many wonderful stories coming up. I already let something slip without noticing."

"Then don't do it."

"But this is Edgar Delaney. What a coup. I almost feel like I owe it to all of daytime to do it."

"Then do."

A lot of help he was.

* * *

By the end of the next day she knew that she had no choice. This was an opportunity My Lady's Chamber was going to have to pass on. It just didn't make sense. It would involve too much upheaval, too much change.

The decision depressed her. It was the right thing to do, but it was so adult. Having her own show had always been such fun. "Hey, kids, let's put on a show"—-that's what it felt like sometimes, she and all the kids in the neighborhood putting on a play in someone's backyard. Of course, the network often tried to spoil her fun, telling her she couldn't go on location, she couldn't build new sets, but the network was the grown-up, everyone out in Brooklyn were the kids, and kids always have to work around grown-ups' rules.

Now she was turning into one of the grownups. This wasn't supposed to happen to us, Brian. We were going to remain kids forever.

Late that afternoon she went down to the studio floor. She liked being alone on the sets, sitting where the characters sat, touching the things that they touched.

The studio was cool. Once the lights went off for the day, the heat in the room rose into the darkness above the catwalks and the electric cables. Jenny turned on a few floor lights and began to pick her way through the trail of cables, ladders, and discarded styrofoam cups that surrounded the pristine sets.

She stopped at Amelia's bedchamber. She did like this set—it was one of the loveliest. The walls were a quiet green with delicate, intricate moldings detailed in ivory. The furniture's scrolling curves were painted ivory and trimmed in gold. The bedhangings were a pale primrose with a soft pattern of green vines. Jenny sat down on the bed, leaning back against the headboard, imagining Amelia here.

Amelia was married to a man she didn't love. As were Georgeanna and Lady Varley. Jenny hadn't noticed how often she was using that device. At least Georgeanna and Lady Varley loved other people. Would Amelia fall in love again?

Would Jenny?

She heard footsteps. It was a heavy tread. She guessed it was one of the security guards wondering who had turned the lights on. She called out.

The footsteps quickened, and a moment later Alec Cameron came around the walls of the set.

"That didn't sound like you." Her voice inflected upward, an unconscious note of pleasure. "I thought you had a lighter step."

She had no idea that she knew what Alec's footsteps sounded like, but apparently she did.

"I might," he said. "But His Grace of Lydgate doesn't. I'm tromping the halls, breaking in a new pair of his boots." He stepped onto the set so she could see.

He had on his own shirt, a loose, faded blue polo shirt. Beneath it he was wearing the duke's cream pantaloons and a pair of Hussars. The pantaloons were knit, fitting over his thighs with the closeness of tights. The gleaming black leather of the boots came up to his calves, rising to a slight point in front. Handsewn seams molded the boots to his legs.

"They're nice," she said.

"Thanks."

His answer was brief, and he started to move away. Clearly he did not intend to interrupt her.

"No, no. Don't go," she said. "Do you want to sit down? Take a break from your breaking in?"

"If you are sure I'm not bothering you."

As an answer Jenny waved her hand toward the one seat on the set, Amelia's delicate vanity stool. But Alec paid no attention to her gesture. A moment later his weight was pressing the mattress down, and his blue polo shirt was brushing against her arm. He was on the bed with her.

Jenny shifted uneasily. Why had he sat on the bed? It was too familiar, too intimate.

But it wouldn't feel intimate to him. He was at home on this set. He played scenes here two, three times a week. This bed was where he worked. It would feel no more intimate to him than her office sofa did to her.

She folded her arms so they weren't touching his and tried to think of something to say.

"I saw a copy of the press release from the leukemia people." She hardly knew what she was saying. "You do a lot of work for charity, don't you?"

His hair was rumpled—he had long since brushed out Lydgate's artfully windswept style. His shirt strained just a bit at his shoulders and then fell in loose folds over his torso.

"A fair amount, I guess," he answered. "But it's mostly for the leukemia foundation."

Actresses, especially daytime actresses, were used to this business of sitting right on top of other people. The sets were so narrow, the shots were so tight that the actors all stood closer together than people did in real life, and they got used to it. Karen, Trina, or Pam would think nothing of sitting so close to Alec.

"Why leukemia?"

"My little sister had it."

Jenny winced. All thoughts of herself and proximity vanished. "What happened? Is she okay?"

"No. She died."

"Oh, Alec." Jenny turned, propping her elbow against the headboard, wanting to see him better. "I am sorry. How awful."

"It was, but it was also a long time ago."

"When was it? How old was she? How old were you?"

"She was nine when she got sick, twelve when she died. I was a year older. She would have a much better chance now. Survival rates have improved a lot. The technology is remarkable."

His voice was even. He must be used to talking about this. He undoubtedly had a set spiel that was part of his pitch at fund-raisers. Jenny knew that she was supposed to talk about treatment and technology. But she wasn't interested in treatment and technology. She cared about people. "What was she like? What kind of girl was she?"

Alec had been prepared for the treatment-and-technology question. It was a moment before he spoke. "What was she like?" He stared up at the dark tangle of overhead lights. "She was a great kid, but funny, full of contrasts. Even before she got sick, she looked fragile, and I guess she was. She was always pale and slight, and she never seemed to have much muscle. But she was tough. She had this fabulous sense of balance which made her fearless. She'd walk across any beam in the barn. If we needed to reach something, we'd throw her up on Bruce's shoulders, and she'd go up on tiptoe to—"

He broke off, rubbing one hand across the back of his neck. "I'm not sure I'm going to do a very good job of talking about this... but it probably does explain why I tend to be drawn to women who have a lot of contrast in them."

"Like Chloe Spencer?"

That just popped out. Jenny knew she shouldn't have said it. But when she had imagined the frail little girl standing tiptoe on her big brother's shoulders, the girl had had Chloe's delicate features.

"Chloe didn't have as much contrast to her as I first thought," he replied.

Jenny waited for him to go on, but he didn't. He wasn't going to talk about Chloe.

"So what happened after your sister died?" she asked instead. "What happened to your family?"

"That's a real soap writer's question."

He was right. It was the sort of question writers of soap operas asked. No story was ever completely over in such a writer's mind. The end of one caused another to start. That was how soaps worked, and Jenny believed that was how life worked. "Some families fall apart after a child dies."

"I think that might have been a danger for us," he admitted. "For two years everything had been about Meg. We had all organized ourselves around what she needed. That's what we understood family life to be about, working together for something. I suppose we would have fallen apart if we hadn't found something else to focus on."

"What was that? If you don't mind my asking, that is."

"Actually it was me. No, no"—he held up his hand, cutting off her surprise—"I wasn't sick. I had Talent." His voice put a capital letter on the word. "During the last six months or so Meg liked people to read aloud to her. Everyone did it, but I was the one who enjoyed it, and soon it became clear that I was good at it. By then my teachers had noticed and they started pushing my parents, 'You have to do something with this boy's talent.'"

So there had been lessons and opportunities. "Prince Edward Island has a lot of tourists in the summer, and there are all sorts of little recitations and theater performances for them. You know Anne of Green Gables? I was Gilbert from one end of the island to the other."

The lessons had had to be paid for. Someone had to drive him to auditions. If a production was too far from home, living arrangements for him had to be worked out. Even as his older brothers and his one surviving sister married, they still helped out.

"That's a big responsibility, being the focus of the family's energy," Jenny said. "How did you feel about it?"

"Ambivalent, I guess. I loved performing, I liked all those opportunities. And since there were six kids in the family—five by then—who wouldn't want to feel special? But I was fifteen when I went off to Ontario to spend the summer with a repertory company, and I did feel like my talent was taking me away from the family just as surely as Meg's leukemia had taken her away. But I don't know why you called it a responsibility. I didn't see it as that."

"Could you have quit?"

"Oh." He saw her point. "Fortunately I didn't want to."

"What reconciled you to being the one with Talent?"

"It was when I was—" He stopped. "Oh, I suppose it was just growing up, getting used to it, that sort of thing."

"That's not what you were going to say."

"No, it isn't."

"Why not? Was it about sex?"

He looked down at her again. "How did you know?"

"I know stories."

He smiled. "And if I don't tell you, you'll imagine something much more dramatic and lurid, won't you?"

"Of course."

He had been sixteen. "Which might not be early in New York but it certainly was early on Prince Edward Island." He was a good-looking kid, and the lady in question had been the sister of his high school drama coach. She was divorced and had come back home to live with her brother's family. She had sewn the costumes for the school play.

"Measuring your inseam and all?"

"Don't make a joke of it. This is my life."

But Jenny was right; that had been how it had started.

"So what did this have to do with going to New York and becoming an actor? Did you think that actors have sex all the time?"

"Yes, I did. Don't laugh. I was only sixteen. And I did know that things like this were not happening to my brothers. If this was what having talent meant, then I was glad that I had signed up. But what about you? I take it you didn't come to New York just to have sex all the time?"

She shook her head. "Actually it was Brian's dream that brought us here more than mine. We've been together since almost before we could walk." He must already know how long she had been with Brian. It was common knowledge around the studio. "I knew I wanted to write. I didn't at that time know that I belonged in television."

"What did you think you would be doing?"

Clearly Alec wanted her to talk about herself. He had one arm crooked behind his head, his face turned toward her. His raised arm pulled his shirt close to his chest. Jenny wondered what he had looked like at sixteen.

I tend to be drawn to women with a lot of contrast in them.

She was tempted. Contrast? Did he want contrast? She could make herself sound chock-full of contrasts. I may look short, but I have the wristbones of a very tall person... I may be a writer, but boy, do I know my multiplication tables... I may look married, but I am not.

What was she thinking of? She wasn't the sort of person who needed every man on earth to be attracted to her. She didn't flirt, she didn't cast lures. Why had she even thought about it for one minute? I may not be married, but I feel like I am.

* * *

At home she found a note from Brian. He had an early audition in Manhattan tomorrow. He was spending the night at the Broom Closet. He had been planning a cauliflower curry for dinner. The recipe was in—

Jenny dropped the note. She wasn't making cauliflower curry. She would eat an apple and some microwave popcorn.

Why was Brian going to an audition? Why wasn't My Lady's Chamber enough for him? Here she was, writing the best show on daytime, and it wasn't enough for the man she was supposed to love. He could have a gigantic story, the best story on the best show. All he had to do was sign a longer contract.

She had originally intended Sir Peregrine for him. He would have been perfect in the part, but the network wouldn't accept someone in that important a role without a multiyear contract. David Roxbury, who had been cast in the role, was now flooded with opportunities while Brian was still signing his daytime contracts six months at a time.

Was it going to be like this for the rest of their lives? Would he spend his entire adult life as restless and dissatisfied as he had been as a kid?

Their whole lives. Forever. Like this. But what was she going to do? Sorry, bro, you've been a bit of a downer lately. I'm out of here. Sweat it out on your own. She wasn't like that. Alec Cameron wasn't the only one with a sense of responsibility.

Alec... with one arm crooked behind his head, he had gestured with his other hand, letting it rest on his leg when he wasn't talking. Terence had said that he had the best-shaped hands in the cast. That had surprised her. She had always thought that Brian had elegant hands with his fingers so tapering and long. But she could see Terence's point. There was a power and a strength in Alec's hands, a sureness, a—

She had to stop thinking this way. She had to. Brian was her life. She loved him.

She picked up a magazine. All the women in the ads were so graceful and feminine, so completely unlike her. She turned on the TV. The news was on—the local weather. But what was the point in listening? It was August. It was going to be hot.

This wasn't working. Her thoughts were still churning. Only one thing could stop her from thinking.

She went up to her third-floor study and turned on the computer.

MY LADY'S CHAMBER

MEMO

DATE: August 8

TO: George

FROM: Jenn-Jenn the Revision Queen

I know Sept. 1 is only three weeks away, but let's go for it. Tell Edgar Delaney that he can join our happy band. I'm totally psyched. Read the attached, and if you think it's as wonderful as I do, take it to the network boys. I'm assuming that they will shriek no more than usual so I have already started monkeying with the finished scripts.

MY LADY'S CHAMBER

MEMO

DATE: August 16

TO: All Cast Members

FROM: Miss Royall

Please disregard memo dated August 14 and be advised of the following script changes:

#614 act IB becomes #615 act 1C

#614 act 2A becomes #615 act 2B

The attached salmon-colored pages are revisions for #613 act 1A. The attached cherry-colored pages are revisions for #613 act 3A.

Delete #614 act 1C and expect new pages for #615 act 3A.

Those of you who wish for complete, clean scripts, please address your concerns to our Xerox repairman.

The level of chaos that hit My Lady's Chamber was nothing like Alec had ever seen before. Sometimes the cast would go three days without getting new scripts, and revised pages were constantly being added to the scripts that they already had. Each new set of revisions came on a different color of paper, and the scripts began looking like rainbows—pink paper, lavender paper, pumpkin paper, goldenrod, blue. The associate producer was having to plead with people to change their days-off schedules. Everyone was keyed up and jumpy.

Alec had heard of films going through this kind of revision, but never television, especially daytime television. They had to complete an episode every single day. And this show had only one week between the day they taped a show and its air date. That wasn't much margin for error. What on earth was Jenny thinking of?

Wardrobe said that they were getting two new characters. The actors had been in for fittings. "An old, kind of fat guy," the people from wardrobe said, "and a girl with a major pair of boobs."

"What kind of parts do they have?" That's what the cast cared about. "How do they fit in?"

The girls in wardrobe didn't know. "But whatever it is, it's going to be wonderful," one answered. "Jenny would only do this to make the show better."

People were starting to make mistakes. Lady Courtland's props were put in Lady Varley's chamber. Jaspar wore Colley Lightfield's stickpin. Wardrobe sent Alec a pair of pantaloons to wear at Almack's. By now even he knew that men had to wear breeches to Almack's.

Jenny might be making the show better, but the show was already good enough. These last-minute ideas might be great, but they were too disruptive. Alec was convinced of that.

Somebody needed to stop her. Somebody needed to warn her how thin the ice was. That was the executive producer's job. But of course George wasn't going to stop her. Neither would Terence or Gil. None of them were leaders. George hated confrontation, and Terence and Gil only thought about their camera work. This little ship was sailing straight toward the edge of the map because no one was bothering to navigate. Did anyone else see how close they were to running out of ocean?

He jammed the last round of script revisions back into his mail box. He would deal with them later. He took what he hoped was today's script and went up into the rehearsal hall.

It was still early. A couple of people were getting coffee. Trina Nelson and BarbEllen Garrett were sitting at the table, taking off their nail polish, a bag of cotton balls and a bottle of polish remover between them. Colored fingernails would have been historically incorrect.

Alec greeted them. "So you two got moved back into today's lineup?" According to his latest set of revisions, their scenes had been cut out of this episode and moved to tomorrow's.

"What do you mean?" Trina held up her hand, checking for stray traces of polish. "Were we ever out of it?"

Alec didn't like the sound of that, and two minutes later Terence confirmed his suspicions. Trina and BarbEllen were needed tomorrow, not today.

"Why didn't anyone tell us about this?" BarbEllen dropped a red-soaked cotton ball in disgust.

"We did hand out revised pages," Terence said. "And I told Jill"—she was one of the production assistants—"to be sure and talk to you. At least I think it was Jill."

Trina slowly placed the cap back on the polish remover bottle. Clearly she did not remember any conversation with Jill.

She wasn't happy. An actor was paid for each episode he appeared in. BarbEllen and Trina had dragged themselves out of bed, come out to Brooklyn, and spoiled their manicures for nothing. They would not be paid for the day.

"We'll call a car right away," Terence offered. "We'll take care of getting you home."

"Thanks," BarbEllen said. She did not sound overwhelmed with gratitude.

Along the table people were looking at each other. There was whispering over by the coffee trolley. The mood in the room was uncertain. Whose fault was this? BarbEllen and Trina's for not paying enough attention to the piles of multicolored revisions that were appearing in the mail cubbies every day? Jill for not talking to them? Terence for not being clear enough in his directions? No one knew whom to blame.

Alec knew the answer. You didn't blame anyone. The show might be badly run, the cast and crew might be crazy, but they worked as a team. They were united, they were comrades. They shouldn't jeopardize that.

Alec grabbed his script and flipped to the second-page summaries. Terence was passing behind him to get a cup of coffee. Alec leaned back in his chair and gestured for Terence to come closer. "Amelia has tea with Lady Varley in 2B." He kept his voice low. "How strange would it be to have their maids with them at the start of the scene?"

"Only mildly," Terence answered. "But they wouldn't be doing anything, they wouldn't have any lines."

This tightwad of a show couldn't stand to pay people who didn't have anything to do in an episode. Alec got out of his chair and drew Terence to a corner. "You've got two cast members who are pissed off, and they have every right to be so." He was speaking firmly. Terence had to do something. "A little money will take care of it. Pay Trina and BarbEllen for the day, and they will feel fine. The show isn't going to be canceled because the network has to pay two actresses for an extra day."

Terence picked a bit of fluff off the sleeve of his black shirt. He was thinking. Then he made a decision. "You're right. Of course you are." He went back to his place and made a note on his script. He rapped on the table, calling the cast to sit down. "A few more changes, people. Please bear with us. In 2B, Trina, you'll follow Amelia into the room. BarbEllen, you'll take her wrap. Then you both leave. If you want copies of the show for your Emmy reels, please let us know."

The tension in the room eased instantly. People smiled at Terence's little joke. The show was being generous. The family was looking after its own. Everyone felt better.

"Then I'll need a wrap," Karen said. "I've already got my costume and it didn't have one."

"Fine." Terence made another note on his script. "Will someone tell wardrobe that Amelia will need a wrap?"

No. Don't say "someone." Make it one particular person's responsibility. Otherwise it may not get done. That's why we're in this mess in the first place. Alec leaned forward and caught the eye of Steve, one of the production assistants. He pointed to him, and Steve nodded. Yes, he would take care of it.

Alec settled back in his seat and picked up his coffee cup. Over the rim he saw Brian giving him a good, hard stare. Brian had noticed Alec assigning the task to Steve. And Brian didn't like it.

Fine. Don't like it. But if you don't want me doing it, start doing it yourself.

If this thing blew up, it would be right smack in Jenny's face. Surely Brian had every responsibility, both professional and personal, to try to defuse the explosive. He had as much daytime experience as Alec did. He had to know that this wasn't right. He had to know what should be done to fix it. But he wasn't doing a goddamn thing.

Alec could feel his impatience with Brian hardening into contempt. He found it hard to be around the other actor. Then it occurred to him that there was no reason to keep those feelings out of his performance. How much compassion would Lydgate feel for a servant?

He waited for the right script. One day Amelia, in her distress and anxiety, returned home very late. Dinner was delayed. The incident was supposed to be about her unhappiness, but when Hastings came to tell Lydgate, Alec let his character go harsh and blaming.

The contempt in Alec's performance left Brian blinking. Alec didn't care. Imagine Jenny every single day that she lives with you. This is what it's like to be on the other end of total self-centeredness.

Alec moved off the set quickly, but he had to stop and wait for the girl from wardrobe to untie his cravat. Brian "moved in," as one of the scripts would say.

"Hastings is a nice guy," he said pleasantly. "Why are you treating him this way?"

Alec wanted to smash his face in. Brian didn't even have the courage for a confrontation. Why are you acting as if we like each other?

Brian didn't like him, Alec was starting to see that. Until Alec had come, Brian had been the most established actor on the show. He had some of the perks that came with experience and success. He was the only actor who didn't have to share a dressing room, and it was the largest one in the building, the only one with a phone. But he hadn't been given that dressing room because he was a success. He had it because he was the head writer's boyfriend. Production on the show had started before Jenny's office had been finished. She needed somewhere to work. That's why a phone had been put in—for her, not him. He had just held on to it after she had moved upstairs.

You like the perks of being important, of being a star—the phone, the private dressing room. But you don't want any of the responsibilities. And you aren't important. You aren't a star.

But he was the head writer's boyfriend, and Alec happened to think that said head writer was one terrific person who was making some big mistakes. He forced himself to speak calmly, softly. There was no point in getting angry.

And there was also no point in talking about the characters. They weren't the issue. "How's Jenny doing?"

"Who, Jenny?" Brian was surprised by the change in subject. He drew back, a little wary. "Why do you ask?"

"All these changes in the scripts. Something's going on."

"Of course, but you're going to have to get used to that." Brian's tone was patronizing. "If she gets a good idea, she runs with it. That's the price we pay for having such a good show."

The price we pay? Alec didn't give a damn about the price we paid. What about Jenny? What price was she paying? This had to be a phenomenal amount of work. "Is she holding up okay?"

"She's fine. Jenny's always fine."

Alec wanted to rip off his cravat and throttle the man. No one was always fine. How could you be married to a woman—or nearly married—and think she was always fine? Well, why not think that? Then you never had to do anything for her.

This was what Chloe would have been like if they had still been married during Aspen. She might have fretted a little about what Alec was going through, but she would not have been genuinely worried. Alec would be able to cope with anything. She believed that with all her heart. Her faith in him was touching, but it also excused her from doing anything to help him.

Had there been some kind of sign-up sheet at birth that he had missed? Sign here if you never want to be accountable for anything or anyone. Why did life let some people get away with this?

He lowered his voice. "How can she really be fine? She did have a miscarriage a couple of months ago."

Brian stopped dead. His face went expressionless. He had been playing a butler for two years; he had expressionless down cold. "Ah, but that isn't any of your concern, is it?"

That goddamn son of a bitch. Forget the cravat. It would take too long. Alec would use his hands, his own two hands. Get them around that pale throat and squeeze. Grow up working on a farm and you had strong hands.

This stupid costume. Why didn't it have any pockets? What were you supposed to do with your hands? How were you to keep from killing your fellow actors if you didn't have any pockets?

* * *

"Alec, wait up."

It was Jenny's voice, calling out to him as he was leaving the building. He turned to wait for her. She was sprinting down the hall, wearing a baggy sweatshirt and a pair of black cotton shorts. They were good shorts, cuffed and pleated, but clearly the manufacturer had intended them to be ironed, and that Jenny had not done.

"I hear you saved us last week," she called out. "The business with Trina and BarbEllen showing up on the wrong day." She was at his side now. "Thanks. We need all the help we can get. We are sort of making this up as we go along."

Alec opened the door for her. She looked tired, but she was smiling. There was a relaxed, impish glow about her. The kid in the tree house was back.

He loved seeing her like this. It was great to be around people who were still having fun.

But fun could be dangerous. Tree limbs could break. Tree houses could fall. Someone had to warn her.

"What's going on, Jenny? All those changes in the scripts. What are you up to?"

She looked at him sideways; her eyes were dancing. "Can you keep a secret?"

"Of course."

"You know who Edgar Delaney is, don't you?"

"Sure." Alec broke off. "Wait a minute. He's not the 'old, kind of fat guy' wardrobe's making costumes for, is he?"

Jenny nodded.

"That's incredible." Alec forgot everything he had wanted to speak to her about. Edgar Delaney joining the cast? All of daytime would be thrilled. "Is that what this has been about, making room for him?"

"Do I hear astonishment in your voice?" She flicked her hand close to her ear as if she was listening to a tuning fork. "What is surprising about a fine actor wanting to join a fine show?"

"Oh, shut up," Alec told her. This was remarkable news. "Tell me the deal."

"He loves the show. But it was September first or nothing. So I needed to lay some groundwork for the character, and of course once I got going, I just kept thinking of all these cool things, and I couldn't stop myself. The story is going to be so great. Can I tell you about it? You can keep a secret, can't you?"

She had already asked that. "Of course I can."

She went over to the loading dock. It was high, hitting her just below her shoulder blades. But she put the heels of her hands on the dock and hitched herself up. Not many women could do that. She was strong.

Alec didn't know exactly what he had in mind when this conversation had started—probably to try to get her to understand the possible consequences of so many last-minute changes. What matters on a soap, he would have said with deep-voiced pomposity, is consistency. We cannot come in day after day and do our jobs if we aren't sure whether or not we're going to have the right scripts.

But instead he was leaning against the loading dock, listening to her tell the new story. She was laughing, swinging her legs, banging her heels against the cement riser. Her hands were moving wildly. It was a good story. She had such terrific ideas, she was so fresh and creative. He had to approve of what she was doing. Of course he did.

It was hot outside, hotter than it had been in the air-conditioned building, and she pulled off her sweatshirt. Her T-shirt was sleeveless, and when she waved her arms, the clear, clean muscles of her arms moved beneath her skin.

She was amazing. He had to ask, "Did you worry that you might not be able to make it work?"

She shook her head. The sun cast a golden highlight in her hair. "No, I don't worry about that. I never know how hard it will be to do something, but I always know that I'll be able to do it. I trust my imagination."

"Why?"

She looked puzzled. "What do you mean, why?"

"I told you all about my past. Now you can tell me about yours, why you trust your imagination."

"I don't know." Her answer was bright and cheery. "I suppose it's never let me down before. Why should it now?"

That couldn't be the whole story. Who had let her down? Why had she needed to depend on her imagination?

"Do you know what interests me about you?" he asked.

"That I can take the next three years of your career and turn them into the theatrical equivalent of the Bermuda Triangle?"

"No, that's what terrifies me about you. What interests me is how you always seem so open, so simple and uncomplicated, and you aren't."

Lots of actresses tried to cultivate a Greta Garbo-like air of reclusive mystery when, in truth, they would tell anyone anything if it would bring them publicity. Jenny was the opposite. She acted as though she was telling you everything, her manner made it seem like she had nothing to hide. But she did.

"So I am a woman of contrasts?" Why had she said that? It seemed like an odd phrase. He didn't answer, and when he looked back at her again, the imp was gone. She was watching him silently, seriously, with some kind of question in her eyes.

This was exactly what he had meant. Here was the other side of her, here was—

Oh, Lord. Alec stopped breathing. The world was spinning. Here on the concrete apron of the loading dock, here in the hot late afternoon August sun, he was riveted, disbelieving. This couldn't be happening. Not to him. He was sensible, he was down-to-earth, he was Canadian. But it was happening. He had never been more sure of anything in his life. He was in love with her.