The Brat - Chapter Nine


 

I was getting better. I could walk a lot more easily, my knee bent a bit more freely and I didn't have nearly the discomfort I'd had when I'd first come up to stay at Frenchie's place. Consequently, when word came that I needed to be available for retakes of some crucial bits of "Far Side of the World", I was on the horns of a real dilemma.

For one thing, I wanted the film to be done right. For the other, I didn't want to leave the comfort and care of Frenchie's home. Or Frenchie herself. I won't say I was falling in love with her - but I surely did feel a lot of affection for her. Not to mention lust. And I liked her. Imagine that - after years of resenting her, of wanting to get my hands on her to humble her after our dealings when I was a kid - instead of hating her guts, I found a lot to admire.

"Peter wants me to fly down to LA next week to do some retakes," I told her at dinner the day I heard from my agent. "Think I'm okay to go?" I half hoped she'd say no and order me to stay there. Instead, to my disappointment, she smiled real big and acted like she was relieved I was going.

I have to admit, that hurt a bit. "Oh," I said when she'd finished being enthused about having her guest suite empty again. "Well - don't wanna outstay my welcome, then." I ate the rest of my dinner in silence, but no seconds, and I passed on dessert. I was staying trim, and it was good not to over-indulge, but I hadn't gained any weight either despite Consuelo's wonderful cooking. Seems she's a genius at balancing diets. Anyway, I shoved my chair back in the midst of some story Frenchie was telling the room at large, and left. I didn't want to hear any more.

Truthfully, I was stung more than a bit. I needed to go outside and be alone to get things into perspective. I sat on the chaise by the pool steps and smoked, staring out at the lights in the distance. It was cool and the pool water had a cloud of vapor over it, pretty with the underwater lighting shining up through it. I had a huge pool at home, on the farm, but it was totally different from this one with its plantings, little waterfall and uneven shape. I liked the more intimate, natural feel of this one and thought I might make some changes on mine at home.

Prissy came out through her little swinging doggy door and sat by my feet. I reached down and ruffled her soft fur, deep and soft as silk floss, while she gave me her irresistible Bichon smile. "I don't think your mummy likes me as much as I thought she did," I told the dog. She swiped her little pink tongue across my fingers and leaned in for more petting. "At least you're open about how you feel, eh, girl?" Her tail waggled happily, a plume of white feathery fluff.


I sat for a long time until the dog grew bored and began sniffing around the edge of the pool enclosure hunting for game. Not finding any, she abandoned me for the delights of indoors and went back in the way she'd come out. "They all leave me," I commented to the empty night air.

"Feeling sorry for yourself, eh?"

Frenchie's voice, coming as it did out of the quiet darkness, surprised me. I glanced back over my shoulder, stifling my startled oath. "Eavesdroppers usually hear what they want," I commented for an answer.

She came over to perch on the next lounge over. "When do you go to LA?"

"Soon - day after tomorrow I guess. Mark's flying back from Oz then and he'll pick me up at LAX, take me to my usual haunt at the Bel Air Hotel. He'll see to a driver and so forth - all the usual conveniences."

"Oh, well, that's good then," she said brightly. "I'm sure you'll feel happier with something to do besides just PT and reading scripts."

"Oh, sure," I lied. I would and I wouldn't. I was growing bored with the lack of something to do other than work on my exercises, but never with being there. I was learning about her, finding out what she thought, how she felt about things, what she liked and disliked. I realized that I'd become very involved in some of her cases, for instance, because she told me about some of her more difficult patients and what was going on with their care. I would miss that.

"You'll probably go out drinking with all your Tinseltown cronies," she added after the silence had stretched out until I wanted to yell at her and ask her how she could be so eager for me to leave when I. . .and here, I blinked, realizing something.

How could she be so eager for me to go? Didn't she know she was beginning to be important to me? That I was beginning to slide over the edge of love with her. . .
 

Thank God, he was going!

I didn't want to admit it, but I was beginning to get really attached to the Brat. He has a way of worming himself into your affections, of being so charming and funny that you can't help but like him. Once you get past his star's ego, that is.

Don't get me wrong - he's had that ego since he was a tiny boy toddling after me and annoying the daylights out of me years before. Rusty was always the star of every situation. If people didn't pay attention to him automatically, he'd do something to get their attention, most often something outrageous. Once you got around his need to be the center of things, and found the real man underneath that facade, he was very likeable.

What concerned me was that I was beginning to like him a little too much.

And not just in my bed. Although, I have to come clean here and admit he was the best I'd ever had - a generous, sophisticated, knowing lover who took the time to be sure I had as good a time as he did. Add to that his natural earthiness and his ability to mock himself even at the most passionate moments, and he was pretty much the complete package.

By that I mean the man I'd looked for in my twenties and thirties. The man I'd given up on ever finding. Now, here he was and at the most inopportune time. I was too old for him. He was too young for me. It would never work. Best he'd be gone. And soon.

Maybe if I told myself that often enough, I'd begin to believe it.

Right then, though, I didn't believe it myself. Resisting the urge to sit beside him, ruffle his hair, tease away the little vertical line that had come between his brows at the dinner table, I got up, rubbed my hands together in a scrubbing sort of motion and chirped a perky goodnight to him.

As I got to the door into the house, Prissy whined at me as if critiquing my performance. "You keep quiet," I whispered to her.

From outside, I heard Russell muttering something that sounded violently profane as he got up and went into the guest suite. "You shut up too," I said to his retreating back. When the dog looked up at me, accusation written in every furry line of her face, I ignored her and went into my study to read the new orthopedic journals that came that day.

Rusty Crowe - who needed him?