This story is for readers over the age of 18 only, and contains explicit sexual situations and adult language. The writer is not responsible for any "discomfort" caused to the reader by this language and these situations.

©2001 by WILDBEARIES

Future Perfect - Section IV

He left on Wednesday, refusing to let me drive him to the airport because he said we'd both disgrace ourselves sobbing at the gate. He was right. I sobbed at my front door instead while he held me tightly and reassured me over and over that it wasn't going to be for long. I had hold of his jacket and he finally had to pry my fingers loose. "I have to leave Lynn, let go now."

I got hold of myself and dragged in a couple of very shaky breaths, feeling pretty silly. "I'm okay," I announced, lying my ass off. I thought fleetingly of going with him, just running off, but that was just a pipe dream, I knew I couldn't really do that to everyone.

"You sure?" he asked softly, when I finally smiled at him.

I nodded, not trusting my voice.

"That's my girl. Now, here is my plan - I'm coming back in 3 weeks for casting meetings and all that shit, and when I go back to Oz after that - probably six to eight weeks - I want you to go with me."

I nodded, smiling a little more now. I found my voice, "I will. I'll be ready when you are."

We stood there, just gazing at one another as if to memorize each other's features, then he sighed deeply, and mumbled, "I have to go now, Lynnie." He turned abruptly and went down the back stairs instead of taking the elevator. He told he later that he knew if he waited for the elevator to arrive, he would have changed his mind, turned back and not left. I wished then that I had locked the door to the stairs.

He called me from the car on the way to the airport, then he called me from the VIP lounge at LAX, and from his seat in First Class on the 747 as it waited to taxi. By the time I got to work, he had called me four times and I was a wreck. I wanted only to go to the airport and get on the first flight to Australia. Sandy took one look at me, bundled me into my office with coffee and Kleenex, and eventually prevailed upon me to go home for the day.

"You look awful," she told me, "go home and cry it out. I'll call you if there's anything I can't handle."

I did. Jake, bless his heart, didn't say anything when he had to turn right around and follow me back home again. He even offered to fetch me anything I wanted, so I know I must have looked pitiful. I assured him I had everything I needed, minus one very important person who was by then no doubt in flight over the Pacific. I sent him home for the day.

I spent the rest of the morning alternately crying and talking to Russell on the phone. He could tell I was upset, and when I admitted I had been sent home from work by my own secretary because of the state I was in, he got even more upset. "I swear to God, I'm getting off this plane in Honolulu and coming back there for you."

"No, no, don't do that!" I begged him.

"Lynn, I'm going to do it." He was adamant, I could tell from the stubborn, obstinate tone in his voice.

"Arrrgh!" I wished I hadn't answered the phone when it rang this time. "Please, I'll be okay, I promise. Don't change all your plans for me."

"Lynn, all my plans involve you, don't you know that by now?" Oh, God, his voice had a tremor in it that just killed me.

"Yes," I whispered. "Russell, I love you so much."

"Expect me," was all he could get out, then he disconnected.

I sat in the middle of my bed, looking like the wreck of the Hesperus, grinning like a fool and crying at the same time. My head ached fiercely, so I got up, took two painkillers, and lay back down, thinking I probably wouldn't sleep, but I did.

The phone rang a couple of hours later, but it wasn't him this time, it was Sandy checking on me. I assured her I was fine despite sounding muzzy-headed, and explained that I had taken some Fioricet and slept a long time. "Er, Sandy," I finally broached the subject, "do you think we could finish up things here this week so I can go to Australia?"

She dropped the phone. I listened, laughing as she cussed and finally got hold of the receiver. "Oh sure," she said calmly, "why do you ask?"

We laughed loudly together, because she knew damn well why I asked. I explained what had happened, and though she clucked her tongue at me - probably because she felt it was her duty to do that - she eventually said she would get everything organized so that anything that wasn't handled by Friday could either be done by phone or email. I told her she was a saint and that I owed her big-time, which she agreed with heartily.

I lay back down but was too agitated to sleep. I got up, showered and did my hair so I looked less like a witch, and engaged in an orgy of packing and sorting that lasted until I turned the news on at six p.m. I didn't know what time Russell would be back, I was hopeless at figuring out time schedules on flights, and didn't know when he could even get on a flight from Hawaii back to Los Angeles since he would be improvising once he got off the Pan Am flight. Given the unreliability of airline schedules, it could be the next day before he got back.

My phone rang just as I switched onto one of the local newscasts. "Hello?"

It was Sandy, sounding odd. "Lynn, is your television on?"

"Yes, I just turned on the news, why?" I glanced at the screen. Pictures of a Pan Am jet, then pictures of wreckage burning in a large area. My heart stopped. "Sandy?"

"Lynn, what flight was Russell on?"

I couldn't think. Finally the numbers came, "Ten something, ten twelve…I can't remember! Where was this crash?" Would they never say it on the screen? Finally a caption crawled across the screen, "Two hundred known dead in crash of Pan Am Flight 1012 in Hawaii." This time I dropped the phone.

The announcer was saying, "There are survivors, but it's not known at this time how many or where they got on the flight. Pan Am has released only a partial list of passengers pending clarification of the names of people who boarded at the last minute. Among those confirmed as being on board when the plane left LAX are several of local significance including Russell Crowe, two-time Academy Award winning actor," his voice droned on but I seemed to have lost my hearing. I shut off the TV, hung up the phone and disconnected it, and turned off the lamp.

I couldn't fathom it. I didn't feel as though he was gone, and but probabilities were that he was. How could someone so vital just be whisked away in an instant? Yet I knew it happened all the time. I don't know if I slept or passed out or what, but I was awakened some time later by loud pounding on my door. I dragged myself to it, if only to stop the noise, and realized it was Jake and Sandy.

I unlocked the door and let them in. They both looked worried, but Jake also was white as a sheet, and I knew he was thinking he had lost a friend as well as an employer he enjoyed working for. Sandy made me tea, but Jake, being more practical, brought me a large glass of brandy and made me drink at least a quarter of it before he was satisfied.

Sandy plugged the phone back in, and Jake turned on the television set, but with the volume turned way down, switching it to CNN when the local station had nothing new. There they had more information. The jet had landed in Honolulu, then taken off, apparently had some kind of electrical failure and plowed into a mountainside on the north end of Oahu, unable to circle back to the airport. There was wreckage strewn from the mountainside into nearby pineapple fields and beyond.

Something nagged at me, and I suddenly sat straight up from where I had been slumped on the sofa. "Take off, they said it crashed on take off!"

Jake and Sandy looked at me as if I had grown another head. "Yes," Jake finally said, obviously a bit more in command of himself than Sandy, who was red-eyed and sniffling.

"When he called the last time, he told me he was going to get off in Honolulu and fly back here! Don't you see? He's probably still enroute, and Pan Am doesn't show that he got off because they probably don't know it."

Jake began nodding, and Sandy stopped sniffling, and thus began an hour of phone calls to every airline we could think of that might fly out of Honolulu and into LAX. None of them showed Russell as a passenger from Honolulu, but again, they might not have last-minute changes and they admitted that. "Okay, we're going to the airport," Jake announced, taking charge.

We ran down the back stairs, piled into the black SUV and headed for Los Angeles Air Port. Jake drove like a maniac, somehow avoiding getting stopped, and we were there in the shortest time I could remember ever reaching LAX from my apartment. We parked in short-term parking because I didn't want to wait while Jake found a cheaper but farther away spot, then we sprinted into the main terminal.

It was bedlam, but we fought our way over to the Pan Am desk first, only to be told if we were there because a friend or loved one was on Flight 1012, we had to go to a special room that had been set aside for us. We all went. I was glad Jake was with us because Sandy, bless her heart, wasn't holding up very well given the fact that she was 62 years old and not up to long distance sprints through crowded airports while under great stress. Jake fought his way to the front of the room and found out what he could, struggling back through the unhappy, upset crowd after about half an hour. Sandy and I sat and tried to be patient, but it was really difficult.

Jake had a list of known deceased. We went down it. "It's alphabetical," I announced, pleased about that at least. "Here are the C's - Carnahan, Corwin, Craggs, Crown, Czechy….he's not on it!!" Crown had given me a turn though, and I looked again to be sure I hadn't misread it. "Crown, Alvin and Tamara," I read. Poor Mr. And Mrs. Crown, I thought, trying not to be glad it was their names and not Russell's on the print out.

Jake was speaking into his cellular, arguing with someone that I later found out was a friend of his, the chief of LAX security. "No, they need to wait in the VIP lounge, this place is a mad house." He listened, snapping his fingers impatiently. "Good, right, I'll bring them down there now." He flipped the phone closed. "We're going to Pan Am VIP, it's more private than this place. A friend of mine is going to help me check all possible flights from Honolulu tonight to see what airline he is on." I was pleased that he was also thinking that Russell was not on the downed plane. We exchanged hopeful grins.

We went to Pan Am's VIP lounge and got Sandy settled there with my cell phone. She would ring Jake's phone if she heard anything, while Jake and I went with his security chief friend and began checking out other airlines.

It was maddening, frustrating work. I hadn't realized how many airlines had flights out of Honolulu, nor that there were some that originated there and then flew to Maui, changed numbers there, and flew on from there to LAX and other destinations, so that flight listings were hopelessly confusing. Plus, I had forgotten about other carriers such as JAL, Qantas (which should have been an obvious one!), Singapore Airlines, and so on. All had flights out of Hawaii. I began to feel as if I was swimming upstream in a river full of glue.

After a couple of hours, I was ready to drop. I was gloomily contemplating a nap on the floor of VIP beside Sandy's chair, when Jake ran up to me and grabbed my hand excitedly. "What, what?" He just grinned and dragged me down the concourse to International Arrivals. He shoved his way onto the tram and we were whisked out to JAL's gate area. He was haggard and operating on adrenalin. He led me at a gallop to Gate 71. At that point, I realized there were press people following us. I wasn't sure if they recognized me, or they also knew something, but I was too tired and wrought up to care.

A jumbo jet was just parking at the gate. It seemed an eternity, but they eventually opened the doors and passengers began disembarking. I was shaking uncontrollably. Jake held onto my hand, also quivering, and I don't think either of us breathed as we searched the faces of the tired people walking off the plane. There were several older women, a business man, a mother and an infant, and then, walking with that gait I would know anywhere, there was Russell.

I don't remember doing it, but Jake assures me I jumped the barrier that separates passengers from people in the waiting area, and the next thing Russell looked up, his expression comically confused because he certainly hadn't expected to see me hurtling towards him sobbing and shouting his name. Nor, of course, had he expected flashguns to be going off. He stopped dead and grabbed hold of me. Other passengers parted and shoved by us, then Jake and the security chief, who had just run up, bustled us to one side and into a small lounge.

"Will somebody please tell me what the fuck is going on?" Russell asked, obviously bewildered. Jake explained briefly. I was too overcome to speak, I could only cling to his side and hug him, alternately crying and laughing. I know he thought I had lost my marbles.

"Bloody hell," he muttered, when the whole thing sank in. "I think that it must have been divine inspiration for me to turn around and come back, don't you?"

"Whatever it was, I'm so glad you're such a stubborn bloke," I told him. I wanted to wrap him up in bubble wrap and take him home.

"Oh, always," he said with a wry smile. Then we emerged from the lounge to find the group of reporters and cameramen waiting, apparently having sniffed out the story from various people who knew what was going on. Russell was polite, especially given how tired he was, and concerned for me and Jake and the fact that he could have been on that plane that crashed and not survived it.

"Early reports were that you were on Pan Am Flight 1012, Russell," one of the more senior reporters from CNN asked, "how did you come to be on this plane instead?"

Russell stood with his arm around me and smiled tiredly. "Dumb luck, George, pure dumb luck. Oh, and this sheila here," he squeezed me tighter while I smiled up at him. "I was halfway home and realized I had to change planes and come back for her."

I shut my eyes against the flashes and the TV lights, but when his lips brushed my forehead, I opened them again. He was pale and exhausted and the most beautiful man on earth.

"Miss Sykes," the same reporter asked me, "care to comment?"

I shook my head, unable to speak, but I never stopped smiling.

"She's happy," Russell put in for me to general laughter. He started walking, "We need to get some rest, guys, how about a break?"

"What are your plans, Russell?" the reporter from ABC called out, walking just beside our little group - Jake, Russell and me.

He sighed, but answered in a clear voice, "To sleep for about a day, and then, if she'll have me, I intend to marry the sheila and take her home."

"How 'bout that, Lynn?" the woman from Entertainment Tonight asked me. She was smiling and friendly, and I knew Russell liked her, so I smiled back and answered her. "I'll have him," I answered, and stopped our forward progress to pull his face down for a kiss.

The group around us whooped and hollered while taking pictures that I was going to see in print and on television for months to come, but I didn't care. Russell was safe, he was with me, and I intended to never let him get on a plane again unless I was with him.

Jake's friend went to collect Sandy and we headed outside into the almost-dawn. I hadn't let go of Russell since I first got up to him. Now we leaned tiredly against one another, and, when we crawled into the back seat of the SUV, we both fell asleep. I didn't even wake up when Jake dropped Sandy off at her place. He woke both of us when he stopped in front of my building, and I let go of Russell long enough to give Jake a hug and kiss for being such a good friend. Then Russell and I trudged inside, almost dozing on the way up in the elevator. I unplugged my phone and we undressed, falling onto my bed where we slept the clock around.

I woke first. I was so hot, I thought at first I must have turned on the electric blanket, but then I realized from the weight across my thighs and waist that Russell was wrapped around me, half-smothering me. I scooted around until I was facing him and planted a kiss on his forehead, brushing his mop of hair out of the way. One eyelid lifted marginally. "I am sleeping," he murmured.

"You're roasting me, let me kick off the covers." He half-heartedly lifted his legs and arms when I tugged at the bedclothes until I was finally able to pull off the extra covers. "There, now, that's better."

"Now, I'm cold," he complained sleepily.

"People who sleep in the nude shouldn't complain when those of us who don't are perfectly comfortable."

I thought he was adorable, lying on his side, drawn up in a fetal position, but definitely the most adult looking fetus I'd ever seen. Also I'd never seen one with such nice muscular legs covered with dark blond fuzz. Or shoulders like that. Or, for that matter, a chest or backside like that.

"You're getting drool on me," he commented, more awake than I had thought. Then one arm shot out and he grabbed me, pulling me close for a thorough kissing. As usual, he didn't play fair, ending his kissing with tickling fingers on my ribs and belly where he knew I was most vulnerable. Of course, it was fun because he followed the tickling with kisses and little licks of his tongue. I began tickling him in return, and gave him as good as I got.

He cried uncle first, rolling out of bed to answer the call of nature, while I snuggled comfortably with his pillow, happily breathing in his sandalwood cologne and his own personal scent of healthy male. He got back in bed, determined to begin where he left off, but I eluded his grasp and ran for the bathroom. When I emerged a few minutes later, he had actually gone back to sleep. He was lying on his stomach, hands shoved under the pillow, hair over his face, with just the top sheet pulled up to his waist. I wanted to eat him up but settled for sliding carefully under the sheet beside him where I scooted right up against him and put my arms around his waist. I kissed his shoulder, yawned and went back to dreamland for another couple of hours. It was heaven.

Hunger drove us both out of bed eventually. "I think I could eat a horse," Russell announced, standing naked in my kitchen after we had showered.

Being more modest, I was in his footy shirt and a pair of anklets, hunting up food in the fridge and pantry. I emerged with two filets mignon which I proceeded to quick thaw in the microwave, some fresh Portobello baby mushrooms, and huge potatoes. "If you want to help, put on some clothes," I ordered, "otherwise, out of my kitchen, no nekkid helpers allowed in here, it's unsanitary."

"Unsanitary," he griped, but went to hunt up something to wear. "All my clothes are dirty," he yelled from the bedroom.

"Your blue sweats are folded on the washer, you forgot to pack them. They're clean." I seasoned the steaks and shoved them into a bowl of marinade while I put the potatoes in the microwave for fast baking. I was too hungry to wait for them to bake in the oven. I heard Russell rattling around in the bedroom and then he padded back into the kitchen wearing the sweats. "Hi, cutie," I greeted him, then handed him a head of lettuce, a salad bowl, a big tomato and some other greens. "Salad," I ordered, and he set to work.

I broiled the steaks, sautéed the mushrooms in butter with herbs and garlic, and everything got done at almost the same instant, which was a minor miracle because that usually never worked out for me. It must have been my salad chef bringing me good luck.

We ate at the kitchen counter, sitting on barstools. When we were finished, there was nothing left but a few crumbs of salad croutons in the big bowl. Russell finished his bottle of Victoria Bitter and burped softly, grinning at me happily. "That was brilliant, keep on feeding me like that and I'll weigh 500 pounds by Christmas."

"Well, I thought you were supposed to fatten the Christmas goose," I teased him, then ran for cover when he grabbed for me. He caught me in the living room because I deliberately slowed to a walk.

"Christmas goose, is it?" he demanded, holding me over his lap, poised to tickle.

I nodded, "Yup. With all the trimmings."

"You're a hard one, aren't you? Tough little sheila."

"Very tough," I lied, "I have to be, around you."

He bent and kissed my whole face, then my mouth. "No, you don't," he murmured, "I'll be tough for both of us."

I had him by the hair so he couldn't straighten up. "I'll be tough too, everyone will be afraid of us."

His eyes crinkled as he smiled. "Us, is it?"

I nodded, still holding onto his hair. He lowered his mouth to mine and kissed me until I was limp. When I let loose of him, he sat up, cuddling me against him. "So, will you?" he asked me, his face extremely serious.

"What, exactly, did you have in mind?"

"Ah-hah, going to bargain, hmm?" He flashed me his smart-ass grin and plopped me onto the sofa next to him. "If we're going to be business-like about this, luv, you have to sit somewhere besides on my lap."

I giggled, eyeing the ridge in his lap. He put a throw pillow over the area, so I sat demurely, hands folded.

"That's better," he approved. "What I have in mind, Lynn, is a partnership."

"Partnership?"

"Well, yes. With me as the senior partner, of course." He ducked when I swiped his pillow and acted like I was going to hit him with it. "Okay, I give, I give! Equal partners."

"That's better."

"Of course, I'm more equal," he added offhandedly, laughing when I yanked his hair. "Ow, stop that! Equal partners it is."

"What else?"

"Since you're determined to make me spell it out, luv, I want you - Partner A - to be my wife. I, on the other hand, as Partner B, will do my level best to be a superb husband. This partnership will involve a lot of travel, and I want you with me for all of that, no excuses."

I nodded agreement, having already reached that same determination.

"I will also be the tough guy in this partnership. I'll punch the bad guys, slay the dragons, bring home the beast to be roasted for our table, and be ridiculously faithful to you, Partner A."

I spoke up, "And I will be ridiculously faithful to you, Partner B, and will be tough - but feminine!"

"And children, Lynnie, we haven't discussed that."

"Yes. I would love to give you children, as long as you promise me they will be as beautiful as you."

He rested his forehead against mine, whispering, "No, as beautiful as you are, Lynn."

"Well, all right, if you insist." I was prepared to be magnanimous as long as he was handing out the sweet talk. "Ten, I think."

He blinked. "Ten? How about two, one of each?"

"You drive a hard bargain, mister. Two it is."

He leered, "I drive a hard something, but I've never heard it called a bargain before."

I pretended to ignore that. "And I want something to do while you're slaving in front of the cameras, I don't intend to just stand around looking decorative."

"No, that's my job," he quipped, laughing when my elbow connected with his ribs. "I want you to have something to do, Lynnie, that's why you're co-producing Botany Bay, unless you don't want to. You can do whatever you want, y'know."

"I want to, I want to learn all about movie making, all the behind the scenes work. I know it's difficult, but fascinating. And lots of times, we'll be on location, right?"

"Sure, not always, but fairly often. The caravans are nice though - all the comforts."

An idea was blossoming, something I had put aside for years, telling myself one day I would do it when my career allowed me the time. I beamed at him. "I accept."

"Those gears clicking over are pretty loud, girl, but whatever scheme you're hatching is fine with me as long as you promise to be with me and love me madly."

"Not a problem," I informed him, and threw myself into his arms. "I'm so happy!"

He kissed me, then put me back on the sofa, and went into the bedroom. I had no idea what he was up to until he came back carrying a small velvet box. He saw my expression and smiled his "I put one over on you" smile. He knelt on one knee and opened the jewel box. "Miss Lynn Sykes, would you do me the honor to become Mrs. Lynn Crowe, wife to that Aussie reprobate, Russell Ira Crowe?" He removed the ring from the box and held it out to me.

My breath caught. It was a cushion cut diamond with aquamarine baguettes on either side all set in pink gold and it was incredible. "I…I…yes," I finally stammered, and held out my hand to him. He slid the ring onto my left ring finger, and I melted when I realized his hands were shaking. I was teary-eyed and couldn't really focus on the ring except to see that it sparkled and flashed in the light. "It's beautiful!"

"I'm glad you like it. I had it made by the same people who did your pendant."

"Pretty sure of me, were you?" I couldn't resist teasing him. I wanted to dance around the room and onto the balcony, but settled for leaning down to kiss his beautiful mouth.

"No, I wasn't, actually," he admitted when we stopped for breath. He climbed onto the sofa and I leaned against him, his arm holding me close. "I wanted to give it to you Tuesday night before I left, but I chickened out."

"You?"

"Oh, you'd be surprised," he rumbled, "I'm not as tough as I look."

He was tough, though. And we both needed to be during the days after the plane went down in Hawaii. Everyone had thought he was killed, then there he was, miraculously having gotten off the plane in Honolulu to rush back to the states to propose to his lady fair, as the press began referring to me. It made me grind my teeth, but if Russell could stoically ignore the gushing press, so could I.

He was besieged for interviews, finally granting one to Larry King, but refusing everyone else. He explained that he had changed his mind about leaving me behind and simply gotten off Flight 1012 when it landed in Honolulu. He had called home to tell his family members not to expect him after all, that he was going back to the States to fetch me, and walked down the concourse in the Honolulu airport, checking at each ticket counter until he found a flight he could get on.

"What did you think when you got off at LAX and the press was waiting?" King wanted to know.

Russell laughed and answered that he didn't know what to think, he was so jet lagged. "Plus, my sheila came flyin' at me over the barricade - she's pretty much all I saw for a while there." He was charming and witty, looking his scruffy, adorable self. I stood off to one side, watching, blowing him a kiss when he said that.

His dimples flashed, and he raked his fingers through his hair - a sure sign he was nervous. But, he had confided to me, interviews always made him nervous. That was why he jittered around so much. "Just pray I don't yank at the crotch of my jeans or something." I knew he had actually done that - thankfully during a radio interview and not on television - but in his nervousness he had commented on what he was doing to the interviewer. "Just adjusting my, er, my bits."

I had heard the tape by then and it was hilarious, but he said the woman interviewing him had almost swatted him with her notebook. "She just thought you were going to ravish her," I told him.

He had made a face. "Not bloody likely, she looks like a squirrel." He demonstrated a serious overbite and crossed eyes. I told him he should think about doing a comedy, he was so good at funny faces.

He finished with a brief synopsis of "Botany Bay", describing some of the locations where we were going to be filming, and announcing that Steven Spielberg was directing. After a brief discussion of the physical work involved in shooting in Australia, they broke for a commercial, Russell and Larry King shook hands, then he was finished. He practically sprinted off the set, grabbed my hand and hurried me out the door. "Before he thinks of any more questions," he told me.

"I never knew you were so shy," I teased him. We paused in our descent down the back stairs to kiss for a few minutes, enjoying being alone, even if it was in a dark stairwell, then we were out the rear door and climbing into the SUV. Jake was driving. He and Russell immediately launched into a discussion of the logistics of who should be hired for our trip back to California in October, since it was pretty much a given that more security people and Russell's "cavalry" should be re-employed. I looked out the window at the lights, enjoying their banter, listening to Russell's voice. I think I would know that voice anywhere, could pick it out of a crowd, heard it in my dreams.

"What are you lookin' so chuffed about?" He asked, stroking my leg idly.

"Your voice. Life. You. Dumb luck."

"Dumb luck?" He looked puzzled.

"That I changed jobs when I did. That they assigned their biggest problem client to me. That I had the guts to go to Australia and track you down."

He smiled and kissed me. "That wasn't dumb luck, Lynn. That was Fate taking a hand."

"Whatever it was, I'm so glad I did it."

"So am I," he whispered in my ear. "So am I.

The car sped into the night while we contemplated our future. It was going to be wonderful.

Christmas in Oz

It was December 10th, and, though there was no snow on the ground, and the temperature was closer to 80 than 30, I still felt that wonderful, warm fuzzy sensation I always had around the winter holidays. It was my first Christmas in Australia, and I was trying to figure out where to put some of my ornaments and treasures amidst the crowded bookshelves in the living room. I propped an antique bear in one corner, put his red knitted cap on him and felt I had accomplished something. Now, to find niches for the other dozen or so items. I wondered if Russell would mind if I put my porcelain crèche up in front of the case where his Oscars stood. I decided to ask first.

Grasping another bear, this one wearing antique baby clothes, I climbed one step further up the small ladder and tried to reach a spot I had scoped out on the highest shelf. Mid-stretch, a warm hand snaked up my inner thigh under my skirt and I squeaked in surprise. The ladder tilted and I fell, but luckily, the owner of that hand was there to grab me before I crashed down.

"Russell!" I yelled, more surprised than hurt or mad. "Don't do that!"

Warm laughter, then he turned me to face him and slowly lowered me so my feet touched the floor. "I couldn't resist," he claimed, "there you were, reaching up like that, and I could see straight up your skirt. I figured you were advertisin', so I was lettin' y'know I was interested."

I tried scowling at him, but his display of innocence - so at odds with the mischief in his eyes - was too comical. "Oh, okay then. Here, you put this bear up there in that corner." I pointed. "And while you're up there, let me hand you a few other things."

He put on a hangdog look, but was soon up on the ladder and busily arranging things so I could have my Christmas items on display with all of his. He even set up the little crèche and porcelain Holy Family for me, then arranged the small animals, Wise Men and shepherds around it. Amazing how his big hands could be so delicate handling the tiny figures. "You need some camels and sheep, Lynn," he informed me, jumping down and dusting his hands.

"They're antiques and I guess most of them didn't survive till now." I didn't mention that the one set of animals I had found for my set had been so expensive that I hadn't bought them. I closed up the cardboard box and set it aside. I eyed my special padded box of hand-blown glass ornaments, wishing I had a safe place to display them. He saw me and opened the box, nosy creature that he is.

"Oh," he took a small, red blown-glass bear ornament out of its nest of tissue and examined it up close. "I like this one. What else ya got in there?"

I unwrapped several and showed him: a teddy bear in a Santa outfit; a pink kitten inside a shoe; tiny fruits and nuts; various houses and shops - all made of blown glass and hand painted like the real, vintage ornaments. "Aren't they nice?"

He nodded, handing me back my tiny bear. "Yeah. I remember stuff like that." He grinned when I unwrapped a silver and black moo-cow with all kinds of glittery trim. "So, maybe we should decorate the cows for Christmas, whadaya think, Lynnie?"

"Garlands?" I asked.

He nodded.

"Lights on their horns?"

"The ones that got 'em, yeah." He was grinning, obviously getting into the spirit of it.

I unwrapped some glittery bells in gold and silver. "Bells?"

"Definitely." He tinkled one of the gold bells sitting on his mantel. "Cow bells and garlands, I like it."

"You just love those cows, admit it." I repacked my precious ornaments and closed the box. I would find a safe place to store it and hope next year maybe there'd be a place to display them.

"We're just good friends," he teased. "There's this one particular heifer I've gotten real close to, though. She's got red, curly fur and tits to die for."

"Does she, now?" I took a large mistletoe bell out of its wrappings and turned to face him, holding it over my head. "Ya wanna do somethin' about that, buster?"

He made a grab for me, but I squealed and ran across the room, flinging the mistletoe at him. He dodged and got hold of the back of my tank top. "Gotcha, now come back here with those."

I pulled away, to no avail, and stumbled backward into him. "Oof! It's like hitting a wall," I complained. Reaching behind me, I groped him shamelessly. "A wall with a big dick," I amended my gripe.

"All for you, honey," he growled and kissed the back of my neck until I went limp against him. "Ah, she's so easy," he breathed in my ear. "I like that in a woman."

I stomped on his toes and when he yelled and let go, I darted off through the kitchen and out the back door.

"That's not fair!" he hollered after me, hopping on one foot.

I ran across the car park, sliding a bit on the gravel, but gaining my footing in time to run into the barn. I crashed the door closed behind me and slid the bar home just as Russell got to it. "Can't get me now," I taunted him.

The two horses resident in the barn, Minnie and Romper, snorted as though laughing with me. I ran to Minnie's stall and quickly bridled her, then, using the feed trough as a step up, flung myself onto her. Just as Russell came in through the hayloft doors above the stalls - apparently having climbed up there somehow - I cantered Minnie out the rear door and into the big main paddock. "Yooo hoooo!" I called, waving bye-bye at him.

Of course, Russell was after me a minute later, riding Romper at a fast canter and then a gallop to catch up. He was bareback also, and a lot better rider than I am. So I cheated. I rode Minnie into the woods, ducking down to gallop under the low branches. She was considerably shorter than Romper, so I was able to get through the trees a lot faster than Russell was able to on the much taller gelding. I heard him cussing as branches flew back and smacked his face and arms as he tried to catch me, but I was out the other side of the woods and into the clearing by the time he yelled and there was a loud crashing behind me. Romper came galloping, riderless, into the clearing, whinnying and snorting.

I pulled Minnie around and galloped back to the woods. If Russell wasn't on the horse, that meant he was possibly on the ground, stunned by a branch, or maybe worse. Of course, he could be playing possum. I wanted to be sure. There he was, sprawled on his back, about a quarter of the way into the trees. "Shit, I knew it!" I pulled my horse up and got down to check him.

He had a thin line of blood across his forehead where a branch must've hit him, his eyes were closed and he was breathing quietly. I leaned down and lifted each eyelid. The pupils were equal, dark and round in their greeny-blue irises. Okay, I thought, this is a good sign. Weren't unequal or pinpoint pupils bad? Too bad my medical training was only a long-ago 4-H first aid course. I put my ear against his chest. Heart sounded strong. The blood on his forehead was already clotting. The fingers of his right hand twitched. "I'm glad your brains aren't falling out," I informed him, and rubbed a fistful of dirt and weeds in his face.

Russell, who was, of course, playing possum, spluttered and sat up, spitting out greenery. "Leave off, Lynn, that tasted like…."

"Cow shit?" I asked sweetly.

"Yeah, dammit, " he spat a few more times and wiped his mouth on his forearm. "Was it?"

I shook my head, "No, but you thought it was, didn't ya?" With that, I was up and running for Minnie. He was too fast for me though, he caught me in mid-jump onto her back and hauled me down onto the ground. "Ow!"

"Quit gripin', he growled, pinning me with a leg across mine and his hands holding mine down. He bent and kissed me while I struggled to get out from under him. "Quit that too," he warned, when I almost managed to get him in the crotch with my knee.

I giggled, "I wouldn't really have done that, ya know." It would have been my loss as well as his. He moved over me, pressing me into the soft earth. I wiggled a little, feeling his hard cock against my belly. "Ooh, whatever could you want, mate?"

He laughed shortly, and began kissing me again, thrusting his tongue into my mouth. I managed to get a hand free and used it to open the button at the waist of his shorts, then I pulled down the zipper and reached inside. He made a kind of purring groan when I took hold of him, then yanked my skirt up and pushed my legs apart with his knee. Reaching down, he easily removed my hand from his cock, pushed the crotch of my panties to one side, and came into me, hard and urgent. He thrust deep, pulled back, then deep again, then began a steady rhythm, mouth sucking at my neck, my mouth, my breasts, my earlobes. He licked and nibbled his way down my throat and all the while he kept up his steady, deep thrusts. When he felt me starting to tip over the edge, he stopped, propping himself on his elbows and grinning down into my face, beads of sweat falling off the ends of his hair and dripping onto me.

I whined and punched him wherever I could reach. "Don't stop!"

"What did you want?" he inquired, with his maddening smile. He rotated his hips, teasing me.

"Ooooh, ummm, that," I managed.

Fingers between our bodies, and he began stroking me with the pad of his thumb. "O, God!" The rippling sensations began inside me and I convulsed against and around him. He began thrusting again and my orgasm went on and on, like rings spreading in still water. I yelled so loudly I startled some birds out of nearby trees. Russell silenced me with his mouth on mine, taking in my shout and then moaning harshly as he quivered and shook in his own climax. "I think they heard that in Sydney," he rasped, when he had caught his breath.

I stroked his sweaty shoulders and kissed the salty beads off his upper lip. "Umm," was all I could manage. We rested, half-dozing, until I heard approaching hoof beats. "Holy shit!" I sat up, dumping him off with his shorts around his ankles. I quickly pulled my skirt and tee into place, although they were grass and sweat stained.

Russell got his shorts pulled up and fastened, his undershirt shoved into the waistband, and was just getting to his feet when his brother Terry jumped his horse over the fallen log by the path through the trees and pulled up, grinning at us. "Plowing or planting?" he inquired.

Russell flipped him the bird and got on Romper. Pulling the horse around, he blew me kisses, and kicked the horse into a canter, flying past his older brother, managing to knock Terry's hat off as he went by. "Both!" I heard him yell, then Terry got his horse going after him and they headed down the main paddock at a dead run. I followed more sedately, having had my rough ride for the day, and got there in time to dismount and hand Russell my reins. He led Minnie to the water trough and gave her a good drink, then rubbed her down before turning her loose in the big corral with Romper and Terry's horse, Pepper. I went inside and took a shower.

October in the States is my favorite time of year. I love autumn - the leaves, the cool, crisp air, the promise of colder months to come, Christmas - everything I loved best. October in Australia was the beginning of summer. I wondered as I tried on my wedding dress if I would ever truly get used to the upside down seasons, especially given the frequency it appeared I was going to be traveling between continents and hemispheres.

I smoothed the ivory lace over the soft apricot silk and looked in the mirror. Perfect. I had been measured for my dress in Los Angeles, tried it on when we breezed in and out of LA a few weeks later, and they had expressed it to me in Oz. I loved the dress. It was a Renaissance styled gown in apricot silk with an overdress of exquisite French lace in antique ivory. I looked like a fairytale character in it. I just hoped my bosom wouldn't pop out of the low décolletage at an inopportune moment. It hadn't looked quite so low cut when I'd tried it on before. I adjusted it with a couple of tugs. There, much better and much less threat of imminent boobage pop-out.

I wondered what Russell's clothes would look like, a sudden awful image of him standing at the altar in jeans and flannel shirt coming to mind. Surely not. All the same, I decided it might be in the best interests of everyone to make a few discreet inquiries in that direction. I changed back into my slacks and tee shirt, hung the dress away in its special garment bag, and went to have a private phone conversation with Terry Crowe.

"So, Terry," I started out after exchanging pleasantries, "has Russell said anything about the wedding?"

"That he's scared shitless, yeah," he teased me.

"Well, that's sort of mutual, actually. What I meant was, what is he planning to wear?"

Silence. Then, "Well, damn, Lynn, the blighter's been real closed-mouthed about it, y'know?"

"Terry, you're his best man, don't you know?"

Another silence, but I could hear the Crowe mental gears clicking over. I would swear most of the time that their brains worked on another level altogether from ordinary mortals, and most of that level was dedicated to mischief. "Yes," he finally admitted.

I resisted the urge to scream. "So, give. At least give me a hint, I don't want to be the only one formally dressed in the whole blasted place."

"We-e-e-l-l, there was something mentioned about armor."

I gave in and screamed into the phone. When he quit yelling "ow!" and let me talk, I informed him, "There better not be armor at this wedding, Terry, and you can tell your little brother that I said so."

I could hear that little brother in the background, wanting to know what was going on. "Go on, tell him."

Terry repeated what I said word for word. I heard loud Russell laughter, then Terry said, "He says he's got a new flannie and that's gonna to hafta do."

"I'll flannie his fanny," I warned, then remembered that "fanny" meant something totally different to an Englishman. I wondered if that were true for Aussies as well. From their hysterical guffaws, I could only deduce that it did. "Just ask him to give me a hint, put my mind at rest, okay?"

"Sure thing," Terry promised. I knew he was lying his ass off.

The next day, I asked their mother, thinking she was a sweet lady and she would tell me. I forgot that Russell and Terry were her sons and they got their senses of humor from some place. Silly me, I thought their father was the jokester. Wrong! It was Mum Crowe. She said Russell's armor had been delivered just that morning and did I want to see it. I looked Heavenward and passed on the opportunity.

My bridesmaids - Chrissie Perrone and Sandy's niece Jackie, for whom I used to baby-sit - were coming all the way to Australia to wear apricot silk Renaissance gowns in my wedding. Sandy, who had turned down my request to be Matron of Honor in favor of her niece being a bridesmaid, was also going to be there. Plus some cousins of mine from Indiana, and several coworkers from both the publishing and talent agency world. I thought it only natural to wonder what my husband-to-be and his groomsmen were going to wear.

I mean, what if they DID show up in jeans and flannel shirts? Or - God Forbid! - armored breastplates. Not that Russell looked bad in either costume, no indeedy! But I wanted no plaid and no clanking at my ceremony. I decided to work on Russell's dad.

Mr. Crowe was sweet, vague and obviously had been well coached on what to say. He mentioned armor. I smiled, thanked him, and went back to the little house, no wiser than when I left it. They were all a lying bunch of cheaters, I thought, and deserved each other.

The odd thing was, when I was with Russell, we didn't talk about the wedding itself. We talked about work - his and mine. We talked about some changes we wanted to make to the little house - add a big bathroom, enlarge the kitchen, add an office onto the house so we could move the desk out of the living room and put the computers and so on in there. We talked about our honeymoon - Las Vegas or Paris? I opted for Paris. He wanted to go to Vegas. So we then discussed the Bahamas versus Jamaica. Both of those ideas flushed, we moved on to Bermuda versus Banff. I loved Banff, having been there once. So had Russell. He had nearly frozen his dick off there (his term) and he didn't care to ever slide on his ass in a snowbank any time soon, particularly when he only wanted a room with a huge bed where he could fuck me silly for a week or two.

Such a romantic at heart!

I mentioned a room in the Pocono's with a pink waterbed and heart-shaped bathtub. He brought up Treetops in Kenya, where we could look at lions and elephants. I countered with Cairo, the Pyramids and the Sphinx. He trumped that with Venice, Rome and the Greek Islands. When I finally said "Maui" and honeymoon in the same sentence, his ears perked up. But he countered with Kauai and black sand beaches. I fired back with Honolulu and the north coast of Oahu. At a stalemate, we opted to go to the Holiday Inn in Coffs Harbour. At least, I think that's where we finally settled on, I had drunk so much beer by the time we got to that point in our discussion, we could have chosen to stay in a flower bed in the Sydney Botanical Gardens, for all I knew. Never discuss things like this on a flight between LA and Sydney. Particularly with Russell Ira Crowe, whose mind works faster than the speed of light, and who can drink ten beers to my one, only pee once, and never really get more than pleasantly happy.

I spent the day after that flight with my head in the toilet, groaning and wishing I'd never heard of Aussie beer.

When he cheerily suggested a visit to the brewery where they make Victoria Bitter, I threw the wastebasket at him. Amazing how hard a wastebasket can hit a shin from across a small bathroom, isn't it?

All I knew for sure was we were getting married. There were a lot of guests invited. It was going to be in a secret location to throw off the press, who had been sniffing around for weeks, and everyone was sworn to secrecy on pain of death. Unfortunately, they took this seriously and even I, the bride, for crying out loud, was not privy to the secret.

On a Sunday morning two weeks before the wedding, I wandered into the bedroom carrying a glass of orange juice and the Sunday paper. Russell was lying right in the middle of the bed, naked, making a large "X". I shoved over one furry leg and one less furry but no less magnificent arm, and sat on the bed drinking my juice. I read the paper. "Russell Crowe," one of the Sydney gossip columnists wrote, "is keeping a zipped lip about rumors that he and his American girlfriend, Lynn Sykes, his one-time agent, are planning to tie the knot, and soon! Reliable sources tell us that wedding invitations have gone out for the week before Christmas, but when asked for comment, Russ's publicist would only say the usual 'no comment'. Stay tuned to this column for more as soon as we know it!"

I snorted and woke Russell up to read it to him. "Christmas?" he mumbled, yawning and scratching his belly. "That's a good idea."

I swatted him with the rolled up sports pages.

We had the rehearsal in the basement of the Cattlemen's Club in Coffs Harbour. As ambience goes, I thought the posters advertising cow drench, fly traps, frozen bull semen and manure spreaders were a nice touch. Finally, everyone took pity on me and told me where the ceremony was to take place. An expanse of gorgeous beach front property that the producer of several of Russell's early Aussie-made films had offered to him. There was a magnificent rambling house on a large, grassy bluff overlooking the Tasman Sea, and wooden walkways and terraces that led down to the ocean. He had given us the house to use for as long as we wanted since he was in Europe overseeing a film. I was ecstatic. I only hoped nobody ratted us out to the press because helicopters flying over head and paparazzi hanging from every tree limb were not my idea of a romantic wedding.

I was up before dawn, riding with Sandy, Chrissie and Jackie, all of our dresses, shoes and everything else stuffed into the trunk of the cream Rover. Russell, Terry, Russell's band mates and, for all I knew, Snow White's Seven Dwarfs, were jammed into the Zebra rover and about fifteen minutes behind us. Everyone else would be driven over from Coffs Harbour airport, having flown into Sydney in the days before the wedding.

We parked the car and unloaded our stuff just as the sun came up over the ocean. We walked out and stood, just looking, standing on the bluff overlooking the beach. It was a beautiful sunrise - red and gold and brilliant cerulean blue skies as the dawn lit the whole scene in pink light. I turned to go inside and saw Russell standing about fifty feet away down the bluff, looking at me, a hand shading his eyes from the sun's glare, smiling. As heart-stopping moments go, that one would stay with me a long time. Forever, I hoped.

We all trooped inside for a huge breakfast, but I couldn't do more than choke down a few bites, afraid I'd be nauseated. My stomach seemed to be right in the base of my throat. I finally went upstairs and let the hairstylist we had brought up from Sydney work on my unruly mop of curls. She worked her magic, taming my hair so I looked like a Pre-Raphaelite painting when she was finished.

Her assistant applied my make up, being very subtle, which I requested because I knew I was going to cry it off anyway, then I put on my under things - apricot silk panties and cream lace stockings with blue garters. I stood, nude from the waist up, while they dropped the gown over my head and laced it up the back. The lacings and tiny built in stays made a bra unnecessary, and the dress fit me perfectly, probably because I'd been too nervous to eat for the past 48 hours. Chrissie and Sandy adjusted the lace overdress, fastening the hundred tiny lace-covered buttons down the back, tying the apricot silk ribbons that ran down each sleeve from shoulder to wrist, and holding up the skirt while I stepped into shoes tinted to match the silk. "Is that me?" I asked, staring at the image in the mirror.

"If it's not you," Chrissie said with a laugh, "it's the Princess Bride."

A garland of ivory rosebuds and silk ribbons was placed on my head, and we all stood and just looked at ourselves in the mirror, grinning like idiots.

Jackie, as the junior bridesmaid at seventeen, wore an apricot silk dress trimmed with silk ribbon embroidery. Chrissie's dress was similar, only a slightly dark shade of apricot, and Sandy was in a suit of ivory and dark apricot. She was standing in as "mother of the bride" since my parents were both dead. "We're gorgeous!" she announced.

Jackie grinned and bounced up and down, excited not only because of the wedding but because of some of the guests she had seen arrive. "I saw Tom Cruise!" she exulted, "And I saw Mel Gibson's son Michael - he's just my age!"

"I saw Bryan Brown and Rachel Ward," Chrissie added. "Oh, and Sam (her husband) said he was sure he saw Nicole Kidman." Nicole, Russell had told me, was there with her daughter and her husband, who was a producer from Sydney. Apparently the ex Mrs. Tom Cruise didn't mind being at the same wedding as her former spouse, given that they were long since divorced and both remarried.

I stood and let it all wash over me, eyes slightly out of focus, wondering, as I'm sure all brides do, if I was doing the right thing, thinking of fleeing down the road screaming at the top of my lungs one minute, then wanting to see my husband to be and get on with the wedding the next minute. I heard Chrissie laughing with Sandy and zoned back in.

"It's time, Lynn," Chrissie said, smiling. She hugged me, Jackie and Sandy hugged me, then Sandy opened the door and we went into the upstairs hall, down the steps, and out onto the terrace.

It was a beautiful day, with just enough breeze to tease the hems of our dresses but not enough to blow down the flower arrangements or knock over the white tent set up near the terrace where the reception would be. Guests were seated in rows of gold chairs along either side of a white carpet that led to an archway of cream and apricot flowers - roses, tiger lilies, orchids and birds of paradise. The skies were empty of helicopters, no photographers hung from the trees, and the only sound was the soft murmur of the guests' voices and the beginning notes of Pachelbel's Canon in C, which I had chosen for my wedding march.

Jackie walked down the white carpet, her bouquet of roses and ribbons held in nervous fingers, then Chrissie, and then it was my turn. Mr. Crowe smiled at me, standing in for my father, looking very handsome in an oxford gray suit over a cream brocade waistcoat. He had an apricot rose in his lapel, and as we started down the aisle, he said in a low voice, "See? No flannel," so that when I looked up and saw Russell, I was giggling. Catching sight of him, seeing his melting smile, I stopped giggling and just smiled back at him.

He was in an oxford gray morning coat with an apricot brocade waistcoat, a white silk shirt with a narrow black grosgrain tie and slightly lighter gray trousers. I glanced down to see if he was wearing his blunnies, but thank God, he had on beautiful kidskin shoes. He moved his arm and I saw the glint of gold cufflinks, but mostly I saw just his face, his smile widening as I got nearer. Terry, almost as magnificent as his brother, nudged him and whispered something that made Russell giggle softly, then I was there and he was holding out his hand to me.

I took it, and we stood together in front of the arch of flowers, the fresh morning breeze ruffling our hair, and exchanged our vows. As Russell slipped the rose gold band onto my left third finger, a group of songbirds in some nearby trees decided to serenade us with a few brief trills. "You planned that, " I teased him in a whisper.

"Of course, can you doubt it?" he whispered back. Then I slipped a plain gold band onto his third finger and we stood grinning at each other, holding hands, while the minister finished the ceremony and blessed us. When he said, "You may kiss the bride," Russell practically leaped toward me, bent me back over one arm, and gave me a kiss to end all kisses. I heard laughter from the guests, then he released me just as I was about to suffocate, and gave me a few small kisses for good measure.

"There," he said in a low voice, "hitched good and proper, mate. Now, let's go have the party so we can throw all this riffraff out and be alone."

We practically raced back down the aisle, greeted everyone, posed for pictures for our own album, and went to have a beautiful wedding luncheon. The string quartet played while we ate, then Tofog took the stage and did a couple of songs, Russell joining them to sing a song I asked him for.

"You treat me like chocolate," he sang, "something you shouldn't touch between meals," and "I'm specific and I'm cruel, unpredictable, your fool, yeah," blowing me kisses, looking so handsome in his formal clothes. "Just unwrap it," he sang, "just have at it," and winked at me.

I intended to do more than unwrap it. Later. I winked back.

Russell thoroughly enjoyed diving under my dress to retrieve one of my blue garters and throw it to the assembled single men. I think Joaquin Phoenix caught it. The last I saw of it, he was wearing it around one arm and chatting up the sister of Russell's drummer. I threw my bouquet and Jackie caught it, which was what I had intended. We sliced the wedding cake, exchanged bites of it (he smeared a little bit of icing on my face, but not too much), and drank champagne toasts to us, to his parents, to everyone there, to life and to love.

We danced until I was dizzy, and then the guests began to drift off until only Russell and I were left. It was almost sundown by then, and we walked along the bluff to the wooden walkway, then down onto the beach. I looped the ribbon at my hem over my wrist to keep my skirts safe from water, and we walked, barefooted, along the warm, wet sand.

Little wavelets came in and rolled over our toes. I stood leaning against him, his arm around me, and we looked out over the endless waves coming onshore. It was quiet except for the rushing water and the cries of seabirds over head. I turned to him, wordlessly, and we kissed until it was too dark to see, then retrieved our shoes and went into the house. Everyone was gone, the tent standing empty, stacks of presents waiting to be opened and sent back to our house, big trays of food in the refrigerator so we didn't have to cook. Someone had put on the radio, and it was playing a mixture of swing and some slower music, so we danced, still in our finery, still smiling.

He dipped me then stopped, standing still, looking into my eyes. "I didn't think I could be this happy," he told me.

"Nor I." I cupped his face in my hands and leaned up for my millionth kiss of the day. "I love you so much."

He squeezed me tight, trembling a little, then stood back with a hoarse little laugh and answered, "I love you, too, Lynnie. So very much." His eyes were brilliant blue-green. I stared into them, drowning.

We went upstairs to the bedroom and locked out the world.

We were on a three-week Christmas break in the work for Russell's film "Botany Bay". We had been in Sydney and surrounding countryside scouting locations for outdoor shooting, and finding structures that were contemporary with the time of the film, which was set in 1820, in England's penal colony that eventually became Australia. All the major roles were cast, the screenplay was in final rewrite stages, being polished by one of the best, someone Russell trusted to not bastardize his work, and we had preliminary costumes and sketches. It was hard, hard work, and at times very frustrating, but we were progressing and it was going to be a good film if things kept going as well as they were now.

When I emerged, clean and refreshed, I could hear the brothers in the kitchen, arguing over some of the finer points of cow husbandry. Bulls and cows, rams and ewes, roosters and hens, everything on the farm was nesting in one form or another. I went into the former guest room, now my office, and did an hour's work on my new job, or what was my job when I wasn't being Ms Co-Producer on the film. I was writing a novel, and it was going swimmingly. Russell teased me unmercifully because it was a romance, but he was my test-reader and I know he secretly was enjoying the story as it unfolded. Besides, the hero bore a marked resemblance to a certain fellow I was very fond of.

I worked each day, scheduling time for it like a "real" job because I felt I needed the discipline. Of course, while we were busily running around New South Wales working on the film, I didn't have time to do it every day, but at least I was keeping busy and not getting lazy because I didn't have an office to go to every day.

Russell was at his desk, sending a long email to the States. He wasn't bad for a rudimentary typist. His fingers flew at a pretty good clip and he didn't have many misspelled words. For someone who had left school as young as he had, he always amazed me with his knowledge and skill. At everything. I stood behind him and tickled the back of his neck.

"Working," he announced a bit gruffly. I sighed, but left him alone. I had recently become acquainted with my husband's "working mode", and it had taken some adjustment on my part to realize that when he was gruff, snappish, controlling or even furious, it wasn't meant personally, it was just his level of intensity when he was concentrating. I knew it would get worse once he was actually filming, though I hoped my being present on the set with him would mitigate some of the stress he had experienced on prior films.

Unpacking crates of belongings he had stored in his attic, I had stumbled across a journal he had kept every day for years, just a few notes now and then on characters' traits, his ideas for interaction between the actors in a given scene, reminders to himself about day-to-day trivia. It was interesting looking back from the perspective a few years' experience gave to see what had been on his mind then. Every once in awhile, too, there was a more detailed entry, an outpouring of his thoughts or worries that was a peek inside his head. I felt like a voyeur reading it, but he knew I had it and hadn't said I couldn't read it, so I did.

One entry, written around the time he was finishing "A Beautiful Mind", struck me as particularly poignant. He had literally been besieged on the set of that film. It was right after the Oscar for "Gladiator" and his every move was noted by the press, particularly anything that could be construed as negative. Fans and stalkers and wanna-be's of all descriptions had haunted that set, watching him walk in and out of his trailer between scenes, watching him eat his lunch, trying to take pictures even during night shoots when their flash cameras ruined dozens of takes, shouting requests and greetings to him when he was trying to stay in character. That particular role had been so difficult for him, so opposite from his own nature, that it took a lot of extra effort to psych himself into that person's skin every morning and maintain that façade during days that lasted twelve and fourteen hours. Every interruption, every disruption, even the friendly ones, became painful in the extreme because often he simply hadn't the energy to deal with it after being that other person for so long.

Even so, he made the effort to greet fans, sign numerous autographs, to be at least civil when he couldn't manage charming, and most times he was able somehow to do it. There were times, though, when even his seemingly bottomless store of energy ran out and he was snappish, sarcastic and sometimes downright rude even to fans. These times, of course, were immediately seized upon by a press that was preoccupied with his "surly" image, and those were the incidents that were widely publicized, not the hundreds of other times he was sweet and patient and endlessly obliging, often standing for an hour signing autographs in the wee hours of the morning after finishing a 14 hour day, when most other people in the same circumstances would have just shoved through the line of waiting people and sought their beds.

The journal entry was dated mid-May of 2001 and it read, "They see the façade, the costumes and the makeup, and confuse the image with me. I don't have the energy any longer to emerge from this character to be myself, then go back to Nash's persona and do it properly, so I must paint his personality over mine until I lose myself in it. How can I make it clear that he is not me, and I am not him, but just an interpreter of sorts. The character is a suit I put on, a kind of complex costume that is very difficult to take off at the end of the day. I don't think I want to do it anymore, but I know I have to for now. People are counting on me. I am counting on me. Where is the source of my comfort in all this? I don't bloody know - did I drive them all away? When it comes down to it, I am just a bloke pretending to be another bloke, and most times not doing it very well. If I was doing it well, wouldn't I be less unhappy about it? And why can't they accept that, after all is said and done, I'm only. . .human."

He had found me holding his book and crying over that entry. Taking the journal from me, he saw what I was reading and sighed. "That was a hard shoot. It was so bloody lonely, sometimes, Lynn," he had confided, "Sometimes at the end of the day I just curled up in my bed and wept, I was so tired - too tired to even sleep."

"You needed someone," I had murmured, smoothing his hair out of his eyes. "I promise to always be there at the end of your day's filming, darling, and I will make sure I give you whatever you need so you'll never feel that lonely ever again."

He dropped the journal, took me in his arms, and just held me close for a long time, finally murmuring, "It was the luckiest day of my life when you came to Australia, Lynn."

I thought it was lucky for me as well and told him so. I cupped his face in my hands, kissing that lovely cupid's bow mouth, then his long-lashed eyelids, his brow, his chin and back to his mouth, which I can't ever resist. "So, I remember you being called an insatiable lover, if you were so lonely, I guess that's another illusion shattered."

He barked a laugh, shaking his head, "Oh, I had my moments, still do." He fixed me with a serious look on his face, "Lynn, I love sex, always have. I've always loved being able to do it all night, if the situation permitted."

"And the lady permitted," I teased him.

He giggled, "Right, especially that. Sometimes I had to find someone just to relieve the tension, you know? I'm not that in love with my right hand."

My turn to giggle. "As long as you find me for that tension easing from now on, I don't care a fig about anybody who had that privilege in the past."

I sat on his lap, unbuttoning his shirt, kissing his jaw, his throat, his collar bones, then down his chest as I undid each button. I slid my palms inside his shirt and caressed his chest, feeling his nipples get hard when I stroked his warm skin. "So what would you say makes you want to do it all night?"

He was breathing a little raggedly, "What?" he asked, obviously distracted. "Oh, just if the situation is right - the chemistry or whatever. Or if it had been a long time without it and I was really hard up."

Judging by the condition of his lap under my bottom, he was hard up now. I chuckled and pulled his face down to mine for kisses, nipping his lower lip. His whole body jumped, and he laid me back on the cushions and took over. "Yes, I was right," I whispered when he paused for breath.

"Hmm?" He was almost cross-eyed, he was so hot, yanking at his clothes and mine to get at me.

"You're still insatiable." I lay beneath him, blouse unfastened, otherwise naked, and pulled him to me, grasping his hips to get him where I wanted him. "Show me."

"Oh, God," he moaned, and showed me. All night. I loved it.

So now, thinking he deserved a reward, I went to the kitchen, dragged out my box of recipes and made sugar cookie dough. The sounds of the mixer and wooden spoons banging on the side of the bowl drew Russell to the kitchen like a magnet and I had to chase him back to his desk to preserve enough of the cookie dough to make it worth the effort to finish them. "Shoo, this time, I'm working!" I informed him, and he eventually gave up and slunk back to his desk. I took pity on him and baked a batch of snicker doodles since they didn't have to sit and chill like the others. When they were finished, the delicious aroma wafting through the whole house, I took him some with a big mug of spiced tea.

I loved baking cookies for the holidays. It brought back so many memories from childhood on the farm and I could almost smell the wonderful scents if I concentrated hard enough. I closed my eyes, sniffing the cinnamon on the air, and sighed happily. Russell's amused chuckle brought me back to the present and we exchanged grins. He was as much of a sap for Christmas as I was. He was well known for having a kind of continuous open house at the farm starting a few days before Christmas and running through New Year's Day. His mother and I had already stockpiled a lot of food, and we had planned on a trip to Sydney to get some things that we just could not find in Coff's Harbour. I also wanted to browse through some of the shops there to find something really special for Russell.

"We're planning our trip to Sydney on Friday," I told him now. He crunched his way through his fourth cookie and nodded. "Your mum and I are going to fly down and we'll be back late Saturday."

He scowled. "Over night? Lynnie…"

I knew it was going to be a problem. However, I already had an answer ready. "I know you don't want to spend a night apart, so why don't you come with me instead?"

"I thought mum wanted to go."

"She's lukewarm about it, you know she doesn't like flying in the little jet, it makes her air sick." It was true, she had confided in me only yesterday that she'd rather not go, but she would if I couldn't talk Russell into it. I had promised her I would do my best.

"I'll think about it. I have a lot to do on the project."

"Okay," I agreed, and dropped it. I imagined that he'd tumble in an hour or so of thinking about Christmas shopping in Sydney. An hour later almost to the minute, he agreed that he needed to go to Sydney and would help out his mother by going in her place. I stifled my smile, and went to phone Mrs. Crowe to let her know our plan had worked. She listed a few items she wanted me to pick up, and we hung up, both of us happy.

I'm never sure if Russell knows when we're managing him and just goes along with it because it pleases him to, or if he's oblivious to our schemes. He's such an alpha male that I don't think it occurs to him that his womenfolk are plotting to get him to do something by making him think it was his idea in the first place. In any case, I enjoyed his decisiveness and his sense of what was right, even if I didn't always like the tone of his voice when he said something. Of course, with his voice, even mild chastisement came across as severe sometimes. Our first major argument after our marriage was the result of that.

Santa Monica, Two Months Earlier

I was arranging for storage of my things one afternoon, when Russell walked into the kitchen where I was on the phone. We were going to go out for dinner, and he was antsy because afterward we were going to the Viper to hear an Aussie band that was performing there that week. He kept tapping his foot and pointing to his watch, then, when that failed to get me off the phone, he walked back and forth in front of me, making impatient faces. I was stuck because the storage company person was confused about just how much space I needed and it was taking a long time. The fifth or sixth time he walked in front of me and made a disgusted face, I glared at him and snapped, "I'm going as fast as I can, stop bugging me!"

He went rigid and I swear sparks shot out of his eyes. He planted himself in front of me and waited until I hung up the phone, then said, "I was not bugging you. I just wanted you to hurry it up. Besides, I told you not to put your stuff in storage."

I sighed, "Russell, we've been over this already, I am not taking all my things to Australia."

He went on as if I hadn't spoken, "And the next time you want to snap at me, love, be prepared to be snapped back."

I had gaped up at him, risen out of my chair and calmly closed the telephone book. "I apologize for snapping," I said quietly, "but you were being very rude, pacing back and forth like that, tapping on your watch."

"Rude? Rude!?" More sparks. "Rude is me takin' the phone out of your hand, Lynn, and tellin' the fool on the other end to learn their job before answerin' calls. Rude is you ignorin' what I tell you to do and not talkin' to me about it." His accent always got thickest when he was indignant.

He would have gone on, but I was getting madder by the minute and I interrupted him. "Rude is you, Mister Crowe SIR, talking to me like I'm five years old. I do not need you to 'tell me what to do', nor do I have to ask your permission to do something, I'm quite capable of making my own decisions." I was almost nose-to-nose with him, but I'd have sworn he had grown a couple inches in height and several more in girth, he was so puffed up by his temper.

"Lynn, I know you're not five years old, but you aren't doing much to prove to me that you're making the right decisions here."

Wrong thing to say! I drew myself up to my full five feet six inches and bit out, "You aren't my boss, Russell, I don't have to prove anything to you."

And so forth, I can't even remember everything we argued about. I do remember slamming the bedroom door in his face once, and him then calmly opening it because I was so mad I forgot to lock it. I also remember him kicking over one of the packed boxes to emphasize a point, although to give him credit, he only knocked over books and nothing fragile. I'm sure, however, that my shout of righteous indignation was as loud as if he had broken something. We ended by going to neutral corners - he to the balcony to seethe outside in the dark, me to sit in the tub, soaking until I stopped seeing red and got over my ruffled feathers.

I put on an ankle length caftan and curled up on the couch with a new mystery novel, hoping he'd come inside and we could make up. Russell came quietly inside and slid the balcony doors closed behind him. He stood beside the sofa, looking down at me, and I heard him chuckle. "The book is upside down," he finally commented.

"I can read upside down," I claimed, but shut the book and looked up at him. No more blue sparks, at least.

He sat beside me and touched my hair. "Have a good bath?"

I nodded. "Is it nice outside?"

He nodded. I noticed he had taken off his shoes, and guessed that he had changed his mind about going out. "Lynn, I'm sorry for raising my voice," he said by way of apology.

"Me too, I don't usually yell."

His lips quirked in a half smile, "You're not real good at it."

"I'm sure I will get better, being around you," I teased him.

"You'll have to," was all he said to that. "What I want to talk about is this crap about not taking all your things, can we do that without yelling?"

"I'm not yelling," I said quietly, then realized that sounded a little defensive, and softened it by kissing him on the cheek. "I'm willing to negotiate."

"Hmmf," he grunted, but there were no blue sparks at least. "All right, here's my position - I feel like you're hedging your bet, not wanting to take all your stuff with you. Like, you're thinking if we don't work out, at least you don't have to haul all your shit back here. I feel like you don't quite believe in me or our marriage."

I couldn't argue with the hedging my bet part. It was, after all, fairly close to the truth. What I hadn't realized was that to him, it looked as though I didn't trust the relationship, hence, I didn't trust him. However, the other part of it was I was embarrassed at just how much stuff I had accumulated, and how much it would cost to ship it to Australia, on the other side of the world. So I explained that to him.

"How much it will cost? Lynnie, I have enough money to ship your stuff to fucking Mars, much less back home. For crissakes, is that what this is all about, you not wanting to spend my money?"

"Uh, yes." I felt a little silly.

He reached in his back pocket and pulled out his wallet. "Here, use that little platinum card there, ship half of bloody Los Angeles over there if you want to, and stop worrying about how much it will cost." He raked his hands through his hair, shaking his head, "Jesus, I can't believe you were worried about spending my - no, wait a second here, OUR money."

"That's your money," I protested, "You worked so hard for it - bled for it - I don't have any claim on that."

He studied me and shook his head, "No, that's not true. Remember this? 'With all my worldly goods, I thee endow'?"

"Well, yes, but. . ."

"I meant that," he stated flatly. "And when you said 'to love, honor and cherish', didn't you mean it?"

I nodded, "Y-yes." The big sap, how dared he be even more romantic and sappy than I am?

"Well, then - that's all there is to it. We're taking all your stuff, and the condo goes up for sale and that's that."

"But, shouldn't we keep the condo to use when we're here?"

He shook his head, "Too many people know where you live now, Lynn. We'll rent a place when we come over, it's much more private that way."

"Well, damn."

"Damn what?"

"I hate it when you're right," I admitted.

"Well, get over that," he informed me in lofty tones, "cos I usually am."

"Just remember that if you ever doubt marrying me."

"Not bloody likely," he retorted, and reinforced his choice with certain physical actions that never failed to impress me with his sincerity in that matter.

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