Once In A Blue Moon

Two

Isabelle hesitated. The nerves in her stomach were jumping. She didn’t have the strength to deal with Michael right now. She would have liked to turn and continue walking to her car. But her pride would not let her. She did not want Michael to think that he was able to affect her in any way. So she squared her shoulders and waited, putting a faintly questioning and impatient expression on her face.

“I’m sorry,” she said, smiling impersonally. “I was just about to leave.”

Michael stopped in front of her. Isabelle was disconcertingly aware of his body, his charisma, the magnetism of his blue eyes. She fought a sudden surge of sensual memories—the warmth and strength of his arms around her, the delicious taste of his mouth, the shivers of delight his hands had roused on her body.

“I’ve been hanging around waiting for you,” Michael began. “We need to talk.”

Isabelle raised her eyebrows coolly, though inside, her nerves were jangling. “We do?”

“Yes.” Michael frowned. “We’re going to be working together. I—It would be easier if things were straight between us.”

“As far as I know, there isn’t anything ‘between us,’” Isabelle answered, pleased at the indifference she had managed to inject into her voice. It was difficult, considering the way Michael’s cobalt-blue eyes were boring into her.

“There was once,” Michael replied seriously. “I don’t want that to be a problem.”

“No problem,” Isabelle returned lightly. “I hadn’t even thought of you in years until Danny brought you in today.”

“I could see that it was a surprise. I had assumed that they’d told you we were negotiating. I’m sorry, I didn’t want it to be a shock to you.”

“Michael...” Isabelle made her voice crisp, using every acting skill she possessed to sound faintly amused. “I’m afraid you don’t have the power to shock me anymore.”

His eyebrows rose lazily. “Ah...a direct hit.” He shrugged. “Well, I’m glad to hear that you’re okay with my joining the cast. I want to work with you without either one of us being submarined by a lot of things from the past.”

“I’m not a teenager anymore, Michael. I don’t fall in and out of love at the drop of a hat. And I used up my supply of tears where you were concerned years ago. If it will relieve your mind, then I’m happy to tell you that my crush on you is most assuredly a thing of the past. I doubt very seriously that you and I will be working together much, but when we do, I’m sure that it will be no problem for us to maintain a professional attitude.”

Isabelle cringed inside at how prissy she sounded. No doubt he would think she had turned into some kind of wooden prig. Well, what did it matter what he thought of her?

Amusement flashed through his eyes for a moment, lightening them, but then it was gone, and he merely nodded. “Good. I’m glad to hear that. I—uh, guess I’ll see you around.”

Isabelle wanted to childishly retort, “Not if I see you first,” but she refrained. Instead, she nodded briefly at Michael and turned and strode off to her car. She resisted the impulse to look back and see if he was watching her. By the time she reached her car and could turn in his direction without it seeming purposeful, she saw that he had left. She sank into the driver’s seat, the adrenaline that had come to her rescue earlier now oozing out of her system and leaving her more drained than before. She leaned her forehead wearily against the steering wheel.

God, she hoped all the days weren’t going to be like this.

* * *

Jenny was riding her bike in front of the house when Isabelle turned into their driveway. With her little spaniel puppy sitting in the basket behind her seat, Jenny was intently pedaling the three-wheel cycle around and around the drive in front of the garage. It was a large cycle, with a front wheel and frame like a bicycle, but with two wide-spaced bicycle wheels across the back to give it stability. When Jenny had outgrown her tricycle, she had wanted to graduate to a bike, but she still had some difficulties with her balance, making a bicycle too dangerous. Isabelle had seen an old lady with a plastic sack of aluminum cans wheeling along a street in Hollywood on a contraption like this one day, and she had realized that it would be perfect for Jenny.

“Mommy!” Jenny cried when she saw Isabelle, and waved enthusiastically. Her eyes lit up in the way that indicated excitement and pleasure, though her mouth and face retained its usual serious expression. Jenny was not much given to smiling.

Isabelle’s daughter was small and pale. Her hair was thick and black, cut short in a practical bob. Thick dark eyebrows cut startlingly across her face, and it was this that gave her the most resemblance to Michael—that and the penetrating blue of her eyes. She wore big round red-rimmed glasses that emphasized the pixieish shape of her face.

“Hi, sweetheart.” Isabelle parked in the garage, then got out of the car and walked over to her. “How’s my girl?”

“I’m fine. I’m giving Patience a ride.”

“I see. That’s nice of you.”

Patience, their dainty liver-and-white Cavalier spaniel, leapt lightly out of her basket and trotted over to Isabelle, wagging her tail. Isabelle bent to pet her. Patience was an extremely sweet-tempered dog who submitted herself resignedly to Jenny’s play and did nothing but walk away if Jenny unintentionally squeezed a leg or pulled an ear. Isabelle had bought her and named her for precisely that quality. Prudence, on the other hand, their large smoky gray Persian cat, made it a point to stay well out of Jenny’s way and always kept a wary eye on her unless Isabelle was with them.

“Hello, Patience,” Isabelle murmured, giving her an extra few rubs to reward her good nature.

Jenny cautiously disembarked from her vehicle and hurried over to her mother, holding her arms wide for a hug. Isabelle pulled her close and squeezed her. Whatever else she felt for Michael Traynor, she could not help but be grateful to him for giving her this girl.

She had not always felt that way, of course. She had cried herself to sleep night after night when she realized that she was pregnant, almost two months after Michael left her. He had tried once or twice to call her during the summer, but she had stubbornly refused to talk to him. When she discovered she was pregnant, she had fallen into despair and she had considered finally talking to him. But he didn’t call her again, and she would not take the step of calling him.

Instead, she had sleepwalked her way through the first semester of her freshman year, then returned home at Christmas and broke the news to her parents. Predictably, her well-to-do Southern parents had been genteelly horrified at the news. When she told them that she intended to keep the baby and raise it, her father had argued with her incessantly. He wanted her to have an abortion; he told her over and over how it would ruin her life and be a perpetual burden to her.

To Isabelle’s surprise, it had been her mother, always the picture of frail, proper Southern femininity, who had finally said, “Oh, Harrington, hush. Of course she’s not going to get rid of her baby. Whatever are you thinking of? We’ll just have to make adjustments, that’s all.”

The adjustments had been far worse than any of them had expected, however. Jenny had been born with a heart defect, pinched-faced and bluish. For weeks, it had been a daily struggle for her to stay alive. She underwent three surgeries in the first two years of her life and another one when she was six to repair her heart. All her life she had remained small and been slow to develop, and she had been hit hard by any childhood virus or infection. Since the final operation, she had been able to lead a fairly normal life physically, to play and even ride her bike without gasping for breath or having to stop frequently.

However, nothing could repair the damage that had been done to Jenny’s brain in the first few weeks of her life when her weak heart had not pumped enough oxygen-rich blood to her brain. She had been slow to develop both mentally and physically, walking later, talking later and never completely achieving the skills of other children her age.

The first few years of Jenny’s life, she had occupied all Isabelle’s time. College, her plans to act, everything had fallen by the wayside as she had struggled to keep Jenny alive and well. Once again, it had been Isabelle’s mother who had pulled her aside and pointed out that Isabelle could not sacrifice herself for her daughter, that she had to create some kind of life for herself, as well.

Isabelle had been scared, but she had known that her mother was right. She had started in a small way by going back to college, but she had quickly realized that she was light-years away from the carefree freshmen in her classes. Finally, she had decided to move to Los Angeles and try to make it in the career she had always wanted: acting. If she could not make it, there would be time enough later to come back and build another, safer career for herself.

It had been tough, and Isabelle knew that it would probably have been impossible without the extra money her parents had provided for Jenny’s welfare. Isabelle had had no life outside of her work and her daughter. She went to auditions; she took acting lessons; she worked part-time jobs. The rest of the time she spent with Jenny. There had been no time for men and, frankly, Isabelle had had little interest in them. She had gotten a few jobs in commercials and walk-ons in two nighttime series. Then her first real break had come: she had been hired as a daily on one of the soap operas. The response to her had been so good that her two weeks had expanded into two months and finally into a year’s contract. Then, almost three years ago, she had moved to “Tomorrows” and her current role as Jessica Connors O’Neal Randall, the town villainess.

She had become enormously popular in the role. She had the perfect looks for the part of the local siren: thick, long black hair, vivid emerald-green eyes and a voluptuous figure. But it was her acting skills that had brought her such a devoted following. She was able to make her character not only wicked, but was able also to invest her with a sense of humor and even a hint of vulnerability that had made it possible for viewers to love her even as they hated her. Last year, when the writers had put Jessica in a life-threatening car crash in which she had lost the child she was carrying, viewers had written in, frantic at the thought that Jessica was going to die.

Because of her popularity in the role, Isabelle was now financially secure. She had been able to buy a lovely secluded house with plenty of yard for Jenny to play in. She could send Jenny to an excellent school and pay for a housekeeper/companion for her daughter. She had even been able to pay back her parents for the money they’d lent her during her first years in L.A. But money was the only thing that had changed for them. Isabelle still had only one interest outside of work, and that was her daughter.

She squeezed Jenny tightly to her now. “How was school?”

“Fine. I made something.”

“You did? How nice. May I see it?”

Jenny shook her head. “I’m not supposed to tell you.”

“I see. A special present, then.”

Jenny nodded. “We made it this morning. But I can’t tell you.”

“That’s all right. I’ll see it when you bring it home.”

Jenny nodded. “Miss Bright said, ‘Shh.’” She brought her forefinger up to her lips and made an exaggerated gesture of silence. “I don’t like it, they say. ‘Don’t talk.’”

“Who says, Jenny? Miss Albright?”

Jenny nodded emphatically. “Miss Bright says ‘Don’t talk,’ and I only asked... He was drawing, see, like this.” She made big circular motions with her right hand, as if drawing in air. “And he—” She pulled her hands apart as if ripping something.

“He tore up his paper?” Isabelle wasn’t sure exactly what Jenny was talking about; she sometimes had trouble following her disjointed, repetitive way of speaking even after years of experience.

Jenny’s dark head came down in the same hard nod. She was clearly feeling indignant. “Yes! And Miss Bright, she said, ‘Don’t talk.’ I don’t like that.”

“I’m sure not. You just wanted to see what he was drawing, right?”

“‘Whatcha doing?’” Jenny agreed. “‘Whatcha doing?’”

Isabelle repressed a smile. This was Jenny’s favorite question of any-and everyone. No doubt some other child in her class had resented her asking it.

“Well, I’m sure Miss Albright didn’t want you disturbing the other students. Apparently he didn’t like it when you asked him to let you see.”

“He’s a poophead,” Jenny commented. Then she added, “Kevin said ‘He’s a poophead.’”

“I bet Miss Albright didn’t like that.”

“Uh-uh.” Jenny shook her head exaggeratedly. “She said, ‘No, no, no.’”

“And what have you been doing since you came home from school?” Isabelle asked, deciding it was probably better to switch off this subject. Miss Albright would probably not appreciate Jenny’s implanting the forbidden word in her mind with further repetitions.

“I gave Patience a ride.” Jenny leaned down and patted the dog firmly on the head.

“Good. But don’t ride her around too much, or she might get sick.”

“She likes to ride. Lady didn’t like to ride.”

“No. Lady was getting a little old for riding.” Lady had been their first dog, a rather cantankerous old miniature poodle that had been Isabelle’s mother’s dog. Jenny had cried so much at leaving her when they moved to Los Angeles that Frances had given her to them.

“Lady’s gone now. Lady’s in Heaven,” Jenny pointed out.

“I know. And I’m sure she’s very happy.”

“Lady’s in Heaven now. We took her—she went—weeks ago.”

“Even longer than that.”

“She went to the dog hospital. Now she’s in Heaven.”

“That’s right. Why don’t you put up your bicycle and let’s go inside and see what Irma has fixed for supper?” Isabelle suggested.

“Hot dog and chips.”

“That’s what we’re having for supper?” Isabelle smiled. “I imagine Irma’s cooked something healthier than that.”

“I had it. Hot dog and chips. That’s what I wanted.”

“When you came home from school? That’s what Irma gave you for a snack after school?”

Jenny nodded and started over to her cycle, saying again, “Hot dog and chips.”

She walked her big tricycle into the garage and carefully stowed it away in its place beside Isabelle’s car. Isabelle waited for her, and they walked in the back door. Irma Pena, their housekeeper, turned and grinned at them, whisking off her apron.

“Ah, Mrs. Gray. I’m glad you’re home. I’m sorry, but I have to run tonight.” Usually Irma was happy to stay longer with Jenny when Isabelle ran late in the evenings. “I have to pick Estrellita up at school. They’re practicing a play, and I have to be there at eight-thirty.”

“I’m sorry I kept you late. We ran over at the studio today.”

“Sí. No problem.” Irma waved away Isabelle’s explanation and apology. “I got plenty of time still. But I don’t like for Estrellita to have to stand around and wait, you know—you never know what can happen.” She shook her head, clicking her tongue, as she crossed the room and picked up her handbag and keys from the counter. “Terrible thing, when a girl isn’t safe at school.”

“Yes, it is.”

Jenny was frowning, listening to her. “I’m safe,” she said.

“Of course you are, precious one.” Irma smiled at her. “I was talking about something else. Don’t you worry about it.”

“Don’t talk to strangers,” Jenny told her solemnly. “Then you’re safe.”

“That’s right. Never talk to strangers,” Isabelle agreed, waving to Irma as she bustled out the door.

“I never do. Miss Bright told us. Strangers might—might—”

“They might hurt you,” Isabelle supplied gently. “That’s why Miss Albright told you not to talk to them.”

This was a lesson that Jenny had been taught regularly for years, both in school and out. She repeated the words often, proud that she had learned the lesson, but for all her words about it, Isabelle was not at all sure that Jenny would heed the advice. She was impulsive and affectionate, prone to hug everyone she met, and Isabelle could easily imagine her wandering off with anyone, hand in hand, while she faithfully repeated her maxim of “Don’t talk to strangers.” For that reason, she made sure that Irma was always there to pick Jenny up as soon as school was let out, and she never let Jenny play outside their fenced-in yard.

Irma had left grilled tuna and a broccoli-and-rice casserole on the stove for them, and Isabelle dished them up and carried them to the table while Jenny painstakingly set the table. Jenny continued to chatter all through dinner and afterward, until finally Isabelle told her that it was time for a quiet period and sent her off to her room to play by herself for a few minutes.

Isabelle kicked off her shoes and stretched out on the couch. Her head was pounding and had been for some time, she realized. Prudence uncoiled her large, smoky gray body from the mantel where she liked to perch and leapt lightly down. She came over to the couch and rubbed herself against it beneath Isabelle’s head, emitting plaintive meows.

“Hey, kitty,” Isabelle murmured, stroking her hand down the cat’s back. “You’re looking as fat and sassy as ever.”

She closed her eyes, still stroking the cat, reveling in the peace of the moment. She needed it, after a day like this one had been.

Taking this time to herself—turning off Jenny’s incessant chatter and separating herself from the child for a few moments—had been one of the hardest things for Isabelle to learn to do. She had been accustomed since Jenny’s birth to spending all her time caring for her and worrying about her. She felt guilty for spending time away from Jenny when she worked even though Jenny was going to a special school that did wonders for her. When she was at home, she felt it was imperative that she give Jenny her constant undivided attention. There were times when Jenny’s disjointed, repetitive chattering scraped her nerves raw, but she gritted her teeth and listened and responded.

It had been Jenny’s teacher, at a parent’s night, that had taken her aside and advised her to tell Jenny when she had talked enough, when Isabelle needed to be by herself or enjoy a few minutes of quiet.

Isabelle had felt—and looked—a trifle shocked. “But I want her to feel that what she says is important to me. I think I should listen to her.”

“Of course you should. But not all the time. I’ve been watching you tonight, and you’re letting Jenny dominate every moment of your time. That isn’t good for her, Ms. Gray. She needs, just like every other child, to know her limits. She needs structure. You aren’t doing her any favors. It’s pity, not love. Just think about it. If Jenny were a ‘normal’ child, would you allow her to rattle on all the time? I don’t think so. You would teach her manners. You’d know that she needs to learn to let others talk, that she’s not the only person in the world. Jenny needs to learn that, too.”

Isabelle had stared at her, much struck by her words. Then she had thanked her, and ever since that day she had made it a point to now and then stop Jenny’s prattling and to take a few minutes out of her evening to be completely alone.

Prudence jumped up onto the couch and settled onto Isabelle’s stomach, letting out her low, throaty purr. The sound was hypnotic, soothing, and Isabelle felt the knots of tension gradually seeping out of her muscles. She was just drifting into sleep when Jenny came back into the room, dragging one of her dolls by the hair.

“Hi,” she said, plopping down on the couch at Isabelle’s feet. “Whatcha doing?”

Isabelle smiled. Ten or fifteen minutes was usually Jenny’s limit for leaving one alone. “Nothing. Just being lazy.”

She sat up and cuddled Jenny to her side. “Well, what do you say we watch a little TV together? Would you like that?”

“Sure.”

Isabelle picked up the remote control and flicked the television on. Jenny was immediately absorbed, staring at the screen, lips slightly parted. Isabelle bent and kissed the top of her head.

She would get past this Michael Traynor thing with all the ease and grace she could muster, Isabelle promised herself. Nothing, absolutely nothing, was going to be allowed to interfere with the tranquil life she and Jenny had created for themselves.

* * *

Michael Traynor walked over to the window of his hotel room and looked out. The swimming pool lay below amidst short palm trees, emerald-green grass and light-edged walkways. It was a landscaping work of art, but Michael didn’t even notice the view. Instead, he stared rather blankly off into the distance; his mind was on Isabelle.

He had known she was on “Tomorrows.” Truthfully—though he would not have told her that—it was one of the things that had intrigued him when his agent told him Danny Archer wanted him for the show. He had been restless, tired of “Eden Crossing,” the show on which he had been for almost four years, tired even of New York City and the opportunity of doing live theater. The money Archer offered had been a good deal better, and L.A. offered more opportunity for other acting jobs, as well as a change of scenery. Besides, the thought of Isabelle teased at his mind. What was she like now? How would he feel when he saw her?