Once in a Blue Moon
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Kristin James
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One
She had not expected to ever see him again.
But here he was, walking through the door with Danny Archer and Carol Nieman, all three of them smiling like Cheshire cats and talking in that light, self-satisfied way that betokened the end of a deal.
Isabelle’s stomach clenched. She wanted to turn and run away, yet there was nothing she could do except stand and watch them walk across the soundstage toward her and the rest of the cast.
She recognized Michael immediately despite the fact that it had been over ten years since she’d seen him. He still walked in that intensely masculine, loose-limbed way, like an animal on the prowl; his body was still lean and powerful. And the smile flashing across his face was just as charming as ever. Charm, after all, was his stock in trade, Isabelle thought sardonically.
“Curtis Townsend,” Phil Ridley murmured beside her.
“What?” Isabelle glanced at Phil, confused.
Phil nodded toward the producer and assistant producer and the man in between them, buttressed like a prize. “I’ll lay you odds that he’s going to play Curtis Townsend. You know, the brother they keep talking about.”
“Oh.” Recent scripts had been rife with references to Mark Townsend’s brother, Curtis, a character who had left the show years before. There had been a great deal of speculation that the character was to be brought back.
Isabelle’s stomach knotted even tighter. Surely that could not be. Surely she was not doomed to having Michael Traynor permanently around her—in the same studio twelve hours a day, seeing him in the actor’s lounge, running into him walking along the hallway, even rehearsing and acting opposite him on the set! Panic seized her. She knew she could not bear it.
“People!” Danny Archer was speaking now into the waiting silence, smiling at the cast and crew. He loved having them all hanging on his words. “I have someone here I want you to meet. His name is Michael Traynor.” His grin broadened, and he gave a jovial little laugh. “A name I’m sure you’ve all heard of. I’m proud to say that we have managed to woo him away from New York and that other show, which shall remain nameless.” He paused for the polite murmur of laughter. “Starting next week, he is going to be our new Curtis Townsend.”
Phil cast Isabelle an arch look, raising his brows. Isabelle felt sick. How could this be happening? She had thought Michael safe in New York, tied by his popularity in “Eden Crossing.” She had blithely believed that she would never have to see him again, never have to face the past that lay between them.
“Let me introduce you to your castmates, Michael,” Danny continued, propelling Michael forward with a hand on his elbow. “Of course, Lena you already know.”
Michael smiled, reaching out to take her hand. “Yes. Thank you again for reading with me in the audition.”
Lena almost simpered. “It was a pleasure.” Obviously Michael hadn’t lost a bit of his charm, Isabelle thought sourly.
“This is Paul Kusorka—he plays Chase Manning. And Vivian Blair...”
They were proceeding down the line, coming ever closer to her. Isabelle knew that she would have to meet Michael face-to-face. She steeled herself. She must not let him realize how much seeing him again shook her. She would not let him have that power over her, that satisfaction.
Another thought struck her: Would he even remember her? Recognize her? It had been ten years, after all, and she was well aware of how much less important that summer had been to him than it had been to her. It would be a relief, of course, if he looked at her without recognition, with the vague, indeterminate charm of a new acquaintance—but how humiliating, as well. A painful reminder of the fact that she had been nothing but a summer fling for him, easily forgotten when he returned to New York.
She raised her chin, assuming a cool expression. She was determined not to let her face reflect any response to him, whether he remembered her or not. She would be aloof, remote, unaffected by him.
Danny and Michael were two people away now, chatting with Lyle Gordon, the director. Isabelle waited, surreptitiously wiping her sweating palm against her skirt.
Michael glanced away from Lyle and his eyes moved to Phil, then to Isabelle. She felt the full force of his magnetic blue gaze. It was hard to hide the involuntary quiver that ran through her. God, he was handsome.
Distant memory could not prepare her for the power of his looks. He was older now, the thick black hair shorter and tamed into a more conservative style, as befitted the upright doctor that Curtis Townsend was supposed to be. But the lines in his face only added interest to his smooth good looks, the added flesh removing some of the gauntness of his prominent facial bones. His eyes held a more haunting look of experience and wisdom.
There was none of the surprise in his face that Isabelle had felt when she saw him enter the room. But there was no blankness, either; he knew her, and he had known that she would be here. Then he must have recognized her name when Danny or Carol had told him about the other cast members. Or perhaps he’d even noticed that she was on “All Our Tomorrows” before he had auditioned for the part. Obviously it made no difference to him that she was on the show. But, then, she told herself, she didn’t know why she should expect that it would. Michael Traynor no doubt felt no pain at the mention of her name; he would not flinch at the idea of working with her. A brief summer affair would not loom large in his past.
Now they were standing in front of her, and Danny was saying her name. Isabelle forced herself to smile and extend her hand to Michael. She felt so stiff, she thought her cheeks might crack.
“Hello.”
“Isabelle.”
“You two know each other?” Archer asked in surprise.
“Yes. We know each other.” Michael smiled faintly, looking into Isabelle’s face. His hand was warm around hers. She realized that she remembered exactly how his skin felt.
“We met a long time ago,” Isabelle explained coolly to Danny, “at a summer theater.” She turned to Michael, gazing challengingly into his eyes, willing herself not to notice their disturbing blueness. “I’m surprised that you remember me.”
Michael’s dark, straight brows went up at that statement. “I could hardly forget you,” he said simply.
She wished that she could say that she had forgotten him, but, of course, it would be too rude, as well as untrue. How could she forget him, when everyday she found herself looking into that same face when she gazed at her daughter?
“Of course not,” Danny agreed, grinning. “Who could forget a woman who looks like you, Isabelle?”
Isabelle gave him a perfunctory smile. “Thank you, Danny. Let’s just hope the viewers don’t.”
Behind Michael, Carol Nieman, laughed. “Hardly likely. You’re everyone’s favorite villainess, and you know it.” She cast a roguish glance at Michael. “Isabelle’s our resident man-eater, you see—Jessica Randall.”
Michael nodded. “I know.”
“Yes, of course. She’s devouring your character’s brother at the moment.”
Michael smiled at Isabelle slightly and released her hand. She hadn’t realized that he had continued to hold it until that moment; her hand was a little empty and cold now.
“I look forward to working with you.”
“Oh, I doubt we’ll have many scenes together,” Isabelle replied breezily, turning and walking away from Michael without waiting to see his expression.
She strode through the increasing crowd on the set, smiling and nodding at people, trying to look calm and unconcerned, as if she were just strolling back to her dressing room. As if she were not running away.
* * *
Isabelle closed the door of her dressing room behind her and collapsed heavily into the chair in front of her mirror. She leaned her elbows upon the vanity and rested her head on her hands.
How could this have happened? It seemed the most appalling trick of fate. She had long ago dismissed the fear that she might meet Michael again. Why, it had been years since she had even thought about him—at least in any more than a brief, passing way. And now, to have him turn up, here on her set....
For a moment she panicked and thought of running, of packing up and taking Jenny and moving away. Then she drew a long breath and forced herself to calm down. That was ridiculous; she couldn’t overturn her life and run simply because an old boyfriend had appeared. And that’s all he was, she reminded herself: an old boyfriend. Someone who had once, for a brief summer, had a place in her life and who no longer did.
It was not a disaster. Other women had old lovers re-appear in their lives; why, here among the relatively small acting world of L.A., some women had to face their ex’s all the time, even right after they had split up. At least she had had ten years for the wounds to heal before she had to face Michael again.
Isabelle raised her head and looked at herself in the mirror. She didn’t like what she saw: the frown line between her eyes, the vulnerable mouth, the anxiety looming in her eyes. She looked like a victim, she thought, and she was determined never to be that, never to think of herself that way. Those horrible, pain-filled two years after Michael left her were a thing of the past; she was not the frightened, lonely girl she had been then. She had taken control of her life; she had gone after what she wanted; she had taken care of herself and of Jenny—so well, in fact, that most people would be envious of her life now.
She ought to thank Michael for what he had done, really; it had enabled her to be the person she was now. Sometimes she wondered if she would ever have had the strength or the nerve to have packed up and come to L.A., to pit herself against the terrible odds of becoming a successful actress, if Michael had not left her. The odds were, she knew, that she would not have done what she did, that she would have become merely an appendage of him.
And she was not going to sink back into being a frightened young woman simply because he had shown up again. Isabelle drew another deep breath, willing her face into lines of tranquility, forcing the fear from her eyes, firming her mouth. There, that was better.
Isabelle turned from the mirror and settled down to consider her situation. She did not like the idea of being on the same show with Michael. But there was little hope of his leaving anytime soon, not after Danny had just hired him—and with such obvious pride. Danny considered getting Michael away from “Eden Crossing” a tremendous coup; she could tell by the way he was crowing about him. “Eden” was, after all, the most successful daytime soap, whereas “All Our Tomorrows” had been the perennial runner-up, ;ns1 in its time slot, but ;ns2 overall to “Eden.” Everyone knew that that fact chafed Danny; no doubt he was hopeful that with the added attraction of Michael Traynor, their show would overtake “Eden” in the ratings. Indeed, he was probably right. Whatever Isabelle might feel about Michael Traynor, he was one of the most popular actors on daytime television, and his presence might be just the impetus they needed to push “Tomorrows” over the top.
If anyone left, if would have to be her, and Isabelle knew that she did not want to go. The show had made her very popular, and she enjoyed playing her character. Besides, the money was good, and though she could in all likelihood get a part that paid as well on another soap, she could not be absolutely sure. And with a child like Jenny, financial security was very important. Jenny would always have to have someone to look after her to some extent. That was why Isabelle kept salting away a big hunk of her salary into Jenny’s trust fund every year.
Nor was it only the security of money that Jenny required. She needed to stay in the same house with the same housekeeper to pick her up from school each day, and her mother to spend regular time with her. Isabelle could not take a job on one of the soaps shooting in New York nor could she be in a movie that spent months shooting on location. Even a nighttime series required more time away from home than Isabelle wanted to spend. That was why the “Tomorrows” role was so perfect. “Tomorrows” was probably the best organized, best-run production in town; shooting was scheduled so that one’s scenes were all together on certain days, with the result that even the most popular actors, such as Isabelle, worked only three or four days a week. It wasn’t like other shows she had been in where she might have to be at the set all day only to shoot a scene or two. Isabelle was often able to be home with Jenny two afternoons a week after school, as well as on the weekends.
Besides, she enjoyed her role on “Tomorrows.” She liked the cast and crew, and the writers and directors were good. All in all, she did not want to give up her part on it.
And there was no reason why she should, Isabelle told herself firmly. She would be acting like a schoolgirl if she left the show simply to get away from Michael Traynor. After all, what could happen? It wasn’t as if she were in danger of being hurt by him again. No, she had learned her lesson the first time. She had gotten over him long ago, and she intended to stay that way. And she was old enough and wise enough now that he could not charm her into loving him against her better wishes.
Moreover, she doubted that he would try. Why should Michael be interested in her? She was only a girl he had had a brief fling with one summer; she obviously had not meant much to him, given how easily he had left her. If he were, by some chance, attracted to her again, all she had to do was let him know that she was not interested, and he would drop the matter. It wasn’t as if he had seduced or forced her the first time; she had fallen willingly into his arms. Michael had never pushed her; she had to give him that. He could get any number of women he wanted, after all; he didn’t have to pursue or push.
Surely she was adult enough to handle having to see him around the set, Isabelle told herself, even to play a scene with him now or then. It was unlikely that they would be together in many scenes. Her character, the wicked Jessica, had her hooks in Mark Townsend, the brother of the character Michael would play. And obviously, from his having auditioned with Lena, the writers intended to kindle a romance between Lena’s character, Abby, and his.
It would be relatively easy to avoid him. When she did have to be around Michael, she could manage to be coolly polite. Seeing him had hit her hard this afternoon only because it was so sudden and unexpected. Once she became used to his being around, it wouldn’t bother her so much. After a time, even, she might be totally unaffected.
Isabelle paused in her thoughts and smiled wryly; she wondered if any woman who was still breathing could be totally unaffected by Michael Traynor. Perhaps not, but she was armored against him better than most, she thought; she knew what could happen to her if she used poor judgment.
He wouldn’t necessarily learn about Jenny. Isabelle had been careful to keep her private life separate from her job. She presumed a lot of people knew that she had a daughter, but less than a handful knew anything about that daughter. She never brought Jenny to work with her. Michael Traynor would certainly never be at her house. Even if, by some remote chance, he did see Jenny, he wouldn’t necessarily assume that she was his. Isabelle could see the resemblance in her, but that wasn’t to say that anyone else would. Jenny was quite small for her age; she looked more like seven or eight than ten.
The important thing, of course, was that Jenny not find out the truth. Jenny’s tender feelings were easily hurt, and she could hold on to the pain for much longer than Isabelle would have thought possible. It would never do for her to know that she had a father alive and well, a father who had run out on them before he even knew about her. Worse yet would be for her to know it and see him pull away from her now. No, Jenny must not know. But that would be easy.
There was a rap on her door, and Isabelle’s head came up with a snap. Her heart began to pound. For one crazy moment she thought it was Michael, coming after her to talk to her. But then Tish Klegman’s voice sounded in the hall. “Miss Gray? You start shooting again in fifteen minutes.”
“Oh.” Isabelle pulled herself into the present with difficulty. “Yes. Of—of course. What scene?”
“Three. You and Paul and Phil, in the restaurant.”
“Oh, yes.” It was the scene they had been rehearsing when Danny and Carol had waltzed into practice with their new acquisition.
Isabelle glanced around her, looking for the script. All her lines seemed to have flown from her head in the last few minutes. It took her a moment to recall that she must have left the script out on the set. She sighed and closed her eyes for a moment. She had to pull herself together. She couldn’t go back out there in this frazzled condition.
Isabelle checked her image in the mirror, straightening her clothes, tidying her hair, smoothing away a smudge of mascara beneath her eye. Callie would refresh her makeup right before they shot, of course, but she needed the confidence of looking perfect when she walked onto the soundstage. No one must suspect that Michael Traynor’s arrival had upset her.
Isabelle stood up, drawing another deep breath. Then she opened the door and marched out into the hallway, head high, a faint smile on her lips as she strode along the hall and onto the soundstage.
“Isabelle,” the director said, smiling. “Great. Now maybe we can get back down to business. Need to run through it again?”
Isabelle smiled, picking up her script and glancing down the page. “No, I’m fine, Lyle. Let’s go ahead and shoot.”
* * *
It was a long two hours later when Isabelle finally left the soundstage. She walked tiredly back to her dressing room to remove her makeup and change clothes. Despite her confident assurance to the director, she had had difficulty with the scene, blowing her lines three times in a row before she got them right. Her nerves had infected the others, with the result that the two scenes they filmed had taken them much longer than normal. She was going to have to retain control of herself better than that, Isabelle thought in disgust as she kicked off her spike heels and wriggled her toes in relief.
“Feet hurting?” a sympathetic voice said as Amanda from Wardrobe stuck her head in the door.
Isabelle cast her a wry smile. “As usual. The worst thing about playing a silver-plated bitch is the stiletto heels I have to wear. Come on in. I’ll have the suit off in a sec.”
Amanda came farther into the room, closing the door behind her, and picked up Isabelle’s shoes from the floor. Then she took down a hanger and hung up the skirt and jacket of the elegant business suit that Isabelle had pulled off and handed to her.
“I saw the new hunk,” Amanda said jokingly and fanned herself with an imaginary fan.
“Mmm,” Isabelle replied noncommittally. Now she understood why Amanda personally had come to retrieve her outfit for Wardrobe. A middle-aged woman with short graying hair and no makeup, Amanda looked more like a librarian than someone in charge of glitzy costumes, but she had razor-sharp taste in clothes and loved to indulge it with the studio’s money. She was equally fond of gossip and could usually be found at the center of any studio rumors.
“Word has it that you know him,” she went on when Isabelle said nothing to relieve her curiosity.
“Briefly, a long time ago,” Isabelle replied casually, pulling on her own jeans and a simple short-sleeved sweater. She strove to keep her tone light and uninvolved; she had to set the pattern right from the beginning. The show’s gossip was the best place to start, she supposed—as long as she managed to hide all traces of residual emotion.
“We worked in the same summer theater—Shakespeare,” Isabelle went on. “He was one of the professionals who had come down from New York to work with Dr. Carlysle, and I was a mere intern. I was only eighteen. I hadn’t even started college yet.”
She would not mention the afternoons of drinking coffee with Michael in the café across from the amphitheater or the evenings when he had walked her home, the long kisses on the porch of the big old house where the interns had roomed. She would not reveal how everything inside her had turned to Jell-O everytime Michael looked at her.
“But he remembered you. Phil said he did.” Amanda gave her a conspiratorial smile. Her eyes were alight with the greedy flame of an inveterate gossip. “You must have made an impression on him.”
Isabelle chuckled. “I was surprised he remembered me, truthfully. We did work together on a play, but he was Mercutio in Romeo and Juliet, and I was one of the townspeople.”
She pushed out of her mind the memories of lying beneath a tree with him, the sun dappling her legs and the branches rustling over their heads, the green summer grass a tangy scent in her nostrils and the heat of Michael’s body lying only inches from her as his smooth voice rolled out the lines of the play, the Shakespeare on his tongue as intoxicating as wine. There hadn’t been a time, before or since, when she had felt as alive as she had that summer.
“Mercutio! I would have figured Romeo was more like it, the way he looks.” Amanda fetched up a grandiose sigh.
“As I remember, he liked the part better. It suited him, anyway—charming and cynical.” There had been something dark and mysterious about him. It was intriguing that his charm had a slightly rough edge, that he was not the familiar Southern boy that she’d grown up with, but a Yankee, and one with a sad history, as well. He had been orphaned at thirteen and had been bounced from foster home to foster home for a few years. His love of acting had been the thing that had saved him from following some of his New Jersey friends into a criminal life.
Isabelle had fallen for him hard. To give him credit, he had tried to ignore her, but she had been determined to reach him. She had arranged accidental meetings and flirted and schemed. It had been two weeks before he broke down and invited her out to coffee one afternoon. It had been even longer before he had finally kissed her. After that, though, they had become inseparable. Eventually, inevitably, they had come together in a cataclysmic night of lovemaking.
Three weeks later, Michael had gotten a call from his agent in New York. There had been a part in an off-Broadway play for him. He had, of course, taken it, leaving the last week of playing Mercutio to his understudy. Isabelle had been away that weekend, visiting her parents at home, and she had returned to be told by her roommate, in a tone of mock sympathy, that Michael had gone back to New York. He had left her a letter.
Isabelle would never forget the chill that invaded her being as she read that letter. He had told her of the part and said that he must leave. He loved her, the note had gone on to say, but there was no future for them. He was sure that before long she would forget all about him.
Isabelle had been too numb for tears. Those had come later, as had the saving fury, the scorn at her own naiveté. She had played the fool, she had realized; she had given her heart to a man who had wanted nothing beyond a summer fling. His career was all that mattered to him; he wanted no entanglements. All the other girls at the theater were quick to agree; they had, they assured her, seen it coming. It had happened to most of them at one time or another, they told her, and nodded their heads sagely. That was life. She had learned a valuable lesson.
Perhaps she had. But it had taken her a long, painful time to get over him. And she had always had a reminder of Michael and the pain: his daughter, Jenny.
“...but of course she always claims to have the inside scoop on everybody,” Amanda was saying, giving Isabelle’s suit a last straightening twitch.
Isabelle nodded vaguely and hoped she didn’t need to respond. She had no idea what the woman had been saying while her own thoughts had been wandering back ten years in time.
“Well...” Amanda draped the suit over her arm and picked up the shoes from the counter where she had placed them. “See you Friday—you’re not scheduled tomorrow, are you?”
“No. A day of rest tomorrow, thank heavens.” Isabelle smiled at Amanda. Whatever tendencies Amanda had toward gossip, she was always on top of her job. And she had unerring taste. Isabelle was grateful to her. After all, there were those costume designers whose chief objective seemed to be to make their actresses look frumpy or sallow.
“Okay. Just wait till you see the green evening dress I’ve got picked out for you for the party next week. I’ll show you Friday. You’ll look like a million dollars in it.”
“Wonderful.” Isabelle summoned up enough energy for a last smile at Amanda, then sank onto her chair in front of the vanity and began to take off her heavy on-camera makeup. She combed through her heavily sprayed and arranged hair until it was back into its normal loose style over her shoulders.
Free of the makeup and elaborate hairdo, she felt better. She rolled her head from side to side, letting the tension of the day begin to drain from her. She thought about the fact that in a few minutes she would be home with Jenny—and there would be a whole day alone tomorrow to marshal her inner strength before she had to see Michael Traynor again.
Isabelle slipped her feet into her ragged sneakers and grabbed her bag, heading out the door. She walked down the hall, nodding at the people she passed, and out the front door. The sun struck her like a blow, and she hurriedly dug in her bag for her sunglasses. She didn’t notice the knot of people standing on the sidewalk in front of the building until it was too late.
Michael Traynor was chatting with two of the writers. Isabelle’s stomach clenched. She hadn’t been prepared to see him again. But she summoned up a smile and walked past them with a breezy wave and a “hi,” continuing toward her car in the parking lot without breaking stride.
“Isabelle! Wait!” She glanced back and saw with an inward groan that Michael had peeled away from the others and was walking toward her.
