attempt to come up with the two hundred thousand dollars she needed to pay off the note. Jason could suggest interim financing all he wanted, but if it was so easy, why the hell didn't
Returning to the office, she spent the afternoon with her assistant Theresa, going over expenditures. But everything was cut to the bone already. They had enough coming in to cover monthly expenses, but not enough to cover an extra two-hundred-thousand-dollar note, not until United Diversified's offices were finished and billed out. At four o'clock she left to pick up Carrie from school and tomorrow she'd simply begin with the other banks. If she talked to them all, perhaps someone would advance her the money. Her building was mortgaged to the hilt but she was beginning to see small profits at the end of the month and once the last empty spaces were leased, she could anticipate a healthy financial statement.
But that eventuality wasn't today and after Carrie was put to bed that night, Molly indulged in a bout of crying self-pity-her responsibilities overwhelming her. As if being a mother, employer, and lease-holder to seven and a half stories of distributors wasn't enough, now, in addition she had to take on Midwest Metro's adjusted policy on note renewals as though it were a matter of accumulating enough dollar bills to fill a cookie jar. It wasn't dollars though, it was two hundred thousand impossible dollars and even thinking of the sum made her stomach constrict. Oh God, she dreaded tomorrow with the necessary calls on the banks. But what she dreaded more was the possibility of losing her business. The anxious fear crept in and filled her mind.
When Carey called late that night after shooting, after the editing, after Christina had been politely sent to her own room, he almost immediately asked, “What's wrong?”
“Nothing,” Molly said, valiantly trying to disguise her misery. “Too busy a day at work, that's all. How did the shooting go?”
“Great. The weather cooperated. We're almost through with the midsummer scene. Probably Wednesday we'll finish, and I'll give everyone a couple of days off and come down. I'd like to meet Carrie, see your business, take you to dinner, all those domestic details I've missed in your life.”
“I told Carrie I'd met an old friend at the reunion. A dear old friend. She's looking forward to seeing you. When I told her you were a movie director, she asked whether you could get her a date with Chachi from
“Tell her I'll check it out.”
“And then Theresa my bookkeeper thinks you're the hottest thing to come down the pike, and Georgia called early this morning-”
“What's wrong?” he repeated, interrupting the brittle elan. “Tell me.”
“Nothing serious. Business stuff. It'll smooth over.” Molly hadn't perfected a gift for dissembling, and her answers were far from convincing.
“The note?” Carey asked.
She gulped in astonishment. “How did you know?”
“Movies, even modest movies, cost millions, love. I've dealt with enough money brokers in my life to anticipate trouble. No renewal?”
“Right,” Molly dejectedly replied.
“I'll give you the money.”
“We went through that last night. I can't take money from you. I'm going to the banks first thing tomorrow. Jason suggested an interim loan, only for a few months. There shouldn't be any problem,” she finished with a forced lightness. She didn't want to take Carey's money. After her bitter experience with Bart, she was wary of some man saying “you couldn't have done it without me.” She wanted her independence. Needed it. It was doubly important to her after having broken out at long last from her closed-in no-win marriage with Bart.
“Is that the banker you were talking about last night?” Carey asked. “The one at Midwest Metro. Jason Evans?”
“None other,” she replied, surprised at his memory for detail. “But enough dismal business,” she quickly went on, determined to shift the conversation from something that could cause an argument. Last night, Carey's mouth had clamped tightly shut when she'd refused his money, and she knew that expression from past experience. “Did you miss me today?” she murmured in a wonderfully fey voice that reminded him of splashes of sunlight.
“Did Byrd want to reach the North Pole first?” he replied in an amused drawl.
“That much, hey? Thanks.”
“You're entirely welcome. It was a pleasure thinking of you, remembering you, remembering us, wondering occasionally how a relatively sane man could have been so stupid for so many years-”
“You're glad I stopped by at Ely Lake, then?”
There was a sudden silence, and for a moment Molly thought they'd been cut off. “Yes,” Carey said very softly, “I'm glad.” A hundred times that day, he'd been struck with terror when he thought how close he'd come to missing her-again.
“Good,” she replied with pleasure.
“I'll call you tomorrow. And if all goes well, I'll be down Thursday.”
They hung up on whispered good-byes and silly love words murmured in childish accents that would have shocked anyone familiar with Carey Fersten, film director. But they had their own private world and always had, a world of pet names and lispy silliness and warm, undiluted happiness.
Three minutes later, Allen was summoned to Carey's motel room. Waving him to the phone before he was completely into the room, Carey said, “Get me George. It's important.”
“He's on vacation for two weeks,” Allen reminded him. Carey's principle accountant had carefully explained his schedule before leaving, tied up any loose ends with Carey personally, and been wished a bon voyage.
“Get me one of his assistants, then,” Carey said impatiently.
“Problems?”
“Nothing they can't handle.”
“Care to wait till morning? It's midnight in New York.”
“If I wanted to wait till morning,” Carey said in a monotonic voice, dangerous in its blandness, “I wouldn't have dragged you out of Valerie's bed. I want someone at CRT in New York,” he directed, his syllables rapid now, “and I want two hundred thousand dollars at Midwest Metro at nine o'clock tomorrow morning, care of Jason Evans.” Allen immediately paid careful attention to all the details because Carey was rarely demanding. This must be important to him. “Don't use my name,” Carey went on, “use the name of one of our corporations. I want the note paid in full and I want CRT to speak to someone in authority at the bank concerning the payoff instructions. Ms. Darian is to be informed there's no further problem with her note and she'll receive the renewal papers in ten days or so. She is to be informed with a maximum, stress
“The lady won't take the money?”
“‘Pride,' she says. ‘Won't take it,' she says.”
“Pride,” Allen repeated very slowly as though the word came from a foreign language. “Interesting concept,” he added with an ironic smile. “Is she left over from some ice age?”
“She's a throw-away-the-mold, one of a kind,” Carey said grinning. “She's the best.” His eyes went to the phone, then to the clock. He wanted to call and tell her to sleep tight-Jason Evans was getting a kick in the ass tomorrow. But no way would that work. He turned back to Allen. “Got it now?”
Allen nodded.
“Report back to me after you hear confirmation from the bank.” Suddenly he stretched out his hand and smiled. “Sorry, Allen, for getting you out so late at night, and thanks in advance.”
Allen was at the door when he turned and said, “This one's really different, right?”
Carey looked up, his hand about to reach for the next day's script. Lamplight shone on his gilded head, softened the stark angles of his face, muted the predatory eyes. His thick lashes came up, and his direct gaze answered before his voice did. “She's the girl I left behind. And even though she doesn't know it, she was in every film I ever
