Hot Streak

little Sylvie meant to him. He shook his head, no, finally, and shrugged, remembering those years. “Sylvie felt it was time I got married,” he said, as if trying to find the answer himself. “I wasn't conscious of much of anything in those days, so I said, why not? A combination of circumstances which proved disastrous. It was a stupid mistake.”

When he saw the alarm on Molly's face, a terrible dawning of uncertainty and fear, he added in an even tone, “Don't be afraid. It's different with us. We're different. I didn't love Sylvie. You didn't love Bart.”

Molly's expression registered shock.

“You didn't love him,” Carey repeated. “You loved me.”

And she knew it had always been true, though she'd locked away the truth all those years ago. Locked it away behind the wedding arrangements and the impossibility of leaving Bart and their families and friends in limbo at the church. And then she'd thrown away the key when she discovered she was pregnant. One loved one's husband, that's the way things were. You especially loved your husband when you carried his child.

“I know,” she quietly said, pained and honest. “I always loved you, I never stopped loving you. I'm sorry.”

He understood her apology and all the sadness behind it. “Just never leave me again.”

He opened his arms, and she went to him.

CHAPTER 49

A fter Pooh's return from Lucy's the next morning, when they told her they'd decided to get married soon, she scarcely changed expression. She was sitting on her old wooden rocking horse that still held its place of honor in the living room. Kicking it in a leisurely movement, she said, “I knew it. Mom's been moping all week. She runs for the phone every time it rings. We can't walk through the apartment without knocking over a basket of flowers-I see there's more.” She cast a random glance at the new baskets of white roses. “And Mom hasn't hollered at me once this week. I thought she was sick. Are we going to move?” she finished, as though her abrupt question was a perfectly logical conclusion to her statements.

“Ah…” Carey awkwardly began.

“Er…” Molly exhaled painfully.

“I want to be a flower girl,” Pooh declared, “with a long dreamy dress, flowers in my hair, and silver shoes.”

“Of course,” Carey quickly replied, relieved at the new direction of the conversation. “You and your Mom decide what color dress. Silver shoes?”

“Jennifer Porter thinks she's hot 'cuz she's got silver shoes.”

“Good enough reason for me,” Carey said with a grin.

And the difficult topic of moving was brushed aside in favor of a discussion of flower girl dresses.

Carey took them out for dinner that evening, and they celebrated their coming marriage in ten-course magnificent style. And much later Pooh was tucked into bed after an extemporaneous story of rabbits and enchanted forests.

Carey and Molly spent a blissful night in their own enchanted land, and when morning came their wedding date on the following weekend had been decided. The decision to tell Pooh about the coming baby had been made. The wrap-up schedule for the picture five days hence was decided. Even the honeymoon had been decided.

Southern France for all three-and-a-half of them.

Only the decision about their working lives hadn't been decided.

Cowardly, they'd avoided the subject.

CHAPTER 50

W hen Carey arrived on location in the late morning, he immediately went to the trailer and rummaged through the file drawers. Five minutes later, he called in Allen from the final scenes being set up in the meadow near the lake.

After a brief exchange of amenities, Carey said, “I'm tossing another mess into your lap, Allen. Call and tell our lawyers they're going to be busy in the next few weeks. I just tore up my contract with Allied International to direct that film in Australia.”

Allen sat down hard, taking off his baseball cap in an unconscious gesture of shock. His horrified glance was no surprise to Carey. “You can't,” he exclaimed as vehemently as his breathless lungs would allow.

“I already did,” Carey replied with a much-too-cheerful demeanor for a man who may have committed financial suicide.

“You're ruining yourself,” Allen pronounced, his mind racing through the possible loss of income totaling millions, on top of Carey's determination to make this immigrant movie that may or may not make money, not to mention the losses suffered during the weeks he was gone on his murderous mission.

“Christ, Allen,” Carey responded, “I don't need all this. I lead a simple life. I know how to run my own camera.”

“Jesus, you're not some long-haired juvenile director with a creative dream, Carey, You're incorporated ten times over now.” And you don't lead a simple life, he thought, unless royal prerogatives had reached the masses when he wasn't looking. “You've a wife and daughter to think about, or soon will have,” he added in an attempt to reach the starry-eyed man he'd known as a hard-headed pragmatist for eight long years.

“And another child on the way.”

Allen's eyes bulged out. “That kid really is yours.”

It stopped Carey for a moment-Allen's inherent disbelief-even after all the weeks of legal maneuvering to put Pooh in his will. “Both kids are really mine,” he said very simply.

“Good God, then, Carey, think of them. If you renege on that contract-” Allen exhaled violently at the thought of all the dire consequences.

“I'm not exactly penniless, Allen. I think I'll survive. You're better off not going in for these big productions, anyway.”

He was sounding more and more like the barefoot man Allen had first met at Cannes long ago. “Shit, Carey, don't go native on me. This is more millions than-”

“I'm not impressed, Allen,” Carey interrupted. “If you recall,” he went on very quietly, “those millions and some of the people behind those millions were the reason I left Hollywood in the first place.”

Now that sounded exactly like the barefoot man at Cannes. And that integrity was what had always appealed to Allen. You could count on the man. Always. Ever loyal, Allen sighed deeply and gave up. “You're sure?”

“Sure as hell. If I don't have Molly, there aren't enough millions in the world to make me happy. Clear?”

“As crystal.” Allen smiled then. “Who the hell would ever think you'd find the end of the rainbow way the hell up here.”

“It's where I lost it in the first place. Why shouldn't I find it here?”

“And all those women around the world waiting their turn?”

Carey laughed, a pleasant sound full of pleasure, without regret. “They're all yours, Allen. Be my guest. My Honeybear is all I need.”

On the term of endearment, Allen's glance swiveled to the small honey-colored teddy bear mounted in a delicate bell jar which had always held a place of honor on Carey's desk. “For her?” he asked. “That was hers?”

Carey nodded.

“And Golden Bear Productions?”

Carey shrugged. “What else?”

“Holy Christ, would the gossip columnists have a field day with that,” Allen teased. “You, the guy who didn't believe in romance. Only amour.”