Honey Moon (14 page)

all of them called it. They moved in a few weeks later, and she wandered outside the first evening just before the sun set to gaze at the whitewashed brick exterior, A network of bougainvillea vines climbed the walls and curled around the charcoal shutters that framed the mullioned windows. The small copper roof over the entrance had long ago formed the chalky-green patina of respectability. The shrubbery was well established and a small rose garden formed a crescent at the side. She had never imagined she would live in such a beautiful house. It was everything she had always dreamed of.

"Of course it's too close to Wilshire to be really fashionable," the realtor had told her. "But Beverly Hills

is Beverly Hills."

Honey didn't care about what was fashionable. She didn't even care about living in Beverly Hills. The house was cozy and pretty, the perfect place for a family to live. Maybe things would start to get better for her now. She hugged herself, trying to take comfort in the house and forget everything else that was going wrong in her life: the conflicts on the set, the way people were talking behind her back. One of the directors had complained to Ross because she'd shown up late a few times and kept the cast waiting. But it hadn't been all the cast. Just Dash Coogan. And she had kept him waiting twice because she was sick of the way he ignored her, especially since the press had started treating him like Mr. Father of the Year.

The sound of a car pulling into the driveway distracted her. She turned to see her agent getting out of his BMW. Arthur Lockwood walked toward her, his wiry red hair and beard looking darker than normal in the fading light. She respected him, but the fact that he had two college degrees intimidated her, and she couldn't really warm up to his beard.

"Are you all settled?" he asked.

"We're getting there. One of the salesladies from this ritzy furniture store is arranging the furniture."

"It's a nice house."

"Let me show you the grapefruit tree." She led him toward the side, where he admired the tree, and then they entered the screened-in porch through the back door. The furniture saleslady hadn't gotten this far yet, so there was only an old folding chair, which Arthur declined. Honey looked out over the small backyard. She was going to string a hammock between two of the trees and buy a barbecue grill just like on all those TV commercials.

Arthur jiggled the change in the pocket of his chinos. "Honey, hiatus starts in a couple of weeks, and you won't have to report back to work until the end of July. It's not too late for you to accept the offer from TriStar."

The early evening air suddenly developed a chill. "I don't want to do any movies, Arthur. I already told you that. I want to finish up my high school courses during the break so I can graduate before we start filming again."

"You're working with a tutor. Another few months won't make any difference."

"It will to me."

"You're making a mistake. Even though the Coogan show is a huge hit now, it won't last forever, and you need to start planning for the future. You're a natural talent, Honey. The TriStar part will really showcase you."

"A fourteen-year-old girl dying of cancer. Just the thing to cheer America's heart."

"It's a great script."

"She's a rich girl, Arthur. I couldn't convince anybody in the world that I'm a rich girl." Playing a character other than Janie Jones scared her. No matter what the critics said, she knew she wasn't a real actress. All she did was play herself.

"You sell yourself short, Honey. You have real talent, and you'd be wonderful in this part."

"Forget it." She could imagine Eric's contemptuous reaction if he ever saw her trying to play a fourteen-year-old rich girl dying from cancer.

Just the thought of Eric made her ache. Unless they were doing a scene together, he acted as if she didn't exist. And Dash hadn't spoken to her off camera since that day three weeks ago when she'd tried to talk to him behind the rock. The only person who never seemed to avoid her was Liz Castleberry, and Honey figured that was just because of Mitzi. Liz's dog had become the closest thing Honey had to a best friend. She gazed out at her backyard, loneliness creeping all the way through her.

"You need a chance to stretch yourself," her agent said.

"I thought you worked for me, Arthur. I told you I don't want to do any movies, and I meant it."

His face tightened, and she knew he was angry with her, but she didn't care. He bossed her around too much, and sometimes she had to remind him who was in charge.

When he finally left, she went inside. She found Chantal in the living room, lying on their new gold and white brocade sectional couch and reading a magazine. Gordon sat across from her fiddling with his pocketknife.

"This room looks real pretty, Chantal. That saleslady did a good job." Thick white carpet stretched from one wall to the next. In addition to the couch the room held fancy French chairs and amoeba-shaped glass tabletops sitting on thin brass legs. One of those tables held the remnants of a Hungry Man dinner.

"The plants come tomorrow."

"Plants'll be nice." Chantal stretched and set down her magazine. "Honey, me and Gordon have been talking. We think we might be takin' off in a couple of days."

Honey froze. "What do you mean?"

Chantal looked nervous. "Gordon, you tell her."

Gordon pocketed his knife. "We're thinking about driving around the country, Honey. Seeing more of America. Sort of making a life for ourselves."

Honey's heart slammed against her ribs.

"Gordon's got his career to think about," Chantal went on. "He needs inspiration if he's going to be a painter."

Honey tried to stem her panic. "Are both of you crazy? I just bought this house.

I bought it for all of us. You can't take off now."

Chantal wouldn't look at her. "Gordon says Beverly Hills is suifocating him."

"We just moved in today!" Honey shouted. "How could it be suffocating him?"

"I knew you wouldn't understand. You always yell at people. You never try to understand." With a small, choked sob, Chantal fled from the room.

Honey spun on Gordon. "Just what the hell do you think you're doing, you stupid fool?"

Gordon stuck out his weak chin. "Don't call me that! I guess Chantal and me can take off if we want to."

"And how do you plan to support yourselves?"

"We'll find jobs. We've already talked about it. We're going to work our way around the country."

"
You
can work, maybe, but don't fool yourself about Chantal. Selling Ferris wheel tickets is the hardest thing she ever did, and she messed up the cash box so many times that she would have gotten fired if she hadn't been family."

"She might do hair. She's talked about it."

"She talked about marrying Burt Reynolds, too, but she didn't do that, either."

Gordon shoved his hands in his pockets, his frustration evident. "I can't keep going on like this. I've got

to start painting."

"Then start!" Honey said desperately.

"I don't think I'm going to be able to paint here. This house. This neighborhood.

Everything's too—"

"Just try it," she pleaded. "If it doesn't work out, we can always move." The idea of moving made her sick. They weren't even unpacked, and she loved this house, but she wasn't going to let him take Chantal away.

"I don't know. I—"

"What do you need? I'll buy you anything you need."

"I don't like taking your money all the time. I'm a man. I should—"

"I'll pay you two thousand dollars a month to stay right here."

Gordon stared at her.

"Two thousand dollars a month for as long as you stay. I'm already paying for the house and all the food. That's two thousand dollars just for spending money."

Gordon's breath made a soft, hissing sound. His face looked pinched, and when he spoke, his voice was soft and hoarse. "What gives you the right to try to run our lives like this?"

"I care about Chantal, that's all. I want to take care of her."

"I'm her husband. I'll take care of her."

But there wasn't much conviction left in his voice, and Honey knew that she had won.

* * *

The hiatus began. While Gordon and Chantal lay around the house eating the meals Honey cooked and watching television, Honey finished her high-school courses with straight As, except for physical science, which she hated. In June, the three of them flew to South Carolina to see Sophie. The park was even more depressing than she remembered. The rides had been sold off, and the
Bobby Lee
had finally

broken apart during a storm and sunk to the bottom of Silver Lake. Once again, Honey tried to talk her aunt into coming to L.A., but Sophie refused.

"This is my home, Honey. I don't want to live anyplace else."

"It's not safe, Sophie."

"Sure it is. Buck's here."

Honey drove into town the next day to meet with the lawyer she'd hired last December to negotiate the purchase of the park. By late afternoon, she had signed the final papers. The acquisition was going to wipe her out financially for a while, and she wouldn't be able to reopen the park, but at least she had it back.

* * *

"Honey, I asked you to walk past Dash and over to the window on the last line." Janice Stein, the show's only female director, pointed toward the correct position.

Hiatus was over. It was August, and they were in the studio working on their second show for the '81-'82 season. Honey had been in a foul mood ever since shooting had resumed. Dash hadn't acted as if he were the tiniest bit glad to see her again, and Eric had barely returned her greeting. Only Liz Castleberry, the Queen of the Bitches, had stopped to chat, and she was the last person Honey had wanted to talk to.

She splayed her hand on her hip and glared at Janice, who was standing in the middle of the ranch house living room set. "I don't want to move until I say,

'Calm down, Pop.' It'll work better there."

"That's too late," Janice said. "You should already be at the window by then."

"I don't want to do it that way."

"I'm the director, Honey."

Narrowing her eyes, Honey spoke in her snottiest voice. "And I'm an actress trying to do a decent job.

If you don't like my work, maybe you should find another show to direct."

She flounced past Dash, who was standing next to the window with his script in one hand and a coffee cup in the other, and walked off the set. Last year she had been intimidated by all of them, but this year would be different. She was tired of people pushing her around, tired of listening to Gordon's endless complaints about living in Beverly Hills, tired of Chantal's pouting. Nobody liked her anyway, so what difference did it make how she behaved?

She turned down the corridor that led to the dressing rooms and saw Eric at the end. Just the sight of him made her knees go weak. He had spent the summer filming his first feature role in a movie, and he looked so handsome it was hard for her to keep from staring.

Melanie Osborne, an attractive redhead who was one of the new assistant directors, was talking with him. They were standing just close enough for Honey to be certain the conversation wasn't about business. Melanie leaned toward him in a confident, sexy way that made Honey's toes curl with envy.

Eric looked up and saw her coming. He patted Melanie on the cheek and disappeared down the hallway into his dressing room.

Honey's mood grew uglier.

Melanie walked toward her, a friendly smile on her face. "Hi, Honey. I just overheard Ross say that he needs you as soon as you're free."

"Then he can come find me."

"Yes, ma'am," Melanie muttered as Honey swept past.

Honey stopped and spun around. "What did you say?"

"I didn't say anything."

Honey took in Melanie's long, wavy hair and generous breasts. Last week they'd cut her own hair in another dog's dish style. "You'd better watch yourself. I don't like smartasses."

"I apologize," Melanie said coldly. "I didn't mean to offend you."

"Well, you did."

"I'll try my best to avoid repeating the mistake."

"Try your best to stay out of my way."

Melanie clenched her teeth and began to move on, but something evil had taken possession of Honey. She wanted to punish Melanie for being pretty and feminine and for knowing how to talk to Eric. She wanted to punish Melanie for exchanging jokes with Dash and being popular with the crew and for having polished red fingernails the shape of almonds.

"Get me some coffee first," she snapped. "Bring it to my dressing room. And hurry it up."

Melanie stared at her for a moment. "What?"

"You heard me."

When the redhead didn't move, Honey planted her hand on her hip. "Well?"

"Go to hell."

Ross came around the corner just in time to hear the assistant director's words.

He stopped in his tracks. Melanie spun around, saw who had approached, and paled.

Honey leapt forward. "Did you hear what she said?"

"What's your name?" Ross barked.

The assistant director looked sick. "Uh—Melanie Os-borne."

"Well, Melanie Osborne, you've just joined the ranks of the unemployed. Pack up and get out."

"But—"

"Honey's a star," he said quietly. "Nobody talks to her like that."

Melanie turned back to Honey, waiting for her to say something, but it was as if a cadre of devils had speared her lips shut with their pitchforks. Her conscience screamed at her to set things right, but her pride was too strong.

As it became apparent that Honey wasn't going to speak, Melanie's eyes grew bitter. "Thanks for nothing." Straightening her spine, she turned and walked away.

"I'm sorry about that, Honey," Ross said, running one hand through his long, silver hair. "I'll make certain she doesn't work around here again."

A chill slithered along Honey's spine as she absorbed the awesome power of celebrity. He wasn't even going to ask her what had happened. She was important; Melanie wasn't. Nothing else mattered.

He began talking about a press conference for the new season and the publicist who would accompany her on one of the few interviews he was permitting.