Authors: Amanda Carpenter
the recording now, the studio could sue. They could ruin you
financially.'
'What if they've already ruined me—if I've already ruined myself?'
she had asked, unable to keep the bitterness inside.
Barry watched her closely, then reached into his pocket to draw out a
small pillbox. He opened it up and held it out to her. 'Here, take one
of these, love. It'll make you feel better, and then you can crash
tonight. Go on, it won't hurt you.'
Tired beyond naming, depressed, discouraged and disheartened, Sara
had stared at the little pillbox in Barry's hand. In her mind's eye she
could see her own hand reaching out to accept what he was offering.
She wanted to take that pill. She had always known that a good deal
of Barry's nervous energy had come from pills in the past, but she
had never questioned his personal lifestyle and he had never given
her reason to fire him, for he knew his job and performed like a pure
professional. She had never had any personal experience with drugs;
she had always relied on her own stamina and strength.
This was what had scared her so badly, scared her into running half a
continent to southern Michigan. In that one moment, she had realised
just how badly she was damaging herself with her ambition and
drive. She had always been determined before to keep her body free
from drugs, never to develop a reliance on any type of drug. She had
wanted to make her success totally on her own.
At that moment Sara realised how she had used herself. In an effort
to cut an average of four albums a year and to stay at the top of the
popular charts, she had sacrificed her time, energy and eventually, in
the end, her self-respect. She became marketable, squelching any
desire she might have felt inside to break out of the stereotype and
adopt a quieter, more relaxed style of music. She had assumed an
outrageous style of dress, had gone to the parties with the rich and the
well- known, and had been so caught up in her own whirlwind, her
personal crazy merry-go-round, that she hadn't realised just exactly
when she had left her own personality behind.
The one moment, staring at a little white pill, had brought her to her
senses after eight long, climbing, striving years. Sara Bertelli was a
smashing success. Sara Carmichael was tired, and a little ashamed,
and totally alone.
She would have to reach out to someone, before it became too late.
Thinking of this made her think of the light promise she had made to
a virtual stranger that morning on the beach. She moved, with a
sudden eager urgency, and took her new carton of cigarettes along
with the several packs that were scattered throughout the cabin and
threw them all into the cold and empty fireplace. She struck a match,
watched the little flame take the end of the cardboard box and
stepped back to watch the cigarettes burn away. The aromatic smell
filled the room and she sniffed appreciatively. Still, she couldn't
regret her actions, and a peace that was beginning to become familiar
to her took her mind like a wave washing gently on a beach, and a
slight smile curved her lips.
The cigarettes fell to ashes in the fireplace.
SARA decided early in the evening to take another walk. She told
herself that she merely wanted to get a shot of her sand castle in the
sunset as she went about gathering up her camera bag and a sweater,
but she knew that she wasn't being entirely truthful. There was a
deeper reason, but she didn't try to dig into it. She wasn't sure that she
wanted to know; it was just that suddenly the cabin seemed too small
and too empty.
She swung the bag to her shoulder and headed down the path after
locking her back door and slipping the key into her front jeans
pocket. The path was already becoming familiar to her, and she
watched for little landmarks along the way. There just ahead was a
small tree that had four big bumps on its trunk, and just ahead of that
was the oak tree that looked as if it had been split in two by lightning
several years ago. It was still alive, and ivy tangled all over it, half
hiding the scar. An elm tree to the left, a group of more oaks, and a
funny little hitch in the path caused by several tangled tree roots, and
then sand. A turn to the left and a patch of blue and a blaze of gold
and orange from the setting sun, and she stopped to take a picture of
the vivid scene before moving on.
As she climbed up the rise to reach the beach beyond, she finally
admitted to herself that she had some hopes of seeing that man Greg
again. For some strange reason she wanted to tell him that she burned
her cigarettes. For some strange reason she hoped to make his sombre
dark face smile. This admission was uncomfortable to her. She knew
that now she had admitted this to herself she was going to have
problems acting normally in front of him if she did run into him.
She slid down the other side of the rise, inwardly disappointed to find
the sandy expanse empty. Attempting to shrug this away, she briskly
took off to the sand castle, only to find it half mauled by big paw
prints. Not half as disappointed at this as she was by the sight of the
empty beach, Sara studied the remaining erect wall thoughtfully and
decided that the ruins would look wonderful when sighted and
aligned up with the setting sun. She immediately stretched out in the
sand and shot the dark crumbling shape against the blazing orange
orb with the haze of surrounding red, and felt well pleased.
A panting sound came to her ears and the gallop of muted feet. Thus
warned, Sara attempted to roll over with the intent of rising to her
feet, not wanting to be caught in such a vulnerable position. Before
she could attempt to gain even her knees, a large dark shape walloped
down on top of her stomach. There was a ferocious grin, a pink
lolling tongue and the gleam of wicked white teeth, the pricking of
interested ears, and Sara decided to remain lying down as she stared
into the bright dark eyes of a very heavy Dobermann Pinscher.
She murmured gently, 'What a big boy you are! Sweetheart, good
puppy. Are you always so friendly? I hope this is being friendly—I'd
hate to see you unfriendly! Such a pretty puppy! Will you let me
scratch your ears? Hmm?' Thus adjured, the large, extremely heavy
monster sniffed inquiringly. Sara put up a very slow and careful
hand, trying not to think of the sharp teeth just in front of her face,
and gently scratched behind the dog's ear.
She was rewarded with a wag from the dog's stump of a tail and an
appreciative whine. Feeling a little braver and very foolish, she tried
stroking the sleek black head while still murmuring sweet
nonsensical phrases to the grinning brute. The dog heaved a gusty
sigh, put his nose to her shirt to blow noisily, and rolled over to his
side, which sent him falling off of her chest. She was extremely
grateful at this and managed to sit up in time to avoid having sand
thrown on her face by the dog's sudden scrabbling about as he
scratched his back ecstatically on the sand. This was watched with
some amusement, then Sara whirled about with a start as a deep
voice sounded behind her. The dog shook himself energetically and
pranced over to the man to sit in front of him with an air of
expectation.
'I see you've managed to run into Beowulf,' Greg commented mildly,
taking in the clinging sand on her sweater and the indentations in the
sand underneath her crouching body.
Feeling at a loss and quite overwhelmed by his unexpected
appearance, Sara climbed to her feet slowly, brushing herself off as
she murmured, 'Beowulf is quite a distinguished name, and so
appropriate. Is he always so boisterous?'
'Invariably. I once entertained the hope that he would settle down
when he reached adulthood, but was doomed to disappointment. He
didn't get milder, only larger.' Even standing she seemed to have
forgotten just how big the man was, and she stared up at him, unable
to dispel a feeling of shyness. Greg looked as powerful as the
heaving, panting, grinning brute at his feet. She jumped when he
moved to her, saying, 'Here, let me brush off your back for you. Did
he hurt you?'
'No,' she replied with a hint of self-mockery, 'only scared me a bit.
Had I known that he was such a friendly dog, I wouldn't have been so
ridiculously frightened. It's just when he sat on my chest and showed
me those long white teeth that I -'
'Beowulf is not, I might warn, always so friendly,' he interrupted
mildly as he took care to brush off her jeans too, holding her in place
with one large hand to her shoulder for support. She felt like a little
girl being administered to by her father. 'He had a romp this way in
the afternoon, and I took care that he sniffed around at the sand castle
to get used to your scent. If you'd come on to the beach and he hadn't
been familiarised with you, he might have attacked.'
Sara swallowed hard. 'Oh.' His hand was brushing off the back of her
thighs and she wriggled. 'I think that's good enough, thank you.
Will—do you think Beowulf might bite me now?' This last was asked
in a slightly anxious tone as she shot an apprehensive glance at the
black, silent dog who panted calmly as he sat not five feet away.
Greg raised his head to look briefly at the dog. 'I don't think so,' he
said casually. 'He didn't bite you before.'
'You don't
think
so?' she returned sarcastically. 'By the way, did I
ever thank you for your generous offer to let me roam your beach
freely, unaware of the dog?'
A soft chuckle sounded at this, and Greg clicked his hand at Beowulf
imperatively, at which the dog immediately heaved up and advanced
on the two with the most amiable of ambles.
Sara backed up sharply at this and a long hard arm snaked out to
curve around her waist and pull her up short. She started to lean
against it, then to wriggle protestingly as the dog came closer. 'Stop
that, for heaven's sake!' Greg told her impatiently, looking down at
her large eyes and apprehensive look. Then his own face softened
slightly, although she was too busy noticing the dog to see it, and his
voice softened too. 'Don't you see that he won't hurt you if he knows
I approve of you and show you friendliness? Hold still and let him
get close.'
She tried to stand calmly at this reasonable tone of voice, but couldn't
help leaning back on his arm a bit as Greg moved to the dog and
started to talk quietly to the beast, patting him on the head and
motioning for him to come up to Sara. She stiffened as the great head
lowered to her legs and feet to sniff in a totally friendly manner, and
she held her breath. Beowulf snuffled about, raised his head, and
wagged his stump slightly. At this, Greg told her with amusement in
his voice, 'Pet him now, he won't bite. And you can let out your
breath now, too.'
She expelled gustily, annoyed with his perception, and held out a
tentative hand to the dog. A pink tongue lolloped her forefinger. She
patted the dark head with a little more confidence and was rewarded
with a happy push of the head against her legs and an adoring ogle
from those velvet eyes. 'I think he likes me,' she said, delighted.
'Of course he does,' was the calm reply. She looked up as Greg told
her, 'I told him he could.'
'Do you mean to tell me he's a guard dog who attacks anyone not
strictly acquainted with his master?' she asked incredulously.
'Something like that,' he replied shortly. Looking down at her spilled
camera bag, he asked her, 'Did you manage to get a picture of the
castle ruins before Beowulf mauled you?'
'Yes. That's why I was down on the sand,' she explained, moving to
pick up the things and dust them off carefully.
'I thought he'd knocked you down.'
'He probably would have if I hadn't been prone already,' she
muttered, feeling annoyed when he laughed softly at that. How could
she have ever wanted to hear him laugh again? It was most
provoking. She stared at him consideringly, taking in the change of
clothes, the nicer slacks instead of jeans and the dark sweater over a
lighter shirt that was open at his strong brown throat. He looked