Chet Williamson - Reign

She bought the doughnuts as directed, and, since Dennis was generally at the doughnut table a half hour before curtain (he always ate one and one only), she made it a point to dress early and be there as well. Their conversations lengthened, got more serious, and in a short time Dennis suggested that they finish over dinner after the show. One dinner led to another, and by the time the show arrived in Portland for a week's run, they were spending most of their time together. They did not sleep together until San Francisco, although by that time it seemed a foregone conclusion. She could tell that it was more than lust that had brought Dennis into her arms, and, several months later, one night in his suite when she grew bold enough to broach the subject of marriage, she was pleased to find him receptive. Although she felt in retrospect that she could have used a more subtle approach than, "Do you ever think of getting married again," such a bold sally had the desired effect.

"Yes, I've thought of it," he told her. "A lot lately. And I've thought about it because of you, Robin. Because you're one of the few giving people I've ever met. And I'm damn sure you're the prettiest." He smiled. "And the best in bed, for what that's worth. You're the best thing that's happened to me for a long, long time."

"It sounds like you'd be crazy to let me get away."

"It does indeed." They had been lying on the carpet of his living room watching a football game on television, and he turned off the set, reached over, and took her hand. "Do you love me?" he asked.

"I do," she said. "Yes."

"Marry me then. Take care of me, and I'll take care of you. I need someone like you very much. I have for a long time."

She didn't ask him then whether he loved her as well as needed her. After they were married, he told her that he did, and she had never had any reason not to believe him. Their marriage had been a good one, although the second year of the tour she regrettably stopped performing at his request, after he told her that he felt she would be far more of a help to him as a liaison between him and John Steinberg. There were so many things, he said wearily, that John expected of him, a hundred little decisions a week that sapped his strength, all of which he needed lately for his performance.

At first she was reluctant to stop performing, especially to fill the role of majordomo, a position already held, she felt, by Sid. Dennis's response to that was curt. "But you're my wife, Robin. You know how I think, you know what I'll say before I say it." She wasn't so sure of that, but she didn't disagree. "Besides, Sid, as much as I love him, is really a glorified cook and valet. He makes no decisions other than what to serve for dinner and what tie to lay out for me. As for major business decisions… darling, you could be of great help to me."

It was on the tip of her tongue to ask him if part of it was that he didn't want her to perform any more, but she bit it back. Dennis, although he was always kind to her, was possessive as well, and she could not help but feel that he resented her performing because it meant that her affections were divided, that the energies she brought to her stage work were somehow energies that were taken away from him, and, like a selfish child, he resented it.

Still, she did as he asked, deferred to him as did so many others, because to refuse would have been unthinkable, an act of treason to the throne. People obeyed Dennis, from his son Evan to John Steinberg. Robin simply fell into line and obeyed as well. She had promised to take care of him, and take care of him she would. She saw all too easily the insecurity behind the imperial mask, and she loved the man there. Too, she loved the life that he had given her – the luxurious suites, the fine dinners, the parties with famous people, the clothes, the jewelry – Dennis never scrimped. All she had to do was to mention that she thought something was nice, and he would buy it for her, sometimes on the spot, more often later as a surprise. This generosity was one way he knew to show affection, and she appreciated it. It showed her that her efforts to make his private life as easy as possible were not taken lightly.

Nor should they have been. It could be hard work to live with Dennis Hamilton. Despite the change that had recently come over him, he had often been demanding and imperious and selfish. But the rewards, both financial and emotional, had been great. There was no denying that she loved the man and the life she led with him.

But now, with the reappearance of Ann Deems, Robin saw the possibility -indeed, in her imagination, the likelihood – of that life being taken away, of a quick and savage divorce and settlement and remarriage to Ann. And although she knew that whatever settlement she would receive would be a greater sum than she could imagine, it was not money she wanted. It was Dennis. Dennis when they were alone together and the masks came down, when the regalness turned to tenderness.

And he had been more tender of late, more sensitive to the needs of those around him, even weak at times, so that he needed her all the more to be his strength, and she would be, no one else. No, she would let no one come between them. She would not lose him. She would not lose Dennis.

Dennis.

She saw him, far below, way upstage in the shadows. She could make out no details, but she knew it was Dennis from the long, magisterial stride he used on the stage.

"Dennis?" she called, not loud enough to be heard below, even with the excellent acoustics of the Venetian Theatre. She would have called louder, but something stopped her. She would not admit that it was fear, for she had never feared her husband. What was it then? she wondered. What caused this hesitance on her part to call down to him?

She opened her mouth to call louder, but she stopped as the figure paused. She saw its leonine head turn in her direction, caught the spark of red in the hair, a quick flash of blue eyes, and the lights shining dimly on…

Gold braid.

He was wearing his costume, the imperial uniform of the Emperor Frederick.

She tried to call again, but her tongue felt thick and disobedient in her mouth. Now the lights seemed to dim even more, the figure backed slowly upstage, and in a few seconds was lost in the darkness.

Robin sat there, staring into the blackness at the rear of the stage, but seeing nothing. "Dennis," she whispered, then stood up. The shortest route back to the suite was down the steps, but the dread in her would not let her go any closer to the stage. Instead she turned and walked up the stairs to the back balcony stairway, frequently glancing over her shoulder. At the top she turned and looked down, but saw nothing.

When she arrived back at the suite, Dennis was sleeping in precisely the position she had left him a half hour before. He was still naked, the sheet and blanket pulled over his hips. There was no sign of a costume, no traces on his unmarked skin to indicate that he had on any clothing since she had left him.

She lay down beside him, put an arm around his shoulders without waking him, and began to worry, not only about Dennis and Ann Deems, but about herself.

Scene 12

During the next few weeks, the Venetian Theatre was filled with caution. Ann Deems felt her way into her job, neither seeking out Dennis's company nor seeking to avoid it. When she did run into him, he was generally accompanied by Robin, who hovered over him protectively, an attitude to which he made no protest. Their conversations, as a result, were merely friendly and perfunctory.

And, like her mother, Terri Deems felt her way into her new job. She made the shell around herself even harder in the presence of Marvella Johnson, refusing to be baited, accepting Marvella's reproofs with a sullen silence, swearing to herself that she would do nothing to raise Marvella's ire again. The best way to accept chastisement, she decided, was not to do anything to be chastised for in the first place.