Carla Neggers - Tempting Fate

“Why should he care?”

“It isn’t proper. And Hollywood is the devil’s playground.”

But there was a glint in her eye, perceptible to the observant Nicholas Pembroke, that suggested to him that she didn’t lose sleep over what was proper and what wasn’t or where the devil played. She’d waded back to the riverbank and climbed gracefully from the water. On dry land, she looked even tinier and yet surprisingly sexy, an intriguing blend of strength and vulnerability.

“This looks like a good place to fish,” Nick had called after her, feeling a surge of panic that he might never see her again. “I’ll probably be out here every morning.”

“Well, sir, you just be careful and mind the snakes.”

Snakes?

He’d wondered if she was too naive-too much of a damn hick-to have gotten his message, but she was back the next morning, in the same spot where he’d startled her.

“What are you doing?” he’d asked when he again found her staring into the Cumberland.

“Oh-studying the changes in the river. I’ve been coming out here since I was a small child. Some things about it have stayed the same. Some have changed. Did you catch any fish yesterday?”

“Yes, but I released them.”

“Why on earth would you do that?”

“Didn’t feel like cleaning and eating them. I like to fish for the sport. If I played tennis, I wouldn’t fillet and fry up every opponent who lost to me.”

“But those would be human beings. These are fish.”

Smiling, Nick had realized there was more to Mattie than big eyes and a fondness for movies, more to his attraction to her than simple lust. “My motive is the same whether I’m fishing or playing tennis-sport, not subsistence.”

She didn’t get it. He’d asked her where she was from. “Cedar Springs,” she’d said. “It’s a small town a few miles from here.”

The next day she’d brought a picnic lunch in a wicker hamper-enough for two, she’d said, because eating in front of someone was rude. There was fried chicken and pimento cheese and a bag of cold biscuits, with two fat slices of caramel-iced prune cake for dessert. “My mother died a while back,” she’d said matter-of-factly, as if her loss wasn’t worth considering in comparison to what others suffered. “I cook for my father and younger sister. Naomi’s just eleven. I’m eighteen. Where are you from?”

He couldn’t get over how beautiful she was, even nibbling on a chicken leg. Her smile dazzled. “I was born in Saratoga Springs and grew up in New York City. Now I live in Beverly Hills.”

“My father might care for Yankees even less than he does Hollywood people.”

“Well, I’m not a Yankee anymore.”

She’d laughed. “Once a Yankee, always a Yankee.”

“Are you…” He cleared his throat, exercising caution. “Are you in school?”

“I finished high school last month. I’m to go to a two-year college in Cedar Springs in the fall and study to be a schoolteacher, unless I get married. Father never would let me work and have a family.”

Again Nick had sensed an independence beneath the refined surface of Mattie Witt that he’d doubted her father, from the sound of him, would have noticed or, if he had, approved of.

“Do you have any prospects?” Nick had asked.

“For a husband, you mean?” Her dark eyes had sparkled, teasing him, perhaps herself. “Father has prospects for me, I don’t.”

“What does he do for a living?”

“He owns the Cedar Springs Woolen Mill.”

“Would he-do you suppose I could meet him?”

Nick had thought he must have gone mad. Another three days and he’d be back in Beverly Hills planning another movie. Mattie and her black, bottomless eyes would be just a pleasant memory.

Mattie had invited him to dinner the following evening at the Witt home on West Main Street in Cedar Springs. It was a town out of a William Faulkner novel. The house was Greek Revival, shaded by oaks, pecans, magnolias; there were pots of geraniums on the porch.

Jackson Witt was a short, domineering, surprisingly muscular man who read from the Bible before and after dinner. There was no liquor, and Naomi-Mattie’s little sister, a slim, tiny girl-wasn’t allowed to speak at the dinner table unless she was directly addressed by an elder. All through dinner Nick could hear the grandfather clock ticking in the front parlor. It was the most oppressive sound he’d ever encountered. Mattie, for whom this life was normal, would catch his eye and smile. Her world-wherever it was-wasn’t in that house on West Main. It was as if nothing her father said or did could touch her where she really lived.

“My daughter has informed me you’re from California,” Jackson Witt had said after dinner, while Mattie helped the maid-who hadn’t spoken another word to him-clear the table and prepare coffee. “I trust you have no part of the movie industry.”

Nick had coughed to cover his discomfort. Hadn’t Mattie warned him?

“Hollywood is corrupting the children and young people of this great country. For next to nothing they can see behavior and clothing not tolerated in polite company.” He’d fastened his gleaming black eyes on his guest; the clock had seemed to tick ever louder. “These Hollywood stars aren’t proper examples for our children. Their immoral acts are played up in newspapers and magazines all across the country. Divorces, wild parties, illicit liaisons, extravagant spending. It seems there’s a new scandal every day.”

In the Witt household, Nick had already gathered, anything undertaken purely for pleasure was considered suspect, an opening for the devil.

“In my view,” Jackson Witt went on, apparently assuming his guest agreed with his every word and that “his view” was the only right one, “these people have betrayed the public trust. They should be called to account. They are corrupt. As a business leader in this community, I strive to hold myself and my family to a higher standard.”

“I can see that,” Nick had said and tried to smile. He’d just wanted to get out of there. Forget Mattie and her beautiful black eyes. Her fanatical daddy was her headache.

“We’re simple people in Cedar Springs. Yet even out here we can’t escape the sins and sinners of the movie screen.”

Since one of those sinners was sitting in his living room, Nick couldn’t argue with the man.

When his older daughter had reappeared with a silver tray of coffee and something she called chess pie, Jackson Witt had changed the subject. The moral corruption of American society wasn’t a topic for discussion in front of ladies, at least according to his scheme of the world. Nick’d had a feeling Mattie could argue circles around her father. He’d also have bet the old buzzard didn’t know she and her little sister had been to the picture show on the square.

“I understand you’re an engineer,” Witt had said.

Nick nearly choked on his pie, which was smooth and ultra-sweet. He’d looked at Mattie, but she’d shown no sign of embarrassment. Her hand wasn’t even trembling as she’d handed over a china cup and saucer. There was an intense, compelling serenity about her, and Nick had found himself wondering how it would translate on-screen.

“I would say so,” he’d replied with a smile.

“Mattie tells me your daddy’s in the hydroelectric business,” Jackson Witt said.

“My father’s dead, I’m afraid.”

Witt nodded thoughtfully. “He’s gone to a better life then.”

That was what Nick believed, too, but the way Witt said it had made his skin crawl. He’d sipped his coffee, then set it and his empty pie plate back on the tray. “He wasn’t in the power business.”

“Oh, he wasn’t. May I ask what his business was?”