Susan Johnson - Hot Streak

Carey had called the evening of the seventh day and, like a polite suitor, circumspect and well-mannered, his voice smooth as velvet, had asked her out for dinner the following night.

His knock on the door came precisely at eight.

His knock came so perfectly as the second-hand swept toward the twelve, Molly wondered if he'd stood outside her door waiting with his fist raised until the exact moment.

He was bronzed and beautiful, each silky hair on his gilded head in place, his gray double-breasted suit impeccably tailored, his white-on-white patterned shirt crisp, his Lyon silk tie soft as Southern speech, a startling magenta alstroemeria blossom in his lapel buttonhole. Perfection stood before her, and for a brief moment before he smiled he looked like a scrubbed and combed young boy ready for his first date. His smile however, conjured the familiar Fersten sensuality, and his lazy drawl further blurred the young schoolboy image. “Good evening, Ms. Darian, you're looking… splendid.” His eyes traveled in slow assessment from the top of her shiny blond head down to her green and white silk print dress to the tips of her toes and eventually back to her face. His teeth flashed white, and he winked. “As usual.”

And against all prudent admonitions to remain judicious in her response to the Fersten charm until their discussion was concluded, she couldn't help but return his grin. “Thank you, Mr. Fersten. May I return the compliment. I've never seen your hair so perfectly combed.”

“I bought a comb today as an indication of the full extent of my commitment.”

“I'm flattered.”

“Good. In that case,” he said with a smile, “my ten dollars wasn't wasted. I hope you're ready now, because I can't guarantee this veneer of perfection very long. Once I move, it may shatter.” And he shook his head suddenly, as if breaking free of the stifling ideal, his burnished gold hair rearranging itself to its familiar disorder.

He was cheerful on their way downstairs as if the past week hadn't intervened in their relationship. He filled her in on the progress of the film, as well as on Egon's current state of health. “I flew down overnight to see him day before yesterday. The doctors are running additional tests, trying to decide how to operate.”

“I'm happy he's feeling better,” Molly replied in a polite tone, but her stomach did a brief flip-flop as she visualized Sylvie greeting Carey. Even with Molly in the same room, she'd had no compunction about falling into his arms. How close had she been two days ago, with Molly a thousand miles away?

“I talked to Papa this morning,” Carey said, opening the outside door for her, “and he misses Carrie. By the way, where is she?” He had expected his daughter to greet him, since eight o'clock was well before her bedtime.

“She's sleeping over with Lucy. Lucy has a new video game they've been trying to master the last few days.”

“Does Pooh need one?”

“No,” she said too quickly, her tone as abrupt as a treaty negotiator determined not to relinquish another foot of motherland soil. Immediately embarrassed at her rudeness, she added in a more moderate voice, “Actually, she's waiting for some new model due out next fall. Maybe then.”

“I miss her,” Carey said quietly, haunted the past few days not only by his differences with Molly but by unwelcome thoughts of possibly losing his daughter.

She had no response. Carrie had been asking for her father all week.

“Where's Carey?” her daughter had asked.

“Gone.”

“Are you two fighting again?”

Molly hadn't answered for a moment, trying to formulate an acceptable reply. Although she had expected Carrie to begin one of her curious Freudian interpretations, she had merely said, “I miss him, Mom.” And she didn't sound adult at all, she sounded like a little nine-year-old girl who missed her dad.

“It was only a week,” Molly replied to Carey, a touch of defensiveness in her voice.

“You're right,” he lied. “The week flew by.”

Paradoxically, his casual reply was as irritating as a complaint would have been, and Molly took brief mental pause to consider her irrationality. Everything had been irritating her lately, she reflected, as though her world had tipped askew.

As Carey opened the garden gate, she stepped through and saw the parked car. It was small and sleek and expensive.

“No limo?” she remarked, immediately wanting to bite her tongue at the pettish insult.

“I wanted to be alone with my girl,” Carey replied, his smile ignoring the peevishness of her tone, and she was handed into the low vehicle with faultless courtesy.

Short moments later, Carey slid into the driver's seat, brought the powerful engine to life, and deftly wheeled the car out into traffic.

Molly glanced around the beautiful hand-crafted interior, its walnut dash panels waxed to a soft luster, the smell of leather mingling with Carey's faintly woodsy cologne. “This must be yours. They don't rent these in town do they?”

Carey shrugged, intent on the driver ahead of him, whose left signal was flashing while he exited right onto the freeway entrance. Downshifting around the slow-moving car, he replied with his familiar reticence, “It's mine I think… You'd have to ask Allen.”

“You don't know if it's your car?” She was vaguely offended by his casual admission.

“Look, Honeybear,” Carey replied, glancing over at her briefly, his dark eyes reflective, “I hear the warning whistles of temper. I wish I could give you the right answer, but I own several production companies and corporations. I can't personally keep track of everything and still devote the time I want to making movies. Allen directs all those things for me so I can concentrate on the films.”

“Will he be taking care of me, as well?” She shouldn't have said that; she should have waited for a calm period after dinner when they were sipping liqueurs. But then, she'd never had much restraint.

“Of course not,” he said cordially.

“And I'd appreciate someone telling me when Phoenix Limited decides to pay my bills.” She sounded like a petulant child, but his extreme tranquillity was provoking her. I'm paying you back every penny.”

“Suit yourself, Honeybear.”

There. That same placid tone as though he were dealing with a child. And no acknowledgment of the two hundred thousand dollars he'd paid on her note. Although, she thought, nettled by his calm, two hundred thou was probably pocket change for him. “I mean it, Carey.” She didn't want to hear another word in that condescending tone of his; she didn't want someone taking care of her. “I want to run my own life!”

He pulled the car over to the curb and stopped in a few short seconds. Gently taking her hands in his, Carey said, “No one wants to run your life, Honeybear. I only want to share it with you. Stay with me. Love me. Be the mother of my child. Let me make you happy. And we'll work it out any way you say.”

Molly could feel the tears filling the back of her throat. “I'm sorry,” she whispered, feeling her face flush hotly. His wealth, heritage, and profession couldn't simply be nullified because the distinction between her life and his was an issue. “It's been only Carrie and me the last few years and that old factory building that's home and work and recreation… and maybe my own pilgrimage toward freedom. Now suddenly I'm up against a conglomerate with production companies and film corporations and-” She took a gulping breath to still the turmoil in her mind and stomach. “You see, it's not just Carey Fersten the boy I fell in love with, but… everything else that goes with him. I'm not good,” she said, a small winsome smile curving the beauty of her mouth, “with publicity people.”