Katherine Page - The Body in the Cast

Tom was shaking his head. "One lunch does not an affair make—usually. Nor does holding hands qualify as foreplay, especially in the presence of a room full of people." He poured himself some more wine. "It would make a good novel—Max could film it instead and poor Nathaniel could stop spinning in his grave. Sometimes life does imitate art—how's that for sophomoric?—but I can't believe that Maxwell Reed is this crazy. He stands to lose too much: his movie, the love of his life, and the clincher—possibly many, many years in prison."

“ I suppose you're right, although think of the contrasts between the two men. Cappy is closer to Evelyn's age and certainly more conventionally good-looking. Much more."

“Maybe Evelyn is interested in other than a pretty face."

“Other than hers?"

“Maybe not," Tom conceded. "And it is an extraordinarily pretty face. I didn't see the footage, but I can't imagine that Sandra Wilson could hold a candle to Evelyn O'Clair. Both ladies, I might add, completely outclassed by my own wife. My own overly inquisitive wife.”

It might be time to move on to another subject, although Faith knew this one would continue to claim front row center. But for the moment, Tom's last remark had been happily diverting. She sighed and soaked up the last bit of sauce from her plate with a piece of bread.

“Now, what shall we have for dessert?”

Cappy Camson had opened the drapes in his Marriott room, but what moonlight there was did not penetrate the night fog and his windows were well above the lights on Cambridge Street. Unable to sleep, he'd rolled out of bed and deliberately hadn't turned on the lamp by his side. He slumped in the room's one armchair, the darkness suiting his mood.

He stretched his feet out on the small table in front of him and wondered how he had ever gotten into this mess.

Stardom was something that had happened to him. He hadn't pursued it and, he told himself, he wouldn't miss it. But she was attracted by all the phonycharisma. He didn't kid himself She would never have been interested in Caleb Camson from Oklahoma City. And was she even that interested in Caleb Camson from Laurel Canyon?

He stood up, walked across the room, and opened the small refrigerator the hotel kept stocked with whatever he might want day or night. The light shone weakly and he stared at his bare feet with sudden repugnance. His tan was almost gone. He took a can of V8 juice and went back to the window He was obsessed. And this had never happened before. All these years. All those women. He'd always been able to erase his current favorite from his mind and concentrate on his work. Until now. Now all he could think of was how her incredibly smooth flesh would feel pressed close to his. He was haunted by the smell she exuded, the perfume of her hair and something else, something that didn't come in a bottle. How was he going to finish the film without exploding? He rested the half-empty can on his thigh and noted without surprise that he had a hard-on.

At times, he wished he had turned Max's offer down. He had been flattered and excited by the idea of playing against type. But he knew he'd do the same thing all over again. Cappy was nothing but honest—with himself

Seven

I pity thee, for the good that has been wasted in thy nature!

In church Sunday morning, Alden Spaulding appeared decked out in a campaign button the size of a turkey platter, which Faith thought was in very poor taste. If Alden wanted a bully pulpit, let him get one of his own. She was sure the Lord agreed with her.

After the service, Alden worked the crowd at coffee hour: pressing the flesh, mixing and mingling. In contrast, Penny left after a scant cup. Alden appeared to find her departure telling and was quick to point it out to several of those around him.

“I'm afraid my dear sister doesn't seem to have much time to talk about the burning issues that confront Aleford. Perhaps," he said sarcastically, "she has another engagement.”

Faith pulled Tom away from an earnest discussion of who really wrote the Dead Sea Scrolls. "You've got to do something about Alden! Or at least make him pay for airtime."

“Darling, I can't ask a man to leave his own church, whatever I may feel about his uncharitable behavior."

“At least go over there. Maybe your ministerial presence will shame him into going, or at least behaving better."

“ I doubt it, but I guess it's worth a try.”

Faith watched Tom's black-gowned figure move through the crowd. "f he can't do it .. ." ran through her mind and she seriously contemplated a cartwheel or two in front of the astonished congregation. She was ready for a sabbatical. f the clergy could take them, surely spouses qualified, as well.

After half an hour, she went downstairs and collected Ben and Amy from Sunday school day care. It was freezing out again and she had no trouble convincing Ben to race. Encumbered by Amy, she lost, much to her son's delight. He crowed, "I won! I won!" over and over in a typical almost-four-year-old manner as she struggled with her keys and finally opened the door to the warm kitchen. She stripped off their snowsuits quickly and turned her attention to the stove.

In a moment of brotherly love, Ben was teaching Amy to bang on pots, and when the phone rang, Faith had to divert them with raisins and Cheerios, respectively, so she could hear.

“ Hello, Faith. It's John. Did you pray for me?"

“Yes, I think you were covered in the collect for grace. But surely this is not the sole reason for your call?"

“No, and I may be sorry—a phrase I seem to say a lot around you—but I'd like you to look at the footage of the scene they shot just before Sandra drank from the cup."

“I'd love to! When do you want me to come?" Faith had been thinking about the scene. She knew the cameras had been rolling when they were checking the lighting. It was unlikely that they had recorded a mysterious hand pouring something into the cup, yet they might have caught something in the room that would trigger an idea.

“We've got the film, of course, so it can be anytime. I don't want to take you away from Tom and the kids today, so how about tomorrow morning?”

Oh, take me away, Faith wanted to beg. She was dying to see the shots, but with Tom plus three parishioners due for Sunday dinner any moment and the rest of tomorrow's food for the shoot to prepare, she had to agree. They arranged to meet around 7:30 A.M. at state police headquarters, which would still give Faith time to get to the set before lunch. She quickly called Pix and Niki, then turned her attention to the "chicken every Sunday" type of meal she was preparing, this version a nicely browning roaster with slices of garlic tucked under the skin and stuffed with chopped red peppers, onions, golden raisins, and bulgur moistened with butter and a little vermouth.

The following morning, Faith was ushered into a darkened room by a stalwart young state police officer who bore a vague resemblance to Dudley Do-Right about the chin. John Dunne and Charley MacIsaac were both waiting for her. No popcorn, but Charley had a bag of Munchkins that he offered around. John took four and Faith politely declined.

Dunne got up and stood by the projector. "There isn't any sound. They weren't recording."

“It was to test for lighting," Faith said, "but they did say their lines."

“Yeah, you can see that." He flicked a switch and first there was a long black leader, then the Pingree dining room sprang onto the screen, only it wasn't the dining room at all. It was a room out of a dream, totally a creation of the imagination. There was no suggestion that the white fabric floating about the walls was held on by pins or that about twenty people were just out of the frame. A soft light suffused the interior, leaving the periphery in shadows. After lingering on the room as a whole, the camera moved in for a close-up of Hester/Sandra. She looked absolutely terrified. Her eyes were abnormally large and fixed straight ahead on Roger Chillingworth, whose back was to the camera. Slowly he turned, revealing a small table that held his bag and the cup into which he had poured his healing draft. Either Greg was no actor or the role specified that Chillingworth's face be devoid of expression. As Faith gazed transfixed once more by the film, she suspected the latter. The doctor's lack of expression as he encouraged Hester to drink was particularly menacing. Hester/Sandra seemed to shrink inside herself and, trembling, took the cup. Her husband reached out and traced the scarlet letter on her bosom. She flinched, then stood up with an almost defiant look, raising the cup to her lips. The scene ended abruptly and once more they were looking at a dark screen.