Author: Robyn Carr

“Oh,” he said. “I don’t think I could pull that one off.”

She laughed. “We used to make up our own best lines. And talk about what the perfect man would be like.”

“What was your perfect man like?” he asked.

“Nothing like you,” she said. “But then everything changed and it became you….”

“What was your perfect line?” he asked.

“It’s just silly….”

“No, tell me. I want to know.”

“It’s just a line. A fantasy line. You can’t steal it—it wouldn’t be the same if I fed it to you. And if you use it on some other woman, I’m going to tell my Uncle Walt you did something horrible to me so he kills you.”

“Shelby, we’re naked and just had unbelievable sex—death threats right now are rude. Mind your manners. Tell me the perfect line.”

She was quiet for a minute. She chewed on her bottom lip a little, thinking it over. Then in a very soft voice she said, “You’re all I need. To be happy.” Then she lifted her eyelids and connected with his eyes. She smiled shyly. “Just a line. Writing screenplays or romantic novels was once on my to-do dream list.”

He ran his hand over her honey hair. He kissed her temple. “Shelby,” he said softly, “I think you’re all I need to be happy.”

She looked at him for a long time. She smiled into his eyes. “In my fantasy, he doesn’t say ‘I think.’” Then she laughed and said, “So—did your mother convince you to go to Phoenix for Christmas? She said she was going to try.”

“I might go—but for two days. I’m not doing this five-day thing again. I can’t take it when we’re back together. You almost killed me.” He grinned. “Do you realize you went from self-conscious little virgin to aggressor? Shelby, you’ve come out of your shell. Way out.”

“Maybe you brought me out, ever think of that?”

“You must’ve been ready.”

“Oh, I was ready,” she said. She put a hand against his cheek. “For you.”

It was the Saturday following Thanksgiving and Walt wasn’t sure he could remember ever lying in bed with a naked woman in the middle of the afternoon. When he was a young man, not only was the army working him to death, the first baby came along soon after he and Peg married and from that point on their lives were entwined with family and the demands of a military officer’s life. When he became a general, he also had an aide and some household staff. It wasn’t that they were inhibited, neither of them were, but the second they tried something as daring as showering together, one of their teenagers would come home unexpectedly and bang on their door, yelling, “What are you doing in there?”

There was definitely something to be said for being consenting adults of a certain age. He chuckled to himself.

“Something’s funny?” Muriel asked, nuzzling closer.

“Yeah. You and me. Stealing sex in the afternoon with a couple of lazy dogs sleeping at the foot of the bed. This is good, Muriel. Good. And I’m glad there are no ceiling mirrors.”

She laughed at him. “Me, too. Let’s not think about what we must look like.”

“Maybe not what we used to look like, but you still have the body of a girl. You do.”

“Know what I like best about you?” she asked. “Your intelligence. Even though you’re a liar, you know exactly what to say.”

“Well, this might be the wrong thing to say, but I’m going to say it anyway. I haven’t had sex since Peg died. Until you.”

She tilted her chin up, looking at him. “Walt, I haven’t had sex since before Peg died.”

“Really?” he asked, surprised. “That’s amazing. You’re made for sex.”

She frowned. “There was probably a compliment in there somewhere.”

“I’m serious. You’re a wonderful lover. Partner. That’s not too encroaching, is it? Partner?”

“It doesn’t cross the line, but it rushes right up to it.”

“You don’t want to think of us as casual….”

“I don’t,” she said. “Casual is coffee or drinks. Intimate is—”

The phone rang in her bedroom. She rolled away to pick it up and Walt grabbed her arm, pulling her back. “Intimate is what?”

She smiled at him. “Very, very nice. May I answer the phone now?”

“Any of your close friends or family members dying?” he wanted to know.

“Not to my knowledge.”

“Then how about we don’t—”

“Walt, I’m answering my phone,” she said, rolling away from him. “Hello?” she said into the phone. “Hi, Jack, what’s up? Oh really? Is his name Mason? Yes, you can give him directions, he’s my agent. And Jack—thanks for asking first. That was thoughtful of you. He could be anyone, you know.” When she rolled back to Walt, she just sighed. “A man in a funny hat driving a Bentley just showed up at Jack’s asking if he knew where I lived. Mason.”

“What’s he doing here?”

“Hell if I know. But I suspect he’s got some big idea or script or something and thought if he pressured me in person, it would make a difference. It won’t.”

“Why’d you tell Jack to give him directions?”

“All right, now listen. Mason can annoy me with his focus on my career even after I’m trying to get away from movies, but he’s been a good and loyal friend for over thirty-five years and—”

“And an ex-husband,” Walt pointed out.

“We hardly notice that,” she said. “Seriously, I owe Mason. He’s gotten me out of some tight spots. My business can get real complicated. And he might get a little zooped up over projects that aren’t all they appear to be, but if he ever sees that something isn’t going as it should for my career, he steps in like a lion and gets it handled. So let’s get dressed and be cordial. Hmm?”

“Tell you what,” Walt said. “Let’s meet him in our birthday suits so he knows how it is with us. How about that?”

“That’s just plain cruel. You’re the only one I plan to subject to that sight. Now, be civil to Mason. He’ll go away much sooner if you just play nice and let me handle him.”

“I’m going to slip into the shower,” Walt said.

“Oh, come on. You’re being a little obvious, don’t you think?” she asked, drawing up her jeans.

“When he asks who’s in the shower, you’ll say, Walt—my beyond-casual and not-legally-partnered boyfriend who isn’t going away without a fight anytime soon.”

“Fine.” She laughed. “Be sure you’re dressed when you come downstairs.”

Muriel let Mason in the front door ten minutes later. She hugged him; he fussed over her beauty, though she wore no makeup and hadn’t had a manicure or pedicure in months. He was shorter than her, wore a cashmere sports coat, Gucci shoes and a burgundy beret on his balding head. He had a salt-and-pepper beard and crystal blue eyes that were looking a little too alive. He either had a special script or was on crack.

By the time she was serving him a cup of tea in her brand-new kitchen, Walt appeared. Dressed.

“Mason, I’d like you to meet Walt Booth, my—”

“Significant other,” he said, putting out his hand. He glanced askance at Muriel with a lifted brow, challenging her. She just shook her head and chuckled.

“Walt is my neighbor and very good friend. Very. Good.”

Walt helped himself to a beer from her refrigerator, demonstrating that he was not a guest.

“Now, Mason,” Muriel said. “Let’s skip the suspense. What brings you all the way to Virgin River.”

“Okay, here it is. I hoped you’d come to the house for Thanksgiving so we could talk about it, but since you didn’t… I have an Oscar script, written for you. It’s a romantic comedy, but it’s got some serious teeth. Jack Nicholson wants you to costar. Only you. He’s prepared to go to contract if you’ll take the part. This is your shot, Muriel. This is it. I know I’ve thrown you a lot of crap that you turned down, probably wisely, but you have to look at this one. The producers are loaded and are courting three of the best Oscar-winning directors in the business.”

Dead silence and absence of movement reigned. Muriel knew the fact that she said nothing caused Walt to stiffen nervously. He was no doubt accustomed to her saying no immediately.

“You brought the script?”

“Yes. Read it. At least talk to them. No matter how you feel about working, if I let you turn this down without thinking it through, I should be jailed as a fraud.”

She stood. “Well, then. Let’s get you comfortable in the guesthouse. Walt, stay put. I’ll be right back. This way, Mason,” she said, exiting the kitchen and leading him through the front door.

She took Mason and a couple of suitcases to her old abode and came back ten minutes later with a script. Walt was seated at the table, waiting.

Without preamble, she said, “Here’s how this kind of thing usually goes. I could love everything about this project and after I make a commitment, Nicholson and the directors all disappear and we have to make do with whoever will step up to the plate. When I was actively working, I could afford to take chances like that—we’d always salvage a decent film in the end. But without even looking at this,” she said, holding up the script, “I’m damn sure not leaving my horses or my new house or you for something that isn’t carved in stone. Do you understand, Walt?”

“He’s staying?” was all Walt said in reply.

Mason Fielding only stayed overnight and at midmorning the next day was on his way back to L.A. Early in the afternoon, Walt rode Liberty up to Muriel’s house and waited while she saddled her Palomino mare, Sweety. Buff had to stay behind, but Luce was out in front, blazing their trail along the river until Muriel cut loose that piercing whistle of hers, bringing the Lab back to heel.

The air was cold; the steam rose from the horses’ nostrils. There was no snow yet, but if the clouds rolled in, the air was cold enough to support a nice white cover.

“Did you look at that script?” Walt asked her.

“Uh-huh. Read it twice.”

“Twice?” he asked, astonished.

“It’s not a shooting script. It’s just a hundred and thirty-five pages of dialogue. I read down the middle.”

“Any good?”

“Very good. It could use a tweak or two, but it’s inspired. The writer’s been coming along. This is pretty much what everyone’s been waiting for from her.”

“Her?”

“A woman, yes. This would be only her second feature film and her first was highly acclaimed. She was a very young playwright when she began her career. Now she’s about my age.”

“Hmm,” he said, knowing so little about this business. “Good enough to consider?”

“Good enough to talk about considering it. I haven’t said anything to Mason yet. I’m still in the pondering stage.”

“When you say talk about considering it, what does that involve?”

“Getting all the principals together in meetings, ironing out details, determining stars and supporting cast, directors, etcetera.”

“Does that mean going back to L.A.?” he asked.

“Maybe not. Actors and directors are often on location when deals are being set up. Conference calls work just fine. This is the kind of script that, done well, could be everything. But if a couple of things slip through the cracks or the right cast can’t come together for the production, could be just another mildly entertaining film.”