that. When did you meet?”
“Last year.”
“Where?”
“The public library. Victoria was researching the aborigines of New Zealand. We literally bumped into each other.”
His expression turned wry, then softened into a reluctant smile. “The aborigines of New Zealand—that does sound like Victoria. Is she going back to school in anthropology?”
“Not exactly,” Leah answered, but she had to force herself to think, because his smile—lean lips curving upward between mustache and beard, the flash of even, white teeth—momentarily absorbed her. “She is, uh, she was fascinated by an article she’d read about the Maori, so she decided to visit. She was preparing for the trip when I met her.”
“Did she get there?”
“To New Zealand? What do you think?”
Garrick thought yes, and his eyes said as much, but his mind returned quickly to Leah. “Why were you at the library?”
“I often work there—sometimes doing research for puzzles, sometimes just for the change of scenery.”
“So you and Victoria became friends. How old are you?”
“Thirty-three.”
He pushed out his lips in surprise. “I’d have given you twenty-eight or twenty-nine—” the lips straightened “—but even at thirty-three, there’s quite a gap between you.”
“But there isn’t,” Leah returned with quiet vehemence, even wonder. “That’s what’s so great about Victoria. She’s positively … positively amaranthine.”
“Amaranthine?”
“Unfading, undying, timeless. Her bio may list her as fifty-three, but she has the body of a forty-year-old, the mind of a thirty-year-old, the enthusiasm of a twenty-year-old and the heart of a child.”
The description was one Garrick might have made, though he’d never have been able to express it as well. At the height of his career he’d been a master technician, able to deliver lines from a script with precisely the feeling the director wanted. But no amount of arrogance—and he’d had more than his share—could have made him try to write that script himself.
So Leah did know Victoria, and well. That ruled out one possible lie but left open another. Even knowing that she would compromise her friendship with Victoria, Leah might have taken it upon herself to find and interview the man who’d once been the heartthrob of every woman between the ages of sixteen and sixty-five. Every woman who watched television, that is. Did Leah watch television? Even if she’d come here in total innocence, wouldn’t she recognize him?
Shifting his gaze back to the hearth, Garrick lapsed into silence once again. He was recalling how worried he’d been when he’d first arrived in New Hampshire. Each time he’d gone into town for supplies, he’d kept his head down, his eyes averted. Each time he’d waited in dread for telling whispers, tiny squeals, the thrust of pen and paper under his nose.
In fact, he’d looked different from the man who’d graced the television screens of America on a weekly basis for seven years running. His hair was longer, less perfectly styled, and he’d stopped rinsing out the sprinkles of silver that once upon a time he’d been sure would detract from his appeal.
The beard had made a difference, too, but in those early months he’d worried that sharp eyes would see through it to the jaw about which critics had raved. He’d dressed without distinction, wearing the oldest clothes he’d had. Above all, he’d prayed that the mere improbability of a onetime megastar living on a mountainside in the middle of nowhere would shield him from discovery.
With the passing of time—during which he wasn’t recognized—he’d gained confidence. He made eye contact. He held his head higher.
Body language. A fascinating thing. He wasn’t innocent enough to think that the recognition factor alone had determined the set of his head. No, he’d held his head higher because he felt better about himself. He was learning to live with nature, learning to
“Last year.”
“Where?”
“The public library. Victoria was researching the aborigines of New Zealand. We literally bumped into each other.”
His expression turned wry, then softened into a reluctant smile. “The aborigines of New Zealand—that does sound like Victoria. Is she going back to school in anthropology?”
“Not exactly,” Leah answered, but she had to force herself to think, because his smile—lean lips curving upward between mustache and beard, the flash of even, white teeth—momentarily absorbed her. “She is, uh, she was fascinated by an article she’d read about the Maori, so she decided to visit. She was preparing for the trip when I met her.”
“Did she get there?”
“To New Zealand? What do you think?”
Garrick thought yes, and his eyes said as much, but his mind returned quickly to Leah. “Why were you at the library?”
“I often work there—sometimes doing research for puzzles, sometimes just for the change of scenery.”
“So you and Victoria became friends. How old are you?”
“Thirty-three.”
He pushed out his lips in surprise. “I’d have given you twenty-eight or twenty-nine—” the lips straightened “—but even at thirty-three, there’s quite a gap between you.”
“But there isn’t,” Leah returned with quiet vehemence, even wonder. “That’s what’s so great about Victoria. She’s positively … positively amaranthine.”
“Amaranthine?”
“Unfading, undying, timeless. Her bio may list her as fifty-three, but she has the body of a forty-year-old, the mind of a thirty-year-old, the enthusiasm of a twenty-year-old and the heart of a child.”
The description was one Garrick might have made, though he’d never have been able to express it as well. At the height of his career he’d been a master technician, able to deliver lines from a script with precisely the feeling the director wanted. But no amount of arrogance—and he’d had more than his share—could have made him try to write that script himself.
So Leah did know Victoria, and well. That ruled out one possible lie but left open another. Even knowing that she would compromise her friendship with Victoria, Leah might have taken it upon herself to find and interview the man who’d once been the heartthrob of every woman between the ages of sixteen and sixty-five. Every woman who watched television, that is. Did Leah watch television? Even if she’d come here in total innocence, wouldn’t she recognize him?
Shifting his gaze back to the hearth, Garrick lapsed into silence once again. He was recalling how worried he’d been when he’d first arrived in New Hampshire. Each time he’d gone into town for supplies, he’d kept his head down, his eyes averted. Each time he’d waited in dread for telling whispers, tiny squeals, the thrust of pen and paper under his nose.
In fact, he’d looked different from the man who’d graced the television screens of America on a weekly basis for seven years running. His hair was longer, less perfectly styled, and he’d stopped rinsing out the sprinkles of silver that once upon a time he’d been sure would detract from his appeal.
The beard had made a difference, too, but in those early months he’d worried that sharp eyes would see through it to the jaw about which critics had raved. He’d dressed without distinction, wearing the oldest clothes he’d had. Above all, he’d prayed that the mere improbability of a onetime megastar living on a mountainside in the middle of nowhere would shield him from discovery.
With the passing of time—during which he wasn’t recognized—he’d gained confidence. He made eye contact. He held his head higher.
Body language. A fascinating thing. He wasn’t innocent enough to think that the recognition factor alone had determined the set of his head. No, he’d held his head higher because he felt better about himself. He was learning to live with nature, learning to
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