The Body in the Cast by Katherine Hall Page Page A

You must try to imagine, Faith dear, what it’s like to sit and listen to him discuss his work.” Corny’s tone clearly implied that imagining would be all Faith would be doing.
    Faith resolutely finished her earlier thought.
    â€œThis film seems a little different from the others—casting Cappy and Caresse. How do you think having such big names is going to affect the film? His other pictures have always been, well, a little like watching extremely good home movies shot by someone you know slightly.
    Faith realized her choice of words— home movies —had not been the best, but oddly enough, Cornelia’s face glowed with pleasure.
    â€œThat’s what Max says! He would be happiest just walking the streets with a small video camera and capturing those moments no one else notices. Of course the public would never
understand. But I don’t think A will be any different from the others because of the casting. It’s not an Evelyn O’Clair, Cappy Camson, or Caresse Carroll picture. It’s a Maxwell Reed.” The pleasant expression vanished with the acerbic tone of her voice.
    They’d reached one of the brooks that crisscrossed the conservation land. The relatively warm weather had melted some of the ice and the banks were covered with mud. It didn’t look very inviting, and as a spot for a romantic tryst, it ranked close to the tundra during a spring thaw. Corny loved it.
    â€œExactly what Max wants for the scene where Hester and Arthur renew their passion!” she enthused.
    â€œI don’t remember any mention of their making love—and wasn’t Pearl around during the forest scene, too?”
    â€œFaith, Faith,” Cornelia chided, “this is Max’s interpretation, not Nathaniel Hawthorne’s.” Whoever he might be, Faith silently finished for her.
    Cornelia was off and running. “Reality is an illusion as far as Max is concerned. Last night, he told me, ‘The world is a defiance of common sense.’ I treasure those words—and the fact that he has always been able to confide in me about his work.”
    René Magritte treasured those words, too, Faith recalled. There had been a review of an exhibit by the artist in last Friday’s New York Times and Max must have seen it, as Faith had. It was possible the words entered his subconscious and he truly believed they were his own thoughts. Or not. But Corny believed and Faith wasn’t about to mention any feet of clay. It was enough that Faith herself was suffering feet of mud—her new Cole-Haan boots were encrusted with the stuff.
    â€œI think I have to get back and check on the lunch preparations,” Faith said as Cornelia eyed the mucky path ahead with interest.
    â€œI should be getting back, too,” she said, abandoning the path not taken with a perceptible sigh. “I’m supposed to be helping Evelyn with her lines this morning.”
    â€œThat must be fascinating.” Faith would have been happy to
spend time listening to Evelyn O’Clair’s slightly husky, velvet voice try out various readings.
    â€œNothing fascinating about it,” Cornelia complained. “The woman can barely remember her own telephone number. I can’t imagine what Max sees in her. Actually, I can imagine, but he certainly doesn’t talk to her!”
    She suddenly lowered her voice, although the only potential eavesdroppers were a few gray squirrels and a solitary crow motionless on a tall pine.
    â€œYou may have heard that Evelyn took a long vacation in Europe last year?” Faith hadn’t, but she nodded encouragingly, “Well, she was in Europe, only it wasn’t for a vacation.”
    Faith didn’t need Corny’s long pause to indicate emphasis. Her voice had underlined the words sufficiently. It would be on the final for sure.
    â€œIt wasn’t?” she asked obediently.
    â€œNo, she was at a spa, if you know what I