Tempting Fate

Twelve

Nick didn’t bother to pack. These days even picking up an empty suitcase was an effort. But Mattie would have something he could wear. If not, he’d buy what he needed. He was feeling quite flush, having called a Hollywood memorabilia collector he knew. “What would you give me for the dress Mattie Witt wore the same day she arrived in Hollywood?” he asked.

The collector was at his front door within the hour, cash in hand.

Having a reclusive film legend for an ex-wife had its uses.

Now he wouldn’t have to beg Mattie or Dani for the money for a plane ticket east. He had his own money. He couldn’t believe he hadn’t hocked that dress years ago. He wasn’t sentimental.

He settled back in the cab, on his way to LAX.

His eyes burned. He knew he was taking a physical risk and might not accomplish a thing beyond hastening his own death by going to New York and then Saratoga. But he couldn’t stand to have Dani hate him. He was ninety years old, and nothing he’d accomplished-the movies he’d made, the awards he’d won, the place he’d earned in film history-meant more to him than that spitfire of a granddaughter back East. Didn’t she know that?

Yeah, he thought. She knew it. But she was still furious with him.

He’d take the first flight he could get. He’d sit down with Mattie and talk. Tell her everything. Even about the blackmail. Then, if she didn’t kill him, he’d take the train up along the Hudson River to Saratoga Springs, just as he and his mother had done so long, long ago, when the world had been a different place and Ulysses Pembroke’s black-haired grandson had been filled with dreams.

Both his parents had died young, and Nick, just a kid himself, had fled west to sunny California and fast proved he had a knack for directing movies. But it was a fishing trip to Tennessee that had changed his life.

He’d chosen Tennessee because it was warm and crisscrossed with streams and rivers, and because it was far, far from the social whirl of show business. Lean, dark and charming, Nick had discovered the possibilities of being the grandson of a murdered gambler and a director with growing power. Women had flocked to him. He’d needed a rest.

Determined to be off by himself, he’d told no one his destination. He wanted to be utterly alone and try to remember the man he’d meant to become.

On his third day of fishing east of Nashville on the snaking, slow-moving Cumberland River, he’d startled a dark-haired girl bent over on the riverbank, absolutely still and silent as she’d stared into the water. So complete was her surprise that she’d slipped on the muddy riverbank and slid, without making a sound, all the way into the Cumberland, her blue cotton dress billowing out around her.

Nick had paddled furiously to get to her, then leaped from his canoe into the water. He’d meant to rescue her, but she came up dripping wet and fighting mad, a rock in one hand. She was small and slim and had the most dynamic black eyes he’d ever seen. Her dark hair was yanked back in a severe braid, with wisps, damp from the humidity and the river, escaping all around her hairline.

She’d raised her rock with the clear intention of striking him. “You get away from me.”

“Easy there.” Nick’d had no desire to return to California with stitches in his head. “I’m sorry-I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“You’re not sorry. You’re laughing.”

“No!”

But he was, because he’d never seen anyone so beautiful look so mad and so ridiculous. And here they were in the middle of nowhere, not a soul in sight.

“My name’s Nick Pembroke,” he’d said, studying her for any sign of recognition.

There was none. Apparently she’d never seen any of his films. Nick wasn’t insulted. He’d bitten his tongue trying not to laugh lest she knock him on the head with her rock after all.

“I fail to see what’s so funny.” She hadn’t given him a chance to respond, but plunged ahead in her educated Tennessee drawl. “I have been coming out to this river for years and years, and I have never had anyone sneak up on me and scare me half to death.”

“I didn’t mean to. I was just fishing. What’s your name?”

She’d eyed him dubiously, then said politely, “Mattie Witt.”

“Pleased to meet you, Miss Witt.”

He’d extended his hand, but she didn’t take it. Regal even when soaked through to the skin, Mattie had looked very young, and although she was slender, her wet dress clung to some flattering curves. Nick had struggled to keep his gaze from resting too long on the outline of her breasts against the thin, wet fabric. But her eyes, expressive and yet secretive, had enchanted him.

“I saw your last movie at the picture show on the square,” she’d said, catching him by surprise.

So she had heard of him, Nick had thought. The picture show. The square. He couldn’t imagine anywhere more remote than wherever the devil she came from. But his heart was pounding, and he’d felt as if he’d come all the way from New York to California to Tennessee just to meet dark-eyed Mattie Witt.

“I should let you get back to your fishing,” she’d said. “I’ll have to tell my father I slipped from the riverbank out of pure clumsiness. He wouldn’t be pleased to know I was speaking to a Hollywood movie director.”

“Why should he care?”

“It isn’t proper. And Hollywood is the devil’s playground.”

But there was a glint in her eye, perceptible to the observant Nicholas Pembroke, that suggested to him that she didn’t lose sleep over what was proper and what wasn’t or where the devil played. She’d waded back to the riverbank and climbed gracefully from the water. On dry land, she looked even tinier and yet surprisingly sexy, an intriguing blend of strength and vulnerability.

“This looks like a good place to fish,” Nick had called after her, feeling a surge of panic that he might never see her again. “I’ll probably be out here every morning.”

“Well, sir, you just be careful and mind the snakes.”

Snakes?

He’d wondered if she was too naive-too much of a damn hick-to have gotten his message, but she was back the next morning, in the same spot where he’d startled her.

“What are you doing?” he’d asked when he again found her staring into the Cumberland.

“Oh-studying the changes in the river. I’ve been coming out here since I was a small child. Some things about it have stayed the same. Some have changed. Did you catch any fish yesterday?”

“Yes, but I released them.”

“Why on earth would you do that?”

“Didn’t feel like cleaning and eating them. I like to fish for the sport. If I played tennis, I wouldn’t fillet and fry up every opponent who lost to me.”

“But those would be human beings. These are fish.”

Smiling, Nick had realized there was more to Mattie than big eyes and a fondness for movies, more to his attraction to her than simple lust. “My motive is the same whether I’m fishing or playing tennis-sport, not subsistence.”

She didn’t get it. He’d asked her where she was from. “Cedar Springs,” she’d said. “It’s a small town a few miles from here.”

The next day she’d brought a picnic lunch in a wicker hamper-enough for two, she’d said, because eating in front of someone was rude. There was fried chicken and pimento cheese and a bag of cold biscuits, with two fat slices of caramel-iced prune cake for dessert. “My mother died a while back,” she’d said matter-of-factly, as if her loss wasn’t worth considering in comparison to what others suffered. “I cook for my father and younger sister. Naomi’s just eleven. I’m eighteen. Where are you from?”

He couldn’t get over how beautiful she was, even nibbling on a chicken leg. Her smile dazzled. “I was born in Saratoga Springs and grew up in New York City. Now I live in Beverly Hills.”

“My father might care for Yankees even less than he does Hollywood people.”

“Well, I’m not a Yankee anymore.”

She’d laughed. “Once a Yankee, always a Yankee.”

“Are you…” He cleared his throat, exercising caution. “Are you in school?”

“I finished high school last month. I’m to go to a two-year college in Cedar Springs in the fall and study to be a schoolteacher, unless I get married. Father never would let me work and have a family.”

Again Nick had sensed an independence beneath the refined surface of Mattie Witt that he’d doubted her father, from the sound of him, would have noticed or, if he had, approved of.

“Do you have any prospects?” Nick had asked.

“For a husband, you mean?” Her dark eyes had sparkled, teasing him, perhaps herself. “Father has prospects for me, I don’t.”

“What does he do for a living?”

“He owns the Cedar Springs Woolen Mill.”

“Would he-do you suppose I could meet him?”

Nick had thought he must have gone mad. Another three days and he’d be back in Beverly Hills planning another movie. Mattie and her black, bottomless eyes would be just a pleasant memory.

Mattie had invited him to dinner the following evening at the Witt home on West Main Street in Cedar Springs. It was a town out of a William Faulkner novel. The house was Greek Revival, shaded by oaks, pecans, magnolias; there were pots of geraniums on the porch.

Jackson Witt was a short, domineering, surprisingly muscular man who read from the Bible before and after dinner. There was no liquor, and Naomi-Mattie’s little sister, a slim, tiny girl-wasn’t allowed to speak at the dinner table unless she was directly addressed by an elder. All through dinner Nick could hear the grandfather clock ticking in the front parlor. It was the most oppressive sound he’d ever encountered. Mattie, for whom this life was normal, would catch his eye and smile. Her world-wherever it was-wasn’t in that house on West Main. It was as if nothing her father said or did could touch her where she really lived.

“My daughter has informed me you’re from California,” Jackson Witt had said after dinner, while Mattie helped the maid-who hadn’t spoken another word to him-clear the table and prepare coffee. “I trust you have no part of the movie industry.”

Nick had coughed to cover his discomfort. Hadn’t Mattie warned him?

“Hollywood is corrupting the children and young people of this great country. For next to nothing they can see behavior and clothing not tolerated in polite company.” He’d fastened his gleaming black eyes on his guest; the clock had seemed to tick ever louder. “These Hollywood stars aren’t proper examples for our children. Their immoral acts are played up in newspapers and magazines all across the country. Divorces, wild parties, illicit liaisons, extravagant spending. It seems there’s a new scandal every day.”

In the Witt household, Nick had already gathered, anything undertaken purely for pleasure was considered suspect, an opening for the devil.

“In my view,” Jackson Witt went on, apparently assuming his guest agreed with his every word and that “his view” was the only right one, “these people have betrayed the public trust. They should be called to account. They are corrupt. As a business leader in this community, I strive to hold myself and my family to a higher standard.”

“I can see that,” Nick had said and tried to smile. He’d just wanted to get out of there. Forget Mattie and her beautiful black eyes. Her fanatical daddy was her headache.

“We’re simple people in Cedar Springs. Yet even out here we can’t escape the sins and sinners of the movie screen.”

Since one of those sinners was sitting in his living room, Nick couldn’t argue with the man.

When his older daughter had reappeared with a silver tray of coffee and something she called chess pie, Jackson Witt had changed the subject. The moral corruption of American society wasn’t a topic for discussion in front of ladies, at least according to his scheme of the world. Nick’d had a feeling Mattie could argue circles around her father. He’d also have bet the old buzzard didn’t know she and her little sister had been to the picture show on the square.

“I understand you’re an engineer,” Witt had said.

Nick nearly choked on his pie, which was smooth and ultra-sweet. He’d looked at Mattie, but she’d shown no sign of embarrassment. Her hand wasn’t even trembling as she’d handed over a china cup and saucer. There was an intense, compelling serenity about her, and Nick had found himself wondering how it would translate on-screen.

“I would say so,” he’d replied with a smile.

“Mattie tells me your daddy’s in the hydroelectric business,” Jackson Witt said.

“My father’s dead, I’m afraid.”

Witt nodded thoughtfully. “He’s gone to a better life then.”

That was what Nick believed, too, but the way Witt said it had made his skin crawl. He’d sipped his coffee, then set it and his empty pie plate back on the tray. “He wasn’t in the power business.”

“Oh, he wasn’t. May I ask what his business was?”

Mattie gave no indication she was anything but fascinated by Nick’s every word. He’d bet she knew just what his father’s business had been. Sensing her seething soul, Nick wanted to jump up and grab her, shake her until she promised she would get out of this nuthouse.

“Gambling,” he said, suddenly feeling reckless and malicious. “Like his father before him. A penchant for gambling runs in the family.”

Witt had remained rigidly seated in his high-backed chair. “You said your name was Pembroke.”

“That’s right, Nicholas Pembroke.”

The older man’s eyes became tiny pieces of black coal, fierce and intense. “Your grandfather was Ulysses Pembroke.” Jackson Witt’s voice was high and hoarse with indignation. Without looking at his daughter, he’d said, “Mattie, this man has misrepresented himself to you. Please leave the room.”

She’d obeyed silently, but moved with such grace and steadiness that Nick instinctively knew she’d hoped this confrontation would happen-her secret Hollywood friend would shock and horrify her father and perhaps even help set her free someday.

“Ulysses Pembroke was a thief and a profligate,” Witt said, “and you are his grandson.”

“Yep.” Nick was on his feet. “And I make movies for a living.”

He’d left before Jackson Witt could throw him out.

The next morning Nick had returned to the bend in the river, assuming Mattie wouldn’t be within miles. He’d behaved badly, no matter that her father was a rigid fanatic who justified his cruelty to his daughter through a corruption of his religious principles. Nevertheless, Nick had felt he had no right to judge another man’s beliefs. But he’d thought of the lost dark-eyed girl he’d met on the Cumberland. What kind of life could Mattie and her younger sister hope to have with such a father?

The canoe had rocked silently in the water, insects humming nearby. His life back in California suddenly had seemed enormously empty. He made movies. He bedded women. He went to parties. Every day was something new, and yet the same. To what end? Where would he be in another ten years? Another thirty?

“Nicholas.”

Her voice was so soft and melodic he’d thought he must have imagined it. He’d opened his eyes but hadn’t wanted to look, to have his hopes dashed.

Mattie had stood on the riverbank in a simple yellow broadcloth dress, a battered upholstered valise banging against her knees. Her dark hair was brushed out, hanging down her back, catching the morning sun. Nick had never seen eyes so huge and black.

“I want to go to California with you,” she’d said calmly. “Some of the best people I know are in Cedar Springs, but I can’t stay here.”

Nick hadn’t been able to speak. Jackson Witt would have the law after him. He’d be arrested before he could get to the train station in Nashville.

“I have money,” she’d said.

“Mattie.” Nick had been so overcome he’d feared he’d pitch headfirst from the canoe. “Mattie, you can’t.”

Her knuckles had whitened on the handle of the valise. “I can and I will.”

“Your father-”

“I have no father.”

“You don’t mean that.”

“He does. He disowned me this morning when I told him what I mean to do.” She’d spoken without drama or self-pity. “He won’t change his mind.”

“But your sister…”

Her eyes had gone flat with unarticulated pain. “Naomi has her own life to live.”

“What is it you mean to do?”

She hadn’t hesitated. “I mean to become someone else.”

They’d married on the train west.

Mattie had made her debut the following year in The Gamblers. Based on a romanticized version of Ulysses Pembroke’s life, it was a film that launched her career, secured Nick’s reputation as a director and turned his grandfather into one of the great American rakes.

Mattie had continued to work hard. She was popular with her colleagues. Invariably gracious, she never spoke ill of anyone and engendered remarkably little envy. Her one failing-if it could be called that-was a profound reluctance to speak to reporters. She was a private person and never discussed her past with anyone, but her reticence had only added to her aura of mystery.

Shortly before starting work on Tiger’s Eye, her second movie, Nick had brought up the touchy subject of her sister, something he’d usually avoided. “Why don’t we have her out here for a visit.”

“She won’t come.”

“Sure she will. Come on, Mattie, your dad can’t stay mad forever.”

“He isn’t mad. He’s disowned me completely. It’s as if I never existed. Naomi-” Mattie’s eyes had shone with tears, but not one spilled. “I asked her to come with me. I begged her to get away from him before he destroyed her, but she wouldn’t. Nick, am I a bad person for having left her?”

She’d always seemed so sure of herself that her uncertainty had caught Nick by surprise. “No-no, Mattie, no. You had to leave.”

“I could have stayed. I could have found a way to make a life for myself. Naomi stayed. She doesn’t remember Mother as well as I do. Mother had her peculiarities, but she wasn’t as rigid as Father. They were happy together in their own way. Father will never be happy with Naomi or me.” She looked away from Nick; she still hadn’t cried. “I know there’s nothing I can do, but still I think about my sister every day.”

Nick had offered to go to Cedar Springs and have it out with Jackson Witt, cart Naomi off himself. The kid would be better off living with her big sister in California than with that sour old bastard in Tennessee. But, claiming it would be useless to apply force, that Naomi knew the invitation to California stood, Mattie had refused Nick’s offer to intervene. Eventually she could no longer bear to talk about Cedar Springs and the father and sister she’d left behind.

After she and Nick had a son, the gossip pages carried pictures of the happy Pembroke family. Given Jackson Witt’s lurid interest in Hollywood’s goings-on, Nick had assumed his father-in-law had known he had a grandson. There was no note of congratulations, no softening of the old man’s hard heart, nothing from the much-missed little sister. Nick had felt like crying every time his wife returned empty-handed and white-faced from the postbox in the weeks after their son’s birth.

Their relationship was honest and fulfilling, and he had remained faithful to her for four full years. The temptations came on a daily basis. Not long after Mattie had arrived in California, she’d laughingly told Nick she’d learned most of the stories about her husband’s sexual adventures were true, but she’d claimed to believe in the transforming power of love and expected that meeting her-marrying her, having a child together-had changed Nick forever. And it had. But it hadn’t changed his wandering eye.

His first affair occurred on an August trip to Saratoga Springs while Mattie stayed in their Beverly Hills home to play with their baby and take unnecessary singing lessons. She’d never have to sing in any of her films. Being back in Saratoga had proved more than Nick could handle. The money flowed, and the temptations abounded. He’d lost a bundle, and as he’d driven past the abandoned estate he still owned, he remembered his promise to his mother. No gambling, no turning out like his father and grandfather.

Guilt had undercut his elation at winning at the track, and yet that night, unable to stop himself, he went to a private lake-house gambling parlor. An attractive woman in her forties taught him poker, then invited him back to her room. He said yes.

Mattie found out through a mutual acquaintance. There was always someone, Nick had discovered, willing to bear bad news. He’d admitted everything. At first it was unclear whether the zest for gambling he’d just revealed bothered her more than his infidelity, but then she’d let him know in no uncertain terms that in her view, gambling and infidelity were part and parcel of the same basic corruption. Nick had tried to explain that he had no intention of self-destructing like his grandfather, that the woman had been nothing at all like her, just a stupid fling, he couldn’t even remember her name. That only seemed to enrage her more.

“I had no idea monogamy meant so much to you,” he’d said, stung by her anger.

“Does it mean nothing to you?”

As far as his heart was concerned, he was uncompromisingly monogamous. Mattie was the only woman he truly loved.

She’d left him after his second meaningless affair, but came back. After the third she stayed away six months. They’d begun to argue. Less the polite, repressed daughter of Jackson Witt, Mattie had learned to hold her own in a good fight. After her husband’s fourth affair, she’d moved out for good. She finished the movie she was working on, announced her “retirement” and headed to New York. She and Nick were divorced. Mattie was thirty years old. Everybody-especially Nick-had believed she’d come back to Hollywood once she cooled down.

She never did.

Nick had accused her of being as hard-hearted and unforgiving as her father, igniting another of their by then legendary fights. And yet, even as she’d bought a town house in Greenwich Village and enrolled their son in school, he’d remained hopelessly and forever in love with her. He’d look back on his repeated affairs in despairing wonder. None of the women he’d slept with meant anything to him, nor he to them. So why had he indulged in affairs?

“I hope you find what you want in life,” Mattie had told him in one of her more charitable moments.

Too late, he had.

What he wanted-all he wanted-was the dark-eyed girl he’d found gazing at the Cumberland on a warm, quiet Tennessee morning.

But as his cab arrived at the busy Los Angeles airport, Nick pulled himself out of the past. He couldn’t undo his mistakes. What he could do, he thought, was to try to save his son and his granddaughter from them.