Susan Johnson - Hot Streak

But he was experienced enough to recognize the modest uncertainty in the young woman who'd attracted his attention since the first day of class, so he damped the predatory fire in his eyes and suggested coffee at the student union. Molly could say yes to that, and before twenty minutes had passed she'd said yes to the movie as well. It was the beginning of her introduction to passion Carey Fersten-style; it was also the spring prelude to a glorious, passionate summer that served forever after as a merciless measure of perfection.

“They're filming out at Ely Lake Park, I hear,” Linda said, “using the pavilion for some midsummer kind of festival. Judd's folks have been working as extras.”

“What's the story about?” Georgia asked.

“I don't know exactly… something about the early emigrant labor movement.”

“Sounds socially significant.”

“None of his movies have been pure fluff.”

“You mean those good looks and that sexy charm and he's got brains, too?” Marge jestingly commented. “Do you suppose women love him for his mind?”

“And money, and title-all of the above previously mentioned,” Linda answered.

“So is he really some kind of intellectual, Molly?” Marge persisted, intrigued by the celebrity in their midst, alive with lurid curiosity.

“He was on the dean's list, if that means anything. I don't know much about his intellectual aspirations. We didn't discuss literature and philosophy much,” she replied with a touch of mockery.

“I'll bet you didn't. If I had Carey Fersten within arm's reach, I'd use my mouth for better things,” Marge smartly retorted.

“Vulgar as ever, Marge,” Linda remonstrated, casting her eyes skyward.

“I meant I'd kiss him.”

“Sure, sure, we know you. Kiss him where, darling?” Nancy said pointedly. “You didn't mention where.”

“Talk to Molly about kissing Carey Fersten,” Marge said, her smile broad. “Is he really as good as all the jet-set gossip implies?”

Molly went quiet for a moment, then said, “He's nice.”

“Nice?” Marge exclaimed. “Nice? What the hell does that mean? You mean he goes to church twice on Sunday and doesn't step on ants?” Leaning across her plate, she looked directly at Molly and, with a playful leer, softly asked, “How nice?”

Molly sighed in friendly resignation, her pink flamingo earrings swaying gently with the movement of her breathy sigh. “If you must know, you lecherous ladies,” and Molly couldn't help but smile at the expectancy on each face, “nice means he's very good at pleasing you.”

“Oh, Lord,” Nancy breathed, “I'm going to die right here. I'm always sexy as hell after I drink. What do you think he'd say if I knocked on his door?”

“‘Good morning' and ‘I didn't ring for the maid'?”

Nancy shot Marge a black look. “Screw you.”

“Hey, I'm only teasing. You look great. I love your California tan.” And Marge smiled her warm, sincere smile that endeared her to her Sunday school students, her karate instructor, her husband Bill, and the world at large.

The waitress interrupted with fresh coffee, and by the time everyone had been served, the conversation centered on whether Jane Wilcox had said “I own a Mercedes,” thirty or forty times the night before.

T wo hours later farewells were exchanged, promises to see each other more often solemnly pledged, and each woman went her separate way.

Molly slid behind the wheel of her four-year-old sedan, the only remnant of her marriage not expropriated by a vengeful husband at divorce time. And Bart would have tried to take that too, she thought, starting the car, if the title hadn't been in her name.

Bart Cooper had been extremely uncooperative when their marriage broke up. It had to do with the fact she'd asked for the divorce. It had to do with his ego and anger and statements like: “You want out of this marriage? I'm not the husband you married? You're growing away from this?” He'd swept his arm out, taking in the antique furniture, the enormous living room, the lake view beyond the bow windows. “Fine!” he'd shouted. “That's just fine! But you're not taking me to the cleaners, and you're not taking this all with you because I worked for this and paid for this. And if this style of living isn't good enough for you, find out what it's like on your own. And I mean on your own! I'm not supporting you and your new boyfriend.”

“There isn't any boyfriend.”

“I'm sure there will be. For the record, he'll have to make his own living.”

And even though his vice presidency of the area's largest advertising agency carried with it a substantial salary, out of retribution he'd pirated Molly's design business into his hands, as well. It hadn't been too difficult to accomplish; all the papers were in his name. Naive female that she'd been, when she first set up her own Design Center after finishing college, it hadn't seemed unusual to have the business management side of the center in Bart's name. Bankers were notoriously slow to lend liberal sums to a woman starting a business, and it had seemed sensible at the time. The loans had been paid off swiftly as the Design Center flourished. Unfortunately, it had become so successful, when they divorced, Bart decided to appropriate it for himself.

At first she'd tried to fight it, but their accountant was a friend of Bart's, their banker was a friend of Bart's, and the agency he worked for conveniently arranged for most of his salary to be masked as commissions and bonuses. Unsubstantial percentages were harder to pin down as income, and suddenly Bart's real income dropped suitably low. When it came time to settle on child support and a division of assets, Bart's income and their assets appeared modest. It was all quite common divorce protocol. Lesson one any lawyer will tell you: Hide your assets.

She gave up the fight at that point because she wanted out of the marriage immediately. Her lawyer cautioned her. “If you're in a rush, you're not going to get as much. It takes time to uncover the hiding places. It's a big mistake to take the first offer.” But she didn't want to spend months in court haggling. She settled for half the equity in the house. Bart wanted to sell their suburban home and move into a river-view penthouse downtown. It was fine with her; she couldn't afford to keep up the house alone, anyway. And since he was eager to sell, that money was available to her swiftly.

The years since the divorce had been a struggle, starting over again, but she wasn't afraid of hard work. She knew she'd make it somehow, although bankers were no more liberal in their loan policies than they'd been in the past. But after dogged knocking on doors, Molly had gotten a small first loan and, with some help from her parents and her share of the house money, had managed to accumulate enough capital to put a down payment on an old factory that had been sitting idle for years. She and Carrie had moved into a half floor of the old building, both to save money and so she could be near Carrie when she worked late on the weekends. Eighty percent of the building was rented now, the wholesale showrooms were exquisite, their anchor restaurant in the atrium was on a reservations-only status as of six months ago and her future looked to be financially solvent in under ten months.

So head south, Molly thought, turning onto the freeway entrance. Pick up your daughter at Mom and Dad's, and you'll still be home by 8:30. Not too late at all.

It was only five miles from the motel to Ely Lake, and every argument against stopping there had been laid out and swiftly discarded by the time the exit sign appeared.

“Oh, what the hell,” she murmured in a soft explosion of breath and flipped up the turn signal. Hers had never been a rational temperament, anyway; she was defenseless against her quickening emotions. At least with Carey Fersten that had been the case. She had shivered once and said “yes” to his innocuous invitation to a movie years ago, and today her feelings were as turbulent, flaring like a pennant in the wind. She wanted to see him again. Her susceptible emotions were mercurial, unsettled, but blatantly transparent. She wanted to see his dark seductive eyes again, wanted to see if a glint of recognition, of arousal would gleam in their smoky depths. Youthful moralizing and parental pressures were gone now; no agonies or aching anguish of right or wrong, should or shouldn't, remained. She wanted to see him and, one way or another, put a ghost from her past to rest.

After parking her car in the graveled parking lot near the stone pavilion, Molly walked to a large white trailer with Golden Bear Productions painted boldly on the side and knocked on the door. She was told by the young man who came to the door dressed in a sweater, jeans, and a baseball cap, that Carey Fersten was filming down by the beach, they were racing the setting sun, and please don't bother him.

She hesitated at that point, not brave enough to incur the censure of an entire crew busily engaged in a losing contest with the light. Returning to her car, she sat cross-legged on the hood and debated, with increasing cold feet whether this was a sound idea. Not cold feet. Terror. It had been years, after all, with crowds of attractive, worldly women dogging his heels since she'd known him; she might be getting herself into a potentially embarrassing situation. Carey'd probably look at her and say, “Who?” She'd make a complete ass of herself.

It was, she decided suddenly, much too stupid a move, even for someone as incredibly rash as she. Dropping her long, khaki-covered legs over the side of the fender, she slipped to the ground and turned to get back into the car.

She heard the familiar voice before she saw him. Inexplicably, even after all this time, the low resonance was capable of causing her pulse to flutter. Its measured tones were explaining to unseen listeners, “We've still sun above the beach. Let's finish with the festival scene before we pack it in tonight.”