Stormy Vows - Iris Johansen [1]
“Another dishwashing detergent commercial?” Brenna asked, as she unfolded the collapsible playpen and set it up swiftly.
Vivian Barlow nodded her sleekly coiffed gray head. “Yep,” she drawled with eyebrows raised wryly. “One of those comparison jobs, where the granddaughter loses to grandma in the beautiful hands sweepstakes.” She simpered coyly. “And all because I've washed my china all my born days with antiscum.”
“Antiscum!” Brenna laughed.
“Well, it's something like that,” Vivian said vaguely. She got briskly to her feet, strolled over to where Randy was sitting on the floor, and kissed him on the top of his head. “How are you, slugger?” she asked fondly. She was an ardent baseball fan, and it was she who had gifted Randy with the Dodger T-shirt. In her early sixties, Vivian Barlow was attractive, well dressed, and beautifully preserved. She also had the warmest smile and the most humorous gray eyes Brenna had ever seen.
A short time after she had become friends with her ultra-modern landlady, Brenna had learned that Vivian had been divorced twice and widowed once. In a moment of confidence Vivian had confessed wistfully, “I've always been afraid of missing something along the way, so I reach out and grab.” She'd made a face. “I've made some pretty dumb grabs in my time.” Vivian had been an actress all her adult life, playing bit parts and walk-ons in hundreds of films and stage productions. When husband number three died and left her a small apartment complex and an adequate income, she had retired, only to find herself completely bored. It wasn't long before she discovered the perfect outlet for her energy in the world of television commercials. She was much in demand these days in the role of the modern older woman who was the antithesis of the crochety granny figures of the past.
“I still think you'd be perfect for shampoo and soap commercials,” Vivian said critically. “You have a certain dryad look. It's as though you grew up in some forest glade.”
She looked appraisingly at Brenna who was putting Randy's favorite toys in the playpen before lifting him into the center of the mat. Brenna straightened and a grin lit up her face with breathtaking poignancy.
“The John Harris Memorial Home was not precisely a sylvan glade,” she said dryly. On the contrary, the orphanage where she had grown up had no time for such foolishness as nymphs and dryads, she thought wistfully.
Vivian looked up sharply, but made no comment.
“You're quite dressed up today,” she said.
Brenna didn't look at her as she gathered up her jacket and purse. “I have an audition,” she said, almost beneath her breath.
“An audition? Why didn't you tell me?” Vivian asked delightedly. “Where is it? Tell me all about it.”
“There isn't much to tell,” Brenna said with feigned casualness. “Charles arranged for me to try out for a part in a picture a former pupil of his is producing. It probably won't come to anything.”
“I didn't know that Charles had any contacts in films,” Vivian said speculatively. “Who is it?”
Brenna drew a deep breath and turned to look at her friend, revealing the tenseness in her face. “Michael Donovan.”
Vivian's brows shot up, and she gave a low soundless whistle. “Michael Donovan! What a break for you.”
Everyone in films knew of Michael Donovan. Only in his late thirties, he was already a legend. He had shot across the Hollywood firmament like a fiery comet. He was a writer-director without equal, and had recently turned to producing his own films with similar success. He had directed three of the biggest money-making films of all time, and as he had put up the money for two of them, he had become a multimillionaire from the proceeds . He had invested