Temptation Ridge (Virgin River #6)(88)

“All right, now listen. Mason can annoy me with his focus on my career even after I’m trying to get away from movies, but he’s been a good and loyal friend for over thirty-five years and—”

“And an ex-husband,” Walt pointed out.

“We hardly notice that,” she said. “Seriously, I owe Mason. He’s gotten me out of some tight spots. My business can get real complicated. And he might get a little zooped up over projects that aren’t all they appear to be, but if he ever sees that something isn’t going as it should for my career, he steps in like a lion and gets it handled. So let’s get dressed and be cordial. Hmm?”

“Tell you what,” Walt said. “Let’s meet him in our birthday suits so he knows how it is with us. How about that?”

“That’s just plain cruel. You’re the only one I plan to subject to that sight. Now, be civil to Mason. He’ll go away much sooner if you just play nice and let me handle him.”

“I’m going to slip into the shower,” Walt said.

“Oh, come on. You’re being a little obvious, don’t you think?” she asked, drawing up her jeans.

“When he asks who’s in the shower, you’ll say, Walt—my beyond-casual and not-legally-partnered boyfriend who isn’t going away without a fight anytime soon.”

“Fine.” She laughed. “Be sure you’re dressed when you come downstairs.”

Muriel let Mason in the front door ten minutes later. She hugged him; he fussed over her beauty, though she wore no makeup and hadn’t had a manicure or pedicure in months. He was shorter than her, wore a cashmere sports coat, Gucci shoes and a burgundy beret on his balding head. He had a salt-and-pepper beard and crystal blue eyes that were looking a little too alive. He either had a special script or was on crack.

By the time she was serving him a cup of tea in her brand-new kitchen, Walt appeared. Dressed.

“Mason, I’d like you to meet Walt Booth, my—”

“Significant other,” he said, putting out his hand. He glanced askance at Muriel with a lifted brow, challenging her. She just shook her head and chuckled.

“Walt is my neighbor and very good friend. Very. Good.”

Walt helped himself to a beer from her refrigerator, demonstrating that he was not a guest.

“Now, Mason,” Muriel said. “Let’s skip the suspense. What brings you all the way to Virgin River.”

“Okay, here it is. I hoped you’d come to the house for Thanksgiving so we could talk about it, but since you didn’t… I have an Oscar script, written for you. It’s a romantic comedy, but it’s got some serious teeth. Jack Nicholson wants you to costar. Only you. He’s prepared to go to contract if you’ll take the part. This is your shot, Muriel. This is it. I know I’ve thrown you a lot of crap that you turned down, probably wisely, but you have to look at this one. The producers are loaded and are courting three of the best Oscar-winning directors in the business.”

Dead silence and absence of movement reigned. Muriel knew the fact that she said nothing caused Walt to stiffen nervously. He was no doubt accustomed to her saying no immediately.

“You brought the script?”

“Yes. Read it. At least talk to them. No matter how you feel about working, if I let you turn this down without thinking it through, I should be jailed as a fraud.”

She stood. “Well, then. Let’s get you comfortable in the guesthouse. Walt, stay put. I’ll be right back. This way, Mason,” she said, exiting the kitchen and leading him through the front door.

She took Mason and a couple of suitcases to her old abode and came back ten minutes later with a script. Walt was seated at the table, waiting.

Without preamble, she said, “Here’s how this kind of thing usually goes. I could love everything about this project and after I make a commitment, Nicholson and the directors all disappear and we have to make do with whoever will step up to the plate. When I was actively working, I could afford to take chances like that—we’d always salvage a decent film in the end. But without even looking at this,” she said, holding up the script, “I’m damn sure not leaving my horses or my new house or you for something that isn’t carved in stone. Do you understand, Walt?”

“He’s staying?” was all Walt said in reply.



Mason Fielding only stayed overnight and at midmorning the next day was on his way back to L.A. Early in the afternoon, Walt rode Liberty up to Muriel’s house and waited while she saddled her Palomino mare, Sweety. Buff had to stay behind, but Luce was out in front, blazing their trail along the river until Muriel cut loose that piercing whistle of hers, bringing the Lab back to heel.

The air was cold; the steam rose from the horses’ nostrils. There was no snow yet, but if the clouds rolled in, the air was cold enough to support a nice white cover.

“Did you look at that script?” Walt asked her.

“Uh-huh. Read it twice.”

“Twice?” he asked, astonished.

“It’s not a shooting script. It’s just a hundred and thirty-five pages of dialogue. I read down the middle.”

“Any good?”

“Very good. It could use a tweak or two, but it’s inspired. The writer’s been coming along. This is pretty much what everyone’s been waiting for from her.”