“Couldn’t be better. Want some coffee?”

“Maybe later. I’m going to go back to bed.” She started back down the hall, her floppy socks mopping the floor as she walked.

“I can’t ask her to leave now,” I insisted, a month later. Brett and I were having another one of our squabbles. Frankly, I found our fights refreshing; something to talk about other than Brett’s latest film project. Feigning interest while my boyfriend went over each facet of his character was like trying to enjoy someone else’s high school reunion. Anyway, Nicole was my project, and I was determined to do my best work.

And she did seem to be getting better. Maybe it was the spring weather or because she’d been seeing Dr. Wexler twice a week, but she had begun rising earlier and spending less time alone in her room. It was I who was changing the most. No longer obsessed with Brett's whereabouts, I begged off accompanying him to premieres or parties, preferring to stay home with Nicole.

“Take your publicist,” I would suggest to Brett when the invitations came.

“I can’t take a guy to a premiere, Jackie.”

“Take Penny or one of the assistants. They would die to go with you.”

Spring lapsed into summer. Brett started Patches and Pistols, another Western which took him on location to Texas, conveniently pushing the issue of Nicole’s living arrangements to the back burner.

The shoot was difficult. Six days a week, Brett filmed most of his scenes on horseback out where I presumed the deer and the antelope played. We spoke by phone every few days.

“Sorry I didn’t call last night, babe,” Brett said. “I’ve been busier than a blind man at a strip show.”

“You’ve been what?”

He’d fallen back into the jargon of his Texan childhood. Or maybe it was the character he was working on.

“Today was hotter than a goat’s butt in a patch of peppers.” Brett let out a few grunts.

“What are you doing?”

“Pulling off my boots, they’re tighter than a—”

“So, hey,” I interrupted. “When are you finishing this turkey?”

The shoot had been extended twice due to dust storms.

“Looks like another week at least. Hey! Why don’t you stay for a week with my mom in Dime Box? The two of you can get to know each other better and my sisters’ll bring their kids around. You’ll have company.”

The (no star) Giddings Hotel where Brett was staying happened to be only fifteen bumpy miles from Dime Box (pop. 1024) where he’d been raised.

“No thanks, I have company.”

“Heavens to Betsy, is she still there? You said—”

“Just a while longer. Hey, have I bugged you once about being away?”

The phone beeped signaling a call waiting.

“Can you hold on?”

“Go ahead and take the call. Mom and Sissy are bringin’ vittles. Love you, puddin’.”