Note: Okay, the next sequence is pretty long. So, I split it in two. As you can imagine, this is where things get intense.
By the way...anyone make any guesses yet as to exactly what the screenplay of Diane's is...?
By the time evening came, it started to rain. After a short while, it started coming down hard.
Sam let out a sigh as he turned off the television, leaning back in the couch. Suddenly, he didn't feel like watching anything.
Raymond—Diane's puppy—rushed over to him, whimpering a little.
Sam sighed again, petting him a bit, "Hey, boy …don't worry—she'll be fine, huh?"
Ray sniffed a bit, and seemed to shrug as he headed off.
Sam chuckled, shaking her head. Despite Diane's written warning about how spoiled he could act around strangers, the truth was he and Sam hit it off pretty well. There was a little worn-out ball, and they'd played out back on the beach a bit, before the clouds started looking bad. Sam was pretty darn sure "Ray" was more than a little surprised at how far he threw it—or maybe it was just Sam's imagination getting the better of him; after all, he'd seen Diane try to throw…and the only time he remembered her hitting her target was the one time she didn't want to hit it.
Good old Coach…
The thought of Coach made him let out another sad gust of air. Coach…his best friend, the second, better father.
And Diane's, too—well, I don't know "better", but…she did say he was like another father, I remember.
Just like he remembered when she was going off with Frasier to Europe…and Coach had taken Sam aside, and told him how he'd always imagined that he, Sam, would be the one to marry Diane…and they'd live happily ever after, with Coach living with them as a grandfather to their kids….
Oh great—now, why did I have to start thinking about that? That kinda thing's the last thing I should be—
He heard a fiddling at the lock of the main door—and a rapid knock at the same time. Sam shot to his feet and rushed to the door—not realizing until he undid the lock how frantic his actions were.
It was Diane, of course—letting out a quick cough as Sam pulled her in out of the rain. "Sweetheart—!" he began.
"I-I'm fine, Sam, I'm just…"
"Yeah, I can imagine—you sure you're okay?" In his quick pitcher's eye, Sam rapidly took in that she didn't have a rain coat—just a woman's suit, knee-length skirt and all. She had a wide circular hat, though, and its brim was such that her hair was pretty much dry. Her suit jacket was drenched, though. And she was shivering a little.
Diane nodded quickly, smiling up at him. "I'll be fine, anyway. Just…" she began taking off the jacket—Sam made sure to help her and it was off in a jiffy. Her blouse was maybe a little damp, but nothing a few minutes indoors wouldn't fix.
Sam took the jacket, "I'll put this up, huh—you just sit down."
"Yes…thank you, Sam…" she said, as she headed over to the couch, stumbling a little from clear exhaustion. Diane collapsed into the cushions, letting out a sigh…her head resting back and to the side.
Sam chuckled, shaking his head as he put the coat on the rack. That's my girl.
He headed over to her, reaching out, "Okay, let's…" He moved to take hold of her legs and her back.
Diane half-raised her hand, "No, I'm all right—"
"No-no, come on—let's get you…" He took hold of her gently, and she let him move her so that she lay down—Sam made sure to place a pillow between her head and the couch's arm. "How's that?"
Diane blinked, and squinted for a moment. Then she shrugged and nodded, "Thank you, Sam."
"Hey, no problem—okay, sweetheart, let's get these off…" He moved to near her feet—
Diane moved to half-sit up, and brought her knees close, "Now, wait just a moment—tired or not, I'm hardly out of proverbial commission—I can take off my own shoes, thank you—"
Sam gently put his hand on her knee with a smile as he sat down on the now-vacant spot, "Come on, it's not like that. I just want you to take it easy for a bit—I know 'all drained up' when I see it. You exhausted, honey—take a load off, and let me help."
"But—"
"I'm not gonna take 'no' for an answer."
"Sam, don't be ridiculous—"
"I'd say that's my line, right now. Take a rest—and while we're at it, baby, that includes your voice box."
Diane scoffed, but shifted a little so she could rest comfortably, her back against the pillow against the arm. She relaxed in that position, and smiled at him.
Sam took off Diane's shoes, one after the other—high-heels; he could never understand how women wore those things without stumbling (not that he ever complained about they looked with them on). He put them upright on the coffee table, next to each other.
He smirked at her, giving her feet a pat, "Need me to—"
"No, thank you—as of now, most of the stress I feel is in my head."
Sam frowned, "Headache?"
"No, it's…well, only what you said, more or less. An outdoor pool in winter would wish to be as drained as I am, at this moment."
"I've seen pools keeping the water—good spot for ice skating."
"Sam…"
Sam chuckled, "Don't worry; I know what you're talking about…. Sorry, that wasn't hot of me—you're in no condition for one of our rounds…."
"Thank you."
"Sure. So, what's wrong? Other than the rain, I mean."
Diane relaxed again, "Oh, it's not as though anything's wrong, per se—it's…oh, I don't know how I can…"
"Just tell me what's happened—that usually works."
"All right; well…yesterday morning, I—you read my note, of course."
"Yeah, I did; kinda long for a note, don't you think?"
"Yes, well…as you probably recall reading, I finished my latest screenplay."
"Yeah, I remember—new movie, huh?"
"Well, yes—a television movie, much akin to the network tradition of…"
"Yeah, I know about that."
"I supposed you would. But this is hardly the same fare as your typical Saturday Night special—it's to be on a cable channel, geared to a more…artistic bent."
"Oh, art-house stuff?"
"Well, in my case, it's the sort of thing more inclined to character-oriented drama—hardly the sort of 'action' or comedy fair you'd probably be used to…."
Sam smiled, "Ever saw Brian's Song?"
Diane smirked, "Sam…this is me you're addressing. I believe that is a football movie?"
"Well, believe it or not, I'll bet you'd like it. It's not like a football-football film—sure, the two guys are on a team, but it's about them. They're two guys who begin not standing each other, but become close buddies—like 'friend-brothers' or something, and…oh, forget it—but the thing is: legend has it, that movie's known for making even tough, macho guys start crying."
Diane's smile grew. "Did you?"
"I was with a bunch of guys when we saw it—a lot of 'em sure looked like they were fighting something."
"But were you?"
"I'm allergic to that kind of movie."
Diane chuckled, as she shifted her legs a little. "Well, if it's that heartfelt…"
"Oh, they don't get any more 'heartfelt' than that, sweetheart."
"Well, I suppose I might look at it, some time. But back to my account…" Diane shifted her legs a little, again, "The Heart Held Hostage—that's…the title, Sam—"
"Yeah, figures."
"Well, at any rate…it's the tale of a resilient mother who must raise her six children alone—and aside from the general hardships, she finds her family increasingly pressured by…the criminal element."
"Criminal?—like, uh…what?"
"Well, organized crime—"
Sam fought to keep from laughing, "Whoa!—you, Diane…a gangster flick?"
Diane huffed, "I did not write a 'gangster flick'," she shot back, rolling her eyes. "The mob only appears as a dark, ominous force against which the mother must struggle and triumph. It's…" she shrugged, "I suppose one might classify it a noir, if you will."
"Funny, I didn't hear anything about a private eye."
"Sam—a private investigator is not required to have a film be—"
"Yeah, you're right; I've seen Double Indemnity."
Diane calmed down at this, and replied, "Well, then, have you seen Mildred Pierce?"
"I…dunno. Maybe."
"Well…that was one inspiration—though the mother in my film could hardly be considered wealthy—"
"Hey, hold on a minute…" Sam grinned, "Six kids?"
Diane's smile turned coy. "Yes…?"
"And you're talking about the mob."
"Are you asking me something, Sam?"
"So does that mean the mother's Italian, by any chance?"
Diane chuckled, "Sam…"
"You know, I wonder if Carla's gonna get worked up hearing that you made a movie about her."
"Oh, I'm sure she'd prefer not to make a big fuss over it—really, would she dare call attention to the fact that she and I are acquainted?"
Sam laughed at this. "Oh, come on!"
"Besides, it's not as though this film is some sort of 'revenge' on my part—my protagonist is hailed as immensely sympathetic."
"Oh, boy—you didn't soften her up, did you?"
"Not in the slightest."
"Well, that's a relief."
"I actually wrote the climax with the thought of 'Would Carla fantasize about doing this?' firmly entrenched in my mind."
"Oh, yeah? What happens?"
"Sam! They haven't begun filming, yet! If you think for a moment I'd tell—"
"Oh…so, you think I'd spoil it?"
"I don't know—I just make it a point to avoid discussing such matters with anyone, Sam—no matter how close a friend, or…what have you."
"Okay. Fair enough. Sounds great, anyway. So, what does…all this got to do with your being all burnt out?"
Diane let out a tired sigh—not in response, just tired, "Oh, let's see: I have just finished writing a most intense, emotion-ridden, one might say dark sort of story—the sort which would naturally incur an immensely high emotional toll."
"You seemed okay, before."
"I know…call it a delayed reaction, I suppose. But you're right, in a sense—it usually isn't this severe. But then…it's not often that the day after I turn in a script—early, in this case—I am asked to write another."
"You need to recharge."
"Essentially. But the executive in question loved what I wrote so much, he has announced the studio will freely allow me to choose my next project—just so long as it would be finished in, and I quote, 'A reasonable amount of time'—which essentially means, 'by the time The Heart Held Hostage is broadcast'."
"Hmm," Sam nodded, "And how long until then?"
"Well, give or take the typical sort of shooting schedule and post-production, and delays thereof…a year at most."
"Ouch."
"And that is hardly the worst: amid my endeavors writing this screenplay, I encountered the daughter of Sylvia Plath—the poetess, Sam. I'm sure I…"
"Yeah, you did—something about a 'bell jar'."
"Exactly. Her daughter and I, as you might say, 'hit it off', and…" another slight shift of her legs, "Well…I might have promised her that, following my finishing the project on which I was currently working…I would devote my every ounce of creative energy into writing a biopic of her mother—a monument to a great and wonderful artist, amidst the tragedy of her life."
Sam paused, mulled over this, and said, "Ouch."
"Oh, but I intend to! I gave that woman my word, Sam, and when Diane Cha—"
She froze, and tensed with a flinch, avoiding Sam's gaze.
"Hey," Sam said, putting his hand on her knee again, making sure to smile. "It's fine. I get that."
Diane turned to him, looking as if her eyes were about to well up.
Sam kept his smile, "I mean it."
Diane nodded, blinking away the near-tears but still a little on edge, "Well…at any rate, I don't know how I'll manage to fulfill both obligations."
"Hey…you just said the exec guy loves what you do—just tell him it'll take longer than this one, and do it quick—you'll be fine!"
Diane sighed and nodded, "You may be right, Sam. It's only…" she looked off, "I was looking forward to a period of rest, so as to, as you put it, 'recharge'…to replenish my creative energies. 'A spirit, too, needs fuel. It can run dry.'"
"That a quote at the end?" Sam smirked.
Diane chuckled, "It's from a play I read, once."
"Good one?"
Diane shrugged, "Perhaps. I've never seen it performed. From what I've heard, it's never been performed—not officially, anyway."
"Well, look…" Sam said in a warm tone, "If you need a break, take it—he'll understand. Heck, he'll have to if he wants you to keep working for his group."
"I suppose…" Diane shifted her legs once again.
Sam frowned. "You okay?"
"Hmm?—Oh!" Diane chuckled, "Sorry, I…I'm a tad concerned about my circulation. You're aware—when one's foot falls asleep, only here, I…well, in this case—" Diane paused for a moment, and shrugged, "I'm probably worrying myself over nothing, but—"
"Nylons acting up?" Sam asked. The truth was, with all her shifting, Diane's skirt had fallen back a little, so that Sam was able to catch a glimpse of where the stockings ended. He'd been trying his hardest not to take in this full view of her legs…though, considering they were Diane's—long, slender, soft and graceful—it wasn't the easiest thing to do.
Diane finally saw it, and quickly tugged down—or "up", whatever—the edge of her skirt, her eyes wide and her face clearly fighting a blush. She cleared her throat. "Well, um…"
Sam chuckled. "Okay—look, sweetheart, I'll, uh…let you—"
Diane raised her hand with a sigh, "Oh, it's not as though it isn't a familiar sight to you." She gave him a small, slightly embarrassed smile. "But I'll admit, I'm not exactly used to being seated in this sort of position while dressed in this manner."
"Especially when they're all soaked?"
Diane's blush deepened. "Yes, well…I had to traverse a few large puddles on the way to the car—and to the door."
Sam shrugged, "To bad I didn't tag along."
Diane smiled mischievously, the color in her cheeks returning to normal, "So that you could have carried me?"
Sam shrugged with a smile, and stood up, walking over to the other arm of the couch, where Diane was sitting back. He reached over to the back of her necklace—the pearls, not the thin gold one with the engagement ring.
Diane chuckled and looked up at him, "This really isn't necessary—I can certainly do all this myself—"
"Sure, but you're burnt out, remember?" Sam undid the necklace and gently took it in his hands. "Where should I…?"
"Oh, you can put it on the table, by the shoes—Sam, this is silly! I hardly need you to dote upon me like this—I am not helpless."
Sam set the pearls down by the shoes, and grinned at her, "You know what's funny?"
"Aside from your antics at the moment?"
"You know…most other women, I wouldn't ever think of this kind of 'doting'—the last thing I'd need is word getting out that I'm part sap—"
"Oh, Sam…."
"You know, if you're gonna rest here for much longer, I'd better take that watch. Hey, is that a Rolex, by the way?"
Diane rolled her eyes as she took the watch off. "As though I would be so lavish with everyday 'professional' wear."
Sam took it and set it down with the rest. "Well, the point is, I'm pretty sure you're the only woman I'd be willing to do this for. I mean, you can keep this kind of secret. Right?"
Diane made a zip motion across her lips.
"Good to know. Okay…you just rest right there, do what you gotta do—I'll see if there isn't something warm—maybe some milk?"
"Sam!" Diane shook her head, chuckling.
Sam shrugged, smiling innocently, "Well, I'm a little thirsty, anyway."
Diane shrugged, "In that case, I suppose…some tea would be nice."
"You got it," Sam went right to the kitchen, getting to work.
