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“I’m going to try to get a signal.”
For nearly twenty minutes he worked with the radio, and Alexandra sat next to him, periodically holding her breath, hoping against hope that something miraculous would happen.
Unfortunately they seemed to have run out of miracles for the rest of the day.
Not knowing how long it would be before they were found, Alexandra and Wolf agreed to eat only a fraction of the generous lunch packed. They were already rationing water.
“Where were we going?” Alexandra finally thought to ask as she finished the corner of her meat pie.
“A village north of here.” Wolf returned the water canteen to the plane, where it’d stay cooler in the shade. “It’s one of the villages I adopted several years ago.”
She perched on the red leather bench seat Wolf had taken out of the back of the plane. “How did you adopt a village?”
“Well, some people help sponsor a child in a developing country. I chose to sponsor a village.”
She wrapped her arms around her knees, fascinated. “What do you do?”
He shrugged as he dropped onto the ground near her. It was blistering hot out, but they were both trying to take refuge in the shade adjacent to the plane. “Build schools, wells, dig irrigation ditches, develop sanitation facilities, establish medical clinics, provide vaccines, educate about AIDS.” He sighed, shook his head. “I’ll do whatever I can.”
“I had no idea.” She felt a wave of tenderness. “That’s wonderful. How long have you been doing this?”
“Almost ten years.”
“How many villages do you sponsor?”
Uncomfortable, he looked away, dark lashes dropping, concealing his expression. “Not enough,” he said at last.
“Tell me—you have to have an idea. Three? Five? Seven?”
“More than twenty. Not quite thirty.”
“Thirty villages,” she repeated in awe.
His features tightened. He looked pained. “A little money goes a long way out here. There’s so much more I want to do, so much more we need to do.”
“I think people try, but Africa’s a big continent,” she said softly. “It’s far away, too, and people at home or abroad probably don’t know what you know. They haven’t seen what you’ve seen.”
“They’ve an idea,” he flashed roughly. “It’s all over Time and Newsweek magazines. The news is always doing segments on children starving and dying—” He broke off, got to his feet. “I’m going to take a short walk. Don’t worry, I won’t go far.”
She watched him set off, his stride long, impatient, angry.
He was gone maybe a half hour, and during the time he was away she sat close to the plane, just in case. But as she sat there, her nervousness gave way to calm.
It was peaceful here, beautiful and golden and serene.
The African savannah was more like Montana than anything she’d ever seen, and it wasn’t necessarily the trees and climate as much as the sense of size and openness, the feeling that land and sky stretched endlessly.
She was glad when Wolf returned. His shirt clung wetly to his skin and his hat was damp and dark on his brow. “You look hot,” she said.
“I am,” he answered, peeling off his shirt and tossing it onto one of the plane’s damaged wheels. “Were you scared while I was gone?”
“Not very,” she answered, admiring the planes of his chest and his tight, hard abs. He had a gorgeous body, and it was hers. Her husband. She smiled on the inside, happy despite everything. “I like it here.”
“In the middle of nowhere?”
“It’s not nowhere. It’s Africa. Zambia.”
The corner of his mouth lifted. “You’re a funny girl.” He reached into the tail of the plane, muscles rippling and contracting as he rummaged around the back before finding what he was looking for—a battered wood box.
“What’s that for?”
“Kindling for tonight’s fire,” he said, back to rummaging in the tail.
“Wolf, if you quit acting, would you want to direct? Write? Produce?”
“None of the above. I’d be done.”
“For a while? A vacation?”
“Forever.” He turned from the plane, shot her a dry glance. “I’m sick of L.A., sick of Hollywood, sick of the fake people and fake talk. I want out.”
“Where would you go? Dublin?”
“I have a house on the west coast of Ireland. Galway. But I don’t know if I’d move there. Maybe I won’t move anywhere. Maybe I’ll just bum around, village to village, doing what I can to help.”
“You’d sell your house? Your cars—that huge collection?”
“The cars will soon be sold anyway. I buy them, fix them up, sell them at a profit and all proceeds go to one of my charities.”
“You’ve charities, too?”
He nodded yes.
She looked at him for a long time. “Are you really going to leave Los Angeles?”
“Soon. I have to,” he said. “It’s time. Time to become a real person again. Time to leave the craziness behind.”
She leaned forward on the red bench seat, hands balled together. “Wouldn’t you miss Hollywood?”
He didn’t even hesitate. “No.”
Alexandra struggled to think of something to say but nothing came. She couldn’t imagine Wolf walking away from Hollywood completely, couldn’t imagine him never making another film, never starring in another role. He was too good. Too talented. People enjoyed him so much. “Hollywood would miss you,” she said softly.
His laugh was low, cynical. “Only because I make them money.”
She shook her head, not thinking about the money or the business but of his talent. He had the rare ability to bring the most complex and disparate characters to life. There were times she used to tell herself Wolf was famous because of his face—his eyes, his mouth, his sex appeal—but not even the most beautiful man could achieve what Wolf had without that rare ability to become another, to become the character, sliding into the skin, feeling the emotions, thinking the thoughts and making even the most vile mortal compelling, fascinating, even sympathetic.
Alex felt a strange tug inside her. Sorrow. Gratitude. Even if he never acted in another film, she’d always be a huge fan. “People will miss you.”
He made a rough sound before dragging his hands through his thick black hair, rifling it on end. “Nothing lasts forever. No one lives forever. All things—even good things—end.”
Tears started to her eyes, and Alex turned her head, closed her eyes, willing the tears not to fall. And yet it was a battle, a battle when her chest burned hot, thick with bittersweet emotion. She suddenly pictured the ranch and where she’d been the moment she’d learned her mother had cancer. “So why haven’t you walked before?”
Wolf lifted his hands. “I’ve tried. But the studios …”
He didn’t have to finish the explanation. She knew already. The studios wouldn’t let him. The studios had too much invested in him.
There would be his agent who wanted his twenty percent. The manager who took another hefty chunk. The publicist and the personal assistants.
The directors who’d already cast him in future films.
The studios themselves who paid bills on the backs of their superstars.
“How long have you felt this way?” she asked, struggling to take it all in, struggling to believe that Wolf really meant what he said.
“Four years. Five.”
Five? She swallowed. “And they know this?”
He made a hoarse sound even as the corner of his mouth lifted. “Oh, they know.”
“And what do they say?”
His mouth twisted yet again. “What do you think?”
“One more film,” she answered softly.
His head inclined. “One more film, just one more, just help us with this, don’t let us down, we need you, we need you now, our careers, our lives depend on you.”
He snorted, his dark eyes flashing w
ith scorn. “Their lives. Talk about greed. People all over the world are dying of hunger, dying for lack of medicine, shelter, lack of the most essential things, and then you have the fat cats in Hollywood talking about their lives. It blows me away.”
“Not everyone in the industry is loaded. Lots of people—most of those that actually work on your films—struggle to get by just like everyone else,” she said gently.
Some of the tension at his mouth eased. “I know. And that’s one of the reasons I continue to work. I know I support a lot of people. But I also know if I stopped acting, they’d find other films, other jobs.”
She leaned forward. “If you stopped acting tomorrow, what would you do?”
