Moonshadows by Mary Ann Artrip

how intently her cool, gray eyes were studying this stranger across the table from her.
    “About the Bergman movie?”
    Stephen nodded.
    Chelsea hesitated a fraction before she spoke. “I thought the movie was typical Hitchcock,” she said, “even if it was a little far-fetched.”
    Janet laughed. “Chelsea’s a pragmatist.”
    “You didn’t buy the storyline—didn’t think it was believable?” he asked.
    “Believable? Maybe. Probable? I doubt it.” Chelsea cradled her teacup. “You’re not married, are you, Mr. Prescott?”
    “No. But what’s—”
    “Just proves my point,” she said. “I mean, do you really think a woman could marry one man when she’s in love with another one? Do you really believe that?”
    “Maybe,” he said. “It depends on the cause; to balance the scales, so to speak. People do what they have to do. They may not like it, but they do it just the same.”
    Chelsea frowned. “Could you do that, Mr. Prescott?” she asked. “Pretend to be something you’re not, I mean.”
    Stephen Prescott shrugged his shoulders. “That’s not the point,” he said and sipped from his cup. “It was Bergman’s acting that was so convincing. We knew, because she made us know, how much she hated doing what she had to do.”
    Janet laughed. “You take your movies seriously, don’t you?”
    “I take a lot of things seriously, movies just being one of them.”
    “What else?” Chelsea asked. “What else do you take seriously?”
    Janet kicked her under the table.
    Undaunted, Chelsea merely cocked a golden brow and gave her a sweet I’m-helping-you-all-I-can smile.
    Even though he seemed oblivious to the shenanigans going on around him, Janet had a feeling that Stephen Prescott was laughing on the inside.
    He sipped his cappuccino. “Well, for one, pride in one’s work. Do the job assigned to you, and do it to the best of your ability.”
    “What if it’s a crappy job?” Janet said. “Something you hate doing.”
    “Do it anyway and don’t grouse. Something better will come along—it always does.”
    “Have you had any of those jobs?” Chelsea asked. “Crappy, I mean.”
    He laughed. “More than I can count.”
    “And something better always came along?”
    “Chelsea—”
    “I’m sorry, Janet,” Chelsea said. “But you know how I sometimes I get carried away with curiosity.”
    Janet yawned and glanced at her watch.
    “That’s your second yawn,” Chelsea said. “Fun’s over for tonight.”
    “Can I give you ladies a lift?”
    “We came in my car,” Chelsea said.
    He glanced at Janet. “Since we’re both going in the same direction, how about you?”
    “If you’re sure you don’t mind.” She looked at Chelsea. “It would save you from going out of your way, it’s awfully late.”
    Chelsea frowned. “Maybe you’d better come with me.”
    “If you’re worried about her safety,” Stephen said. “I promise to drive carefully and deliver her to her destination in the same condition you see her now—unless she drops completely off before then, in which case I’ll prop her up by her front door and trust her to the arms of Morpheus.”
    Janet laughed as Chelsea’s eyes—usually soft and compassionate—narrowed and pierced into Stephen’s. She seemed to be giving his threat serious consideration.
    “I was only kidding, little Mother Hen,” he said.
    Chelsea conceded a slight smile and gave a reluctant nod.
    Stephen took Janet’s arm as they crossed the street to his car. The slight pressure of his hand gave her a feeling of being protected and she realized how good it felt—how it took away some of the vulnerability she’d been feeling lately.
    The drive was less than fifteen minutes. Stephen parked his vintage ’65 Mustang a few spaces over from Janet’s car. Both were silent on the walk to her front door.
    “Thanks for the lift,” she said, fitting the key into the lock.
    “My pleasure. Maybe we can go out sometime.” He smiled. “Minus your