Once in a Blue Moon by Kristin James Page A

life had left her ill prepared for living the hand-to-mouth existence of a penniless actor in New York; he would think she would be miserable, and he would be ashamed that he could not give her more. He had always been uneasy about the differences in their past: his childhood in a big, indifferent city, shuttled from foster home to foster home after his parents had died, and hers spent as the sheltered, beloved only child of well-to-do parents. She had ached for him then, when he talked about it, but she had thought that her love would heal all his wounds, would wear down the chip on his shoulder. But his preconceptions had taken him away from her before she had the chance to convince him.
    With a groan, Isabelle buried her face in her hands. Long-buried hurt rose up in her, almost physically painful. She wanted to cry, but could not. Her emotions were a jumble of pain and regret and frustration. What a stupid, tangled mess it had been! If she had only known how Michael had really felt, if he had only talked to her instead of leaving that damn note!
    She could have reasoned with him, convinced him that he was wrong. Then they would have been together when she found out she was pregnant with Jenny. He would have been with her when Jenny was born and would have supported her through all that worry and suffering.
    With a sigh, Isabelle’s hands fell away from her face and she leaned back in her chair. No, she realized, perhaps it would not have been better that way. If they had been together, if they had married and then Jenny had been born with all those problems, it would have made their lives very different. They wouldn’t have had the money for the tremendous hospital and doctor bills. Michael would have been humiliated at taking money from her parents; he would have had to give up his acting career and get a regular, paying job. That would have been a hellish decision for him. His career had been all-important to him. After all, whatever his feelings for her had been, when his career had beckoned, he had not hesitated; he had gone. That was usually the way it was with actors. Acting was not just a profession to most, it was something that took over their lives, that was the very center of their beings. Nor would it have meant the end of only his dream. Isabelle doubted that she would have gone to California to pursue her career, either. How could she have, if Michael had given up his career for her and the baby?
    And wouldn’t the love they had shared have turned sour after a time? Wouldn’t bitterness and recriminations have crept in? It was easy to say that life would have been better if they’d stayed together, but there was nothing to prove that would have been true; it might even have become worse.
    Isabelle’s thoughts left her feeling empty, as if an important part of her had been pulled out of herself. She supposed it had: she had lost the vision of her past that she always had before. It left her unsure of what she thought or felt.
    She was still in a state of confusion the next morning when they began shooting. She felt awkward with Michael, and she avoided looking at him except when they were actually filming.
    They shot the scenes of pursuit by the guerrilla fighters, using stunt doubles to film their crash into a ditch. After that, with Michael artistically decorated with a cut on his forehead and “blood” streaming down his face from the cut, they fled on foot. At a thatched-roof house, they found a bucket of water, and Jessica cleaned and bandaged Curtis’s “wound.” Curtis was confused and bewildered, and finally he asked her who she was. Gradually it dawned on Jessica that Curtis had lost his memory, at least temporarily.
    Michael looked at her uncertainly and asked what they were to each other. Isabelle looked away, letting a crafty expression steal into her eyes, then turned back to him, smiling, and said, “Why, we’re friends, Curtis. Very good friends.”
    There was the long, locked gaze