espite her determination to keep her head up, by lunch-time the next day Honey was in desperate need of a quiet place where she could go to lick her wounds. Everybody who hadn't been on the set the day before had heard about her fight with Eric, and she knew all of them were whispering behind her back. They were shooting on location today, but she rejected her motor home as a place to escape because her tutor was waiting there with a trigonometry lesson. Instead, she slipped behind the catering wagon to an outcrop of man-made rock. But as she stepped into the cool shadows, she realized that even here she couldn't be alone.

Thirty feet away, Dash Coogan leaned against one of the boulders with his hat pulled low over his eyes and one knee drawn up. She knew she should leave, but despite Dash's coolness toward her, she was enveloped with the sensation of having stumbled into a safe, secure place. If only she could crawl into his lap like Janie did. Knowing how impossible that was, she sank down in a shady spot about twelve feet away from him, drew up her knees, and dug the heels of her cowboy boots into the dirt. Maybe if she

sat here for a little bit without talking, he wouldn't mind.

A minute ticked by, each second lasting forever. She tried to hold back, but the words spilled out anyway. "I hate people who don't have anything better to do than gossip about other people."

He didn't respond, even though he had to have heard about what had happened.

She told herself to keep quiet. She already knew that Dash didn't like talky women, but she was going to burst if she couldn't confide in someone other than that pack of jackal writers who took her deepest secrets and spread them out for all of America to see. And who better to confide in than this man who was sort of the closest thing she had to a father?

"Eric's a real peckerhead, if you ask me. Everybody thinks I've got a crush on him, but what kind of idiot would I be to have a crush on a conceited jerk like that?"

Coogan tilted up his hat with his thumb and stared at the horizon in the distance.

She waited for him to give her some advice like adults were supposed to give teenagers. Like a father might give his daughter.

She prodded him. "I guess I'm not stupid enough to think that somebody like him would look twice at a girl who looks like me."

Her muscles tense, she waited for him to respond. If only he would tell her there wasn't anything wrong with the way she looked. If only he'd tell her she was a late bloomer, just like he always told Janie.

But as silence ticked away between them, she decided she shouldn't expect him to read her mind.

"I know I'm not exactly pretty, but do you think—" She picked at a small hole on the knee of her jeans. "Do you think I might be—You know. Maybe a late bloomer?"

He turned to her with cold, dead eyes. "I came back here to be alone. I'd appreciate it if you'd take off."

She sprang to her feet. Why had she ever thought for a moment that he'd understand? That he cared enough about her to try to make her feel better? When was she ever going to admit that he didn't give a damn about her? Cocooned in her misery, she looked for a way to punch right back at him, to hurt him as he'd just hurt her.

Sucking in her breath, she glared at him, her voice crackling with hostility. "Who wants to be with you anyway, you old drunk?"

He didn't even flinch. He just sat there looking out toward the San Gabriels. The brim of his hat shaded his eyes so she couldn't see their expression, but his voice was as flat as the Oklahoma prairie.

"Then how about you leave this old drunk alone."

All her hurt turned to venom. Never again would she confess her true feelings to any of them. Beneath a black scowl that camouflaged her broken heart, she spun away from him and stalked back to her motor home.

Behind the outcrop of man-made rocks, Dash Coogan had sweated through his shirt. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block out the craving that had hit him so hard he felt as if his skin were being stripped from his bones. That little girl would never know how close her taunt had hit on the truth. He needed a drink.

With a trembling hand, he reached for the roll of LifeSav-ers he kept in his shirt pocket. These past few years, he'd begun to take his recovery for granted, but lately he'd realized that his complacency was a big mistake. As he shoved two of the spearmint candies into his mouth, he reminded himself that he'd long ago given up blaming his alcoholism on other people, and he wouldn't do it now. But it was an undeniable fact that every time that little girl came running after him expecting him to be her pa in real life, the urge to drink hit him like a slap in his face. He hadn't even been a decent parent to his real children, and he sure as hell couldn't be a parent to her.

Those first few days when they'd begun reading through the scripts and talking about the show, he'd been friendly, but it hadn't taken him long to see that he was making a big mistake. She followed him everywhere, not giving him an inch of breathing space. He had realized right then that he had to keep his distance. He had too many empty spaces inside himself to be able to fill up hers.

He knew how badly he was hurting her, but he told himself that she was a strong little cuss, just as he'd been when he was a kid, and she'd survive his rejection the same way he'd survived being shuttled from one foster home to another the whole time he was growing up. Maybe she'd even be stronger for it. She'd be better off learning right now that she shouldn't expect so much from other people, that she should stop wearing every one of her feelings right out in the open where anybody who came along could stomp all over them.

But damn, there was something about her that tore at his guts, and that, more than anything else, was the reason he had to stay away from her. Because when he felt vulnerable, he wanted to drink, and nothing on earth, not even that feisty little kid, was going to make him ruin six hard-earned years of sobriety.

Honey saw the house in early March, right before the show went on its four-month break, or hiatus, as all of them called it. They moved in a few weeks later, and she wandered outside the first evening just before the sun set to gaze at the whitewashed brick exterior, A network of bougainvillea vines climbed the walls and curled around the charcoal shutters that framed the mullioned windows. The small copper roof over the entrance had long ago formed the chalky-green patina of respectability. The shrubbery was well established and a small rose garden formed a crescent at the side. She had never imagined she would live in such a beautiful house. It was everything she had always dreamed of.

"Of course it's too close to Wilshire to be really fashionable," the realtor had told her. "But Beverly Hills is Beverly Hills."

Honey didn't care about what was fashionable. She didn't even care about living in Beverly Hills. The house was cozy and pretty, the perfect place for a family to live. Maybe things would start to get better for her now. She hugged herself, trying to take comfort in the house and forget everything else that was going wrong in her life: the conflicts on the set, the way people were talking behind her back. One of the directors had complained to Ross because she'd shown up late a few times and kept the cast waiting. But it hadn't been all the cast. Just Dash Coogan. And she had kept him waiting twice because she was sick of the way he ignored her, especially since the press had started treating him like Mr. Father of the Year.

The sound of a car pulling into the driveway distracted her. She turned to see her agent getting out of his BMW. Arthur Lockwood walked toward her, his wiry red hair and beard looking darker than normal in the fading light. She respected him, but the fact that he had two college degrees intimidated her, and she couldn't really warm up to his beard.

"Are you all settled?" he asked.

"We're getting there. One of the salesladies from this ritzy furniture store is arranging the furniture."

"It's a nice house."

"Let me show you the grapefruit tree." She led him toward the side, where he admired the tree, and then they entered the screened-in porch through the back door. The furniture saleslady hadn't gotten this far yet, so there was only an old folding chair, which Arthur declined. Honey looked out over the small backyard. She was going to string a hammock between two of the trees and buy a barbecue grill just like on all those TV commercials.

Arthur jiggled the change in the pocket of his chinos. "Honey, hiatus starts in a couple of weeks, and you won't have to report back to work until the end of July. It's not too late for you to accept the offer from TriStar."

The early evening air suddenly developed a chill. "I don't want to do any movies, Arthur. I already told you that. I want to finish up my high school courses during the break so I can graduate before we start filming again."

"You're working with a tutor. Another few months won't make any difference."

"It will to me."

"You're making a mistake. Even though the Coogan show is a huge hit now, it won't last forever, and you need to start planning for the future. You're a natural talent, Honey. The TriStar part will really showcase you."

"A fourteen-year-old girl dying of cancer. Just the thing to cheer America's heart."

"It's a great script."

"She's a rich girl, Arthur. I couldn't convince anybody in the world that I'm a rich girl." Playing a character other than Janie Jones scared her. No matter what the critics said, she knew she wasn't a real actress. All she did was play herself.

"You sell yourself short, Honey. You have real talent, and you'd be wonderful in this part."

"Forget it." She could imagine Eric's contemptuous reaction if he ever saw her trying to play a fourteen-year-old rich girl dying from cancer.

Just the thought of Eric made her ache. Unless they were doing a scene together, he acted as if she didn't exist. And Dash hadn't spoken to her off camera since that day three weeks ago when she'd tried to talk to him behind the rock. The only person who never seemed to avoid her was Liz Castleberry, and Honey figured that was just because of Mitzi. Liz's dog had become the closest thing Honey had to a best friend. She gazed out at her backyard, loneliness creeping all the way through her.

"You need a chance to stretch yourself," her agent said.

"I thought you worked for me, Arthur. I told you I don't want to do any movies, and I meant it."

His face tightened, and she knew he was angry with her, but she didn't care. He bossed her around too much, and sometimes she had to remind him who was in charge.

When he finally left, she went inside. She found Chantal in the living room, lying on their new gold and white brocade sectional couch and reading a magazine. Gordon sat across from her fiddling with his pocketknife.

"This room looks real pretty, Chantal. That saleslady did a good job." Thick white carpet stretched from one wall to the next. In addition to the couch the room held fancy French chairs and amoeba-shaped glass tabletops sitting on thin brass legs. One of those tables held the remnants of a Hungry Man dinner.

"The plants come tomorrow."

"Plants'll be nice." Chantal stretched and set down her magazine. "Honey, me and Gordon have been talking. We think we might be takin' off in a couple of days."

Honey froze. "What do you mean?"

Chantal looked nervous. "Gordon, you tell her."

Gordon pocketed his knife. "We're thinking about driving around the country, Honey. Seeing more of America. Sort of making a life for ourselves."

Honey's heart slammed against her ribs.

"Gordon's got his career to think about," Chantal went on. "He needs inspiration if he's going to be a painter."

Honey tried to stem her panic. "Are both of you crazy? I just bought this house. I bought it for all of us. You can't take off now."

Chantal wouldn't look at her. "Gordon says Beverly Hills is suifocating him."

"We just moved in today!" Honey shouted. "How could it be suffocating him?"

"I knew you wouldn't understand. You always yell at people. You never try to understand." With a small, choked sob, Chantal fled from the room.

Honey spun on Gordon. "Just what the hell do you think you're doing, you stupid fool?"

Gordon stuck out his weak chin. "Don't call me that! I guess Chantal and me can take off if we want to."

"And how do you plan to support yourselves?"

"We'll find jobs. We've already talked about it. We're going to work our way around the country."

"You can work, maybe, but don't fool yourself about Chantal. Selling Ferris wheel tickets is the hardest thing she ever did, and she messed up the cash box so many times that she would have gotten fired if she hadn't been family."

"She might do hair. She's talked about it."

"She talked about marrying Burt Reynolds, too, but she didn't do that, either."

Gordon shoved his hands in his pockets, his frustration evident. "I can't keep going on like this. I've got to start painting."

"Then start!" Honey said desperately.

"I don't think I'm going to be able to paint here. This house. This neighborhood. Everything's too—"

"Just try it," she pleaded. "If it doesn't work out, we can always move." The idea of moving made her sick. They weren't even unpacked, and she loved this house, but she wasn't going to let him take Chantal away.

"I don't know. I—"

"What do you need? I'll buy you anything you need."

"I don't like taking your money all the time. I'm a man. I should—"

"I'll pay you two thousand dollars a month to stay right here."

Gordon stared at her.

"Two thousand dollars a month for as long as you stay. I'm already paying for the house and all the food. That's two thousand dollars just for spending money."

Gordon's breath made a soft, hissing sound. His face looked pinched, and when he spoke, his voice was soft and hoarse. "What gives you the right to try to run our lives like this?"

"I care about Chantal, that's all. I want to take care of her."

"I'm her husband. I'll take care of her."

But there wasn't much conviction left in his voice, and Honey knew that she had won.

The hiatus began. While Gordon and Chantal lay around the house eating the meals Honey cooked and watching television, Honey finished her high-school courses with straight As, except for physical science, which she hated. In June, the three of them flew to South Carolina to see Sophie. The park was even more depressing than she remembered. The rides had been sold off, and the Bobby Lee had finally

broken apart during a storm and sunk to the bottom of Silver Lake. Once again, Honey tried to talk her aunt into coming to L.A., but Sophie refused.

"This is my home, Honey. I don't want to live anyplace else."

"It's not safe, Sophie."

"Sure it is. Buck's here."

Honey drove into town the next day to meet with the lawyer she'd hired last December to negotiate the purchase of the park. By late afternoon, she had signed the final papers. The acquisition was going to wipe her out financially for a while, and she wouldn't be able to reopen the park, but at least she had it back.

"Honey, I asked you to walk past Dash and over to the window on the last line." Janice Stein, the show's only female director, pointed toward the correct position.

Hiatus was over. It was August, and they were in the studio working on their second show for the '81-'82 season. Honey had been in a foul mood ever since shooting had resumed. Dash hadn't acted as if he were the tiniest bit glad to see her again, and Eric had barely returned her greeting. Only Liz Castleberry, the Queen of the Bitches, had stopped to chat, and she was the last person Honey had wanted to talk to.

She splayed her hand on her hip and glared at Janice, who was standing in the middle of the ranch house living room set. "I don't want to move until I say, 'Calm down, Pop.' It'll work better there."

"That's too late," Janice said. "You should already be at the window by then."

"I don't want to do it that way."

"I'm the director, Honey."

Narrowing her eyes, Honey spoke in her snottiest voice. "And I'm an actress trying to do a decent job. If you don't like my work, maybe you should find another show to direct."

She flounced past Dash, who was standing next to the window with his script in one hand and a coffee cup in the other, and walked off the set. Last year she had been intimidated by all of them, but this year would be different. She was tired of people pushing her around, tired of listening to Gordon's endless complaints about living in Beverly Hills, tired of Chantal's pouting. Nobody liked her anyway, so what difference did it make how she behaved?

She turned down the corridor that led to the dressing rooms and saw Eric at the end. Just the sight of him made her knees go weak. He had spent the summer filming his first feature role in a movie, and he looked so handsome it was hard for her to keep from staring.

Melanie Osborne, an attractive redhead who was one of the new assistant directors, was talking with him. They were standing just close enough for Honey to be certain the conversation wasn't about business. Melanie leaned toward him in a confident, sexy way that made Honey's toes curl with envy.

Eric looked up and saw her coming. He patted Melanie on the cheek and disappeared down the hallway into his dressing room.

Honey's mood grew uglier.

Melanie walked toward her, a friendly smile on her face. "Hi, Honey. I just overheard Ross say that he needs you as soon as you're free."

"Then he can come find me."

"Yes, ma'am," Melanie muttered as Honey swept past.

Honey stopped and spun around. "What did you say?"

"I didn't say anything."

Honey took in Melanie's long, wavy hair and generous breasts. Last week they'd cut her own hair in another dog's dish style. "You'd better watch yourself. I don't like smartasses."

"I apologize," Melanie said coldly. "I didn't mean to offend you."

"Well, you did."

"I'll try my best to avoid repeating the mistake."

"Try your best to stay out of my way."

Melanie clenched her teeth and began to move on, but something evil had taken possession of Honey. She wanted to punish Melanie for being pretty and feminine and for knowing how to talk to Eric. She wanted to punish Melanie for exchanging jokes with Dash and being popular with the crew and for having polished red fingernails the shape of almonds.

"Get me some coffee first," she snapped. "Bring it to my dressing room. And hurry it up."

Melanie stared at her for a moment. "What?"

"You heard me."

When the redhead didn't move, Honey planted her hand on her hip. "Well?"

"Go to hell."

Ross came around the corner just in time to hear the assistant director's words. He stopped in his tracks. Melanie spun around, saw who had approached, and paled.

Honey leapt forward. "Did you hear what she said?"

"What's your name?" Ross barked.

The assistant director looked sick. "Uh—Melanie Os-borne."

"Well, Melanie Osborne, you've just joined the ranks of the unemployed. Pack up and get out."

"But—"

"Honey's a star," he said quietly. "Nobody talks to her like that."

Melanie turned back to Honey, waiting for her to say something, but it was as if a cadre of devils had speared her lips shut with their pitchforks. Her conscience screamed at her to set things right, but her pride was too strong.

As it became apparent that Honey wasn't going to speak, Melanie's eyes grew bitter. "Thanks for nothing." Straightening her spine, she turned and walked away.

"I'm sorry about that, Honey," Ross said, running one hand through his long, silver hair. "I'll make certain she doesn't work around here again."

A chill slithered along Honey's spine as she absorbed the awesome power of celebrity. He wasn't even going to ask her what had happened. She was important; Melanie wasn't. Nothing else mattered.

He began talking about a press conference for the new season and the publicist who would accompany her on one of the few interviews he was permitting. Honey barely listened. She had done something terrible, but acknowledging that she was wrong stuck in her throat like a great lump of unchewed bread. She began the slow process of justifying her actions. She was hardly ever wrong about anything, she told herself. Maybe she wasn't wrong about this. Maybe Melanie was a troublemaker. She probably would have gotten herself fired anyway. But no matter how much she rationalized, she couldn't make the sick feeling inside her go away.

Ross left and she rushed toward her dressing room so she could be alone for a few minutes to think things over. But before she could get inside, she saw Liz Castleberry leaning in the open doorway of her own dressing room across the corridor. It was obvious from the disapproving expression on her face that her costar had heard everything.

"A word of advice, kiddo," she said quietly. "Don't screw people over. It'll come back to haunt you."

Honey felt as if she were being attacked from all sides, and she bristled. "Now isn't that funny. I can't seem to remember asking for your advice."

"Maybe you should."

"I suppose you're going to run to Ross."

"You're the one who should do that."

"Don't hold your breath."

"You're making a mistake," Liz replied. "I hope you figure that out before it's too late."

"Go to Ross," Honey said viciously. "But if Melanie shows up on this set, I'm walking!"

She went into her dressing room and slammed the door.

Melanie had a lot of friends on the set, and it didn't take long for word of her firing to spread. By the end of the week, Honey had become a pariah. The crew members only addressed her when they had to, and in retaliation Honey grew more demanding. She complained about her lines, her hair. She didn't like the lighting or the blocking.

The thought kept skittering through her mind that if she behaved badly enough, they'd have to pay attention to her, but Dash stopped talking to her completely, and Eric looked at her as if she were a slug leaving a slimy trail on the sidewalk of his life. Hatred joined the other complex feelings she held for him.

The following week, Arthur took her out to dinner. He'd heard about what had happened with Melanie, and he started giving her a big lecture about getting a reputation in the business for being difficult.

Instead of asking him to help her set things right, as she knew she should, she cut him off with a long recitation of all the slights she had suffered since her first day on the set. Then she told him that he could either take her side or she'd find another agent. He immediately backed off.

When she left the restaurant, she had the awful feeling that a devil had taken over her body. An internal voice whispered that she was turning into a spoiled Hollywood brat, just like a lot of the kid stars she had read about. She tried to repress it. Nobody understood her, and that was their problem, not hers. She told herself she should feel proud of the fact that she'd put her agent in his place, but as she got into her car, she was shaking, and she knew it wasn't pride she felt, but fear. Wasn't anybody going to stop her?

The next day she dropped by to see the writers. Not to talk to them. Hell, no, she wasn't going to talk to them. Just to sort of say hi.