Author's Note: As I have been writing along, I have found my characters drifting a bit. To help me get my characters back where i want them to be, I have decided to go back and revise, heavily in some cases, many of my chapters. If you are interested, please check back from time to time for the lastest revsion. Here is the new and hopefully improved Chapter 1.

Another note. As I was trying to come up with names for Jack's plays, I decided on a single name format for all of his plays, its kind of his trademark. I have to give credit for the play named Condescension to Nate the Ape. That play appears in his story, Halloween and Isolation.

---

Ann sat on the edge of her thin cot clutching her gauzy scarf. For nearly five weeks she had scrupulously appeared for work at least fifteen minutes early. Today she had no desire to even be on time.

Today the love scene was slated to be filmed.

Her stomach lurched yet again at the thought of kissing Mr. Baxter and fending off his clumsy paws. Ann had not only seen Bruce’s latest picture, Dame Tamer, but she had spent the past five weeks living three doors down from his cabin. It was Ann’s iron-clad opinion that the estimable Mr. Baxter was an arrogant, boorish ape in trousers!

Ann shuddered. It wouldn’t be so bad if they were shooting the picture in a studio back lot somewhere. There, only the film crew would be watching. A film crew was one thing, but the crew of a rusty old tramp steamer watching her at the mercy of Bruce Baxter was something else entirely.

Ann waded up her scarf and flung it across the cabin. Who was she trying to kid? She felt perfectly at home with most of the crew. They reminded her in many ways of her old vaudeville troupe back in New York. In fact, she was teaching one of them to juggle and another two how to take pratfalls. Nearly every evening, she and the crew would gather on the aft deck for an impromptu musical performance of some sort or another. Jimmy, the youngest member of the ship’s crew, was very fond of dancing. Most evenings at some point during the musical revue, she and the young sailor would dance to the clapping and whistles of the rest of the men. In many ways, life had not changed that much for Ann.

She knew full well it was not the sailors making her nervous.

It was Mr. Driscoll.

Carl Denham had surprised her when he’d suddenly revealed the author of the picture’s screenplay. Up until that moment, Ann had had no intention of taking Denham up on his wild, out-of-the-blue offer. But after being flat out rejected by the producers of Isolation, Ann knew this was probably the only chance she’d ever have to speak the words penned by her favorite playwright. So, against her better judgment, Ann had taken the job on the spot.

Ann remembered how excited she was upon arriving at the dock and seeing the Venture for the first time. Someone could have knocked her over with a feather. But the thrill of setting out on a long sea voyage was quickly dwarfed the next morning when she discovered that Jack Driscoll would actually be accompanying the film’s cast and crew on the ship. THE Jack Driscoll.

She’d read every play he had ever published. Neglect, Acquittal, Scorn (her least favorite), Bliss (she cried every time she read that one, Grace, Condescension, and finally Isolation. Ann Darrow did not have much in the way of worldly possessions, but she had a dog-eared copy of each of Jack Driscoll’s plays.

Ann’s thrill and excitement quickly gave way to full blown panic. Normally witty and articulate, Ann had melted down into a giddy puddle of star-struck babbling at the mere thought of actually meeting him in person. When she finally did meet her literary hero, Ann had made a complete fool of herself.

She still cringed at the memory.

The first two weeks after their painfully awkward meeting had been rather unpleasant. At first he enthusiastically avoided any contact with her. Ann would walk into the common room to join in on the poker game, and Jack Driscoll would walk straight out. Ann would be walking along the deck admiring the ocean, and Jack Driscoll would dive down the stairs that led to the hold. The worst time of all was when he actually dropped his breakfast when she entered the mess hall.

Of course he rarely spoke to Ann, and when he did, it appeared as if he would have rather been in the dentist’s chair having several teeth extracted. She preferred that, however, to his subtly cutting remarks and sarcasm.

At first, Ann had tried to make excuses for him in her own mind. He was almost constantly sea sick, after all. He slept in a monkey cage in the hold; that could not have been pleasant. She was sure the smell alone would have knocked her unconscious. . He was missing the opening of Isolation. She imagined that was very difficult on him, also.

All of that surely explained his churlish behavior. She wanted so desperately for him to be charming, intelligent, and riveting, but to her great dismay, it seemed he could only be that on the printed page.

The real Jack Driscoll was a flop. If he had been a play, he’d have been booed off the stage half way through the first act.

Ann finally came to the sad conclusion that Jack Driscoll was as normal and ordinary as they came. And rather bad-mannered and surly to boot.

Two weeks and one day ago, something utterly baffling happened. That evening, after a particularly long day of filming, Ann had been making her way back to her cabin after a much needed soak in a bubble bath. Quite unexpectedly, Mr. Driscoll had rounded the corner stripped to the waist with a towel around his neck. The sight of him like that shocked Ann. He was normally modestly dressed in his tweed suit. She remembered thinking at that moment his only shirt had to be washed some time.

Obviously he had not been expecting to run into Ann on his way to the bath himself. Ducking her head in embarrassment, Ann tried to edge past him as hastily as she could. Not only was he half dressed, but Ann simply did not have the energy to engage in any sort of conversation with him.

And then he said it. At first, she thought his sudden comment about her legs was meant crudely, but then Ann realized he was just trying to make…small talk? That by itself left Ann in a mild state of shock. He hadn’t said anything remotely civil to her even once. What on earth had come over him?

A little smile curved Ann’s lips as she smoothed her dress over her thighs. What had come over Mr. Driscoll, indeed? Before she could disappear behind the safety of her cabin door, Jack Driscoll had succeeded in not only honestly complimenting her, but utterly bewildering her at the same time.

Nothing had been the same between them since. Before that fateful moment, Ann could count on either being insulted or ignored by the playwright. Now she hesitantly looked forward to their ‘chance’ encounters and the conversations that often started with Jack sticking at least one of his size elevens into his mouth. Once that ritual was out of the way (Ann often had a difficult time not laughing out loud), she could count on a rather pleasant, but short exchange.

Ann could not get used to his eyes on her, though. He seemed to be everywhere now. It was not an unpleasant sensation, just a foreign one. And it was those eyes she did not want on her today for a reason Ann could not, or would not articulate.

She glanced up at the clock. She was now fifteen minutes late. Mr. Denham would surely be in a fit. With some effort, Ann swallowed the nervousness creeping up her throat and willed herself to her feet.

“If I do it right the first time, then there will only be a first time.” She said aloud.

She quickly checked her hair, not that it wouldn’t be blown to bits after two minutes on deck. Maybe the wind was calm today; it usually was in the morning.

Yes, the wind will be calm, and so will I.

Ann made her way to the door, and then stopped. Head down, she slowly drew a long, deep breath. Her slender, pale fingers rested lightly on the worn brass door knob. Now, if Mr. Driscoll was in the love scene…embarrassment reddened her cheeks, brighter than the blush she had applied. Where on earth did that thought come from?

---

“Ms Darrow. ANN, he won’t bite you for Heaven’s Sake. I only brought so much film with me, now let him kiss you. This is a LOVE scene, remember?” Carl Denham’s fists were jabbed into his ample waist, sweat poured off of his round face, and his director’s scarf hung limply around his neck.

“Preston, go get another reel,”

“Right away, Mr. Denham. I’ll be right back.” Preston licked his dry lips and scurried away as fast as the pitching and rolling ship would allow.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Denham, it’s just that I am not used to doing love scenes. I’ll get it right.”

Ann rubbed her hands together nervously. It was worse than she had imagined. She could see Mr. Driscoll lounging against the bulwark. Shadow hid his eyes, but Ann could feel him looking at her.

She turned and gripped the railing of the deck hoping to steady her trembling legs. Ann looked out over the ocean; its steady, swelling rhythm helped her slow her breathing.

“Beautiful morning, isn’t it?”

Jack’s voice interrupted Ann’s reverie. She turned, still gripping the rail behind her. Ann’s eyes were drawn to Jack’s. The sudden eye contact made her blush.

“I was watching the shoot from the deck up there.” he gestured vaguely behind himself. A gust of wind caught his vest and set it flapping. Jack stepped forward and smiled crookedly.

“I’ve worked in the theatre for years, and I’ve heard a few things about, well, you know, The Stage Kiss not that I think you can’t kiss, but you know, you don’t know Bruce all that well, and you seem to be having a problem….and, well…….ah, geez.” Jack’s voice trailed off. He rubbed a long forefinger against his temple nervously.

“What I meant to say…”

Ann looked up him expectantly.

“Miss Darrow, what I was trying to say is pretend he is someone you want to be kissing. Pretend he’s your fella back in New York.”

Ann laughed. The sound shattered the tension that had been building between the two.

“I don’t have a fella back in New York, but that is very good advice. I can’t believe I didn’t think of that myself. Thank you, Mr. Driscoll.”

Jack’s smile lit up his entire face. “Your welcome. You know, Mr. Driscoll is my father. Please, call me Jack.”