Ann sat on the edge of her narrow berth. She wound and unwound a gauzy blue scarf around her left hand over and over again. She focused on the repetitive movement. Her racing heart began to slow. Ann had been on the ship for nearly five weeks. During those first few days of relentless roiling seasickness she was certain she had made the biggest mistake of her life, but since she had developed a set of sturdy sea legs, life on the Venture had been good. The salty air was invigorating, the stars at night breathtaking, and the men on the ship, for the most part, had filled the gap left by the dissolution of her old vaudeville troupe. The transition from stage to film had come easily to her, though re-shooting scenes time and again had become a bit tiresome. Live performances carried risks, yes-a poorly timed fall, a dropped ball while juggling, forgetting the words to a song-the list of what could go wrong on stage was endless, but the thrill of a flawless performance was worth it. There had been days when Denham and his crew had only gotten through a few scenes because he was not satisfied with the lighting, or a misspoken line, or Bruce Baxter's overacting. Ah, Baxter's overacting.

She balled up her fists. Why was the idea of filming the "love scene" with Baxter-under the scrutiny of most of the Venture's crew staring at her through squinty sailors' gazes, causing her stomach to shrink into a quivering ball of anxiety? It was an embrace, a kiss! Ann shook her head as if to banish an annoying fly. A kiss. An embrace. Inflicted on her by the infamous Bruce Baxter. Her mouth went dry at the thought. 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. Many an evening he had come knocking. Inviting, coaxing, pleading. He always went away when she asked, but his persistence was unnerving, especially when he was drunk.

A feeling of suffocation rose like bile in her throat. The idea of his hands on her body, his mouth on hers, even for a brief celluloid moment, was eclipsing every other thought or feeling. She felt nailed to the side of the berth.

Ann glanced up at the old Blue Bird alarm clock that had definitely seen better days. The long hand drooped past the four on the clock's face. Over twenty minutes late. She was surprised Denham was not pounding on her door.

As if her thoughts had summoned it, the sound of a sharp flurry of a rapping knuckles at her cabin startled her. Ann's head snapped up.

She heard a muffled voice from outside.

"Are you OK in there, Miss Darrow?"

Preston. Of course. Carl Denham would not come looking for her himself. That was what Preston was for.

Surprise goaded her to her feet. There was air in the cabin again. All her limbs were working. She could breathe again. She crossed the cabin and leaned against the cabin door, forehead pressed into her forearm.

"I was having trouble with my makeup. I'll be right there." Ann said.

Preston's muffled voice came through the door. "Okey dokey, Miss Darrow. When can I tell Mr. Denham you'll be topside?"

Ann chaffed her own cheeks with the palms of her hands. "Give me twenty minutes, could you Preston?"

"Pos-i-lute-ly, Miss Darrow. Mr. Denham won't be too happy about it, but what's new?"

Ann laughed weakly. "Preston, what would I do without you?"

He didn't respond. She heard Preston's rapid retreat down the passageway. The young man was always in motion-running, fetching, hauling, notetaking. Denham rode him hard. Poor kid.

Ann turned around and back to the door, slid to the floor. She wrapped her arms around her knees and drew up into a tight little ball. She broke out into a cold sweat.

Pull yourself together, Ann chided herself. Stop being a coward! Bruce Baxter isn't some kind of monstrous beast. He's just a big, clumsy ape of a man. Ann visualized the monkeys she had seen in the Central Park Zoo all clad in pinstriped trousers. She laughed and waded up her scarf and flung it across the cabin. Of all the things life had thrown at her, filming a love scene with Bruce Baxter was certainly not the worst. Ghosts from the crypt of her memory began stirring.

No. Not the worst.

Ann leapt lightly to her feet and went to the mirror to check her make-up. She picked up a bright red lipstick and then her hand froze halfway to her face. Her own bright blue eyes peered back at her, accusing. She could not stand her own self-scrutiny. The truth was reflected to her through her own traitorous eyes. Who was she trying to kid? It was not Bruce Baxter she was afraid of. It wasn't even the sailors. Over the weeks she had befriended most of the crew. They reminded her of her old vaudeville troupe back in New York. 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 the play, 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.

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 be accompanying the film's cast and crew on the ship. THE Jack Driscoll.

She had 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 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.

I'm sure you've heard this before, Mr. Driscoll, if you don't mind me saying it. You don't look at all like your photograph. So much younger in person, and much better looking. I was just afraid he might be one of those self-obsessed literary types. You know the tweedy twerp with his nose in a book and his head up his…

It's nice to meet you, too, Miss Darrow.

Ann blushed at the humiliation she had felt when she had realized she had been talking to the sound guy, Mike, not Jack Driscoll. Why. Why had he chosen to come into the galley at that precise moment? The first two weeks after their awkward meeting had been rather unpleasant. At first, Driscoll had merely avoided any contact with her. As time passed, Driscoll's avoidance morphed into an active and enthusiastic fleeing at her appearance. Ann would walk into the common room to join in on the poker game, and Jack Driscoll would walk straight out. Ann would be strolling 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 dropped his breakfast when she entered the mess hall.

The playwright 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. He was solitary and bad tempered at times.

At first, Ann had tried to make excuses for him. He was often seasick, 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, and he was missing the opening of his newest play, Isolation. She imagined that was very difficult on him.

All of that surely must explain 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 would have been booed off the stage halfway through the first act.

Ann finally came to the sad conclusion that Jack Driscoll was as normal and ordinary as a man could be. And rather arrogant and surly to boot.

Two weeks ago, though, 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. Lumpy had been quite a dear and had found an empty drum that he set up for her to use as a makeshift tub. And for some odd reason, the Captain had a small stock of rather fancy toiletries.

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 bathe 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 awkwardness 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. 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 proved that he could, indeed, speak.

Nothing had been the same between them since. Now she hesitantly looked forward to their 'chance' encounters and the conversations that more often than not 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. As the days drew on, their conversations grew longer, and she began to suspect that their "chance" meetings were anything but. Jack Driscoll could be charming. He was intelligent. His ideas were riveting. But more than that. He seemed to find her, in turn, equally as charming, intelligent, and, well, she didn't know exactly what else.

While the time they spent together strolling the deck or talking over coffee in the galley was pleasant and sometimes thrilling, the thing Ann could not get used to was the feeling of his eyes on her. He seemed to be everywhere now. It was a foreign sensation. And it was those eyes that she did not want on her today for a reason Ann could not or would not articulate.

She glanced over to the clock. She had two minutes left of her promised twenty. Mr. Denham would surely be in a fit. With some effort, Ann swallowed the nervousness creeping up her throat and willed herself to the door.

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

Ann glanced into the mirror one last time. Perfect. Maybe the wind was calm today; it usually was in the morning.

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

Ann's slender, pale fingers rested lightly on the worn brass doorknob. She took a deep breath and strode out of her room.

"Ms Darrow. ANN, he won't bite you for cripes sake. I only brought so much film with me, now let him kiss you. This is a love scene!" Carl Denham's fists were jabbed into his ample waist, sweat poured from his round face, and his director's scarf hung limply around his neck.

"Preston, go get another reel," Denham barked the order.

"Right away, Mr. Denham." 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."

I'd rather swallow six flaming swords, come to think of it. It would be easier.

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 away and made her way to the ship's railings. She gripped the cold metal hoping she could 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. "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 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.

"What I meant to say was you are an actor."

Ann looked up him expectantly.

"Pretend. Pretend he is someone you want to be kissing. Pretend he's your fella back in New York. I mean, surely." His hands were spread wide, indicating that obviously Ann had a fella in New York. There was an underlying question that hinted at perhaps a cadre of suitors.

An ironic smile twisted Ann's mouth and she laughed. The sound shattered the tension that had been hanging opaquely between the two of them.

"I don't have any fellas back in New York, Mr. Driscoll. I am a working gal. I don't have time. But that is very good advice. I will just have to imagine."

"Were are in the same business, Miss Darrow. Not a lot we do is real. Most of it comes from our imaginations. It's safer."

Ann noticed the slight emphasis he gave to the word 'most'.

Safer than what? Ann wondered.

When Denham's camera was rolling again, Jack Driscoll had resumed his usual place, leaning against the wall a deck above the filming. He watched Bruce Baxter sweep Miss Darrow into a dramatic embrace, tipping her lithe body back and plant a vigorous kiss on her lips. She lay in his arms as if there was nowhere else she wanted to be. Jack folded his arms tightly against his chest and then turned his head and spat on the deck.

Carl Denham shouted, "Cut!"

Who had she been imagining? Jack felt an angry prickle of jealousy. Whoever it was, Jack hated him.