Zack coaxed and dragged all of that and much more out of his two female leads during the eight weeks they were in production. His own determination to succeed transmitted itself to both of them, his sense of timing and lighting had helped too, but mostly it was his intuitive knack of knowing how to use Emily and Rachel to their best advantage.
Rachel had been furious over his badgering and the endless numbers of takes he made her do for each scene, but when he showed her the first week's rushes, she'd looked at him with awe in her wide green eyes and said softly, "Thank you, Zack. For the first time in my life, it actually looks as if I can really, really act."
"And it also looks as if I can really, really direct," he'd teased, but he was relieved and he let it show.
Rachel was amazed. "You mean you've had doubts about it? I thought you were totally sure of everything we've done!"
"Actually, I haven't had a peaceful night's sleep since we started shooting," Zack confessed. It was the first time in years he'd dared to admit to anyone that he had any misgivings about his work, but that day was special. He'd just seen proof that he had a talent for directing. Furthermore, that newly discovered talent was going to dramatically brighten the future of a winsome child named Emily McDaniels when the critics saw her superb performance in Nightmare. Zack was so fond of Emily that working with her had made him long for a child of his own. Watching the closeness and laughter she shared with her father, who stayed on the set to look after her, Zack had suddenly realized he wanted a family. That was what was missing from his life—a wife and children to share his successes, to laugh with and strive for.
Rachel and he celebrated that night with a late dinner served by his houseboy. The mood of shared candor that had begun earlier when they'd admitted their private doubts about their individual abilities led to a relaxed intimacy that, on Zack's part, was as unprecedented as it was therapeutic. Seated in his living room in Pacific Palisades in front of the two-story glass wall that looked out over the ocean, they talked for hours, but not about "the business," which came as a welcome change to Zack, who'd despaired of meeting an actress who could concentrate on anything else. They ended up in his bed where they further indulged themselves with a night of highly pleasurable and inventive lovemaking. Rachel's passion seemed genuine rather than a repayment for making her look good on film, and that pleased him, too. In fact, he was thoroughly contented with everything as they lay in his bed—the rushes, Rachel's sensuality, her intelligence, and her wit.
Beside him, she levered herself up on her elbows. "Zack, what do you really want from life? I mean, really want?"
For a moment, he stayed silent, and then perhaps because he was weak from hours of intercourse or perhaps because he was sick of pretending that the life he'd carved for himself was exactly what he wanted, he answered with only a touch of derision, "Little House on the Prairie."
"What? You mean, you want to star in a movie sequel to 'Little House on the Prairie'?"
"No, I mean I want to live it. The house doesn't have to be on the prairie, though. I've been thinking about a ranch in the mountains somewhere."
She burst out laughing. "A ranch! You hate horses and you despise cattle, everyone knows it. Tommy Newton told me so," she said, referring to Nightmare's fledgling assistant director. "He worked as a grip on the first Western you made when you were a kid—the one where Michelle Pfeiffer played your girlfriend." Smiling, she rubbed her finger across his lips. "What have you got against horses and cattle anyway?"
He gave her finger a playful nip and said, "They don't take direction worth a damn, and they stampede in the wrong direction. That's what happened in that first picture—the steers turned and headed right for us."
"Michelle says you saved her life that day. You picked her up and carried her to safety."
Zack tipped his chin down and grinned. "I had to," he joked. "I was running like hell for the rocks, and the steers were right behind me. Michelle was in my path. I picked her up to get her out of my way."
"Don't be so modest. She said she was running for her life and screaming for someone to help her."
"So was I," he teased. Sobering, he added, "We were both kids back then. It seems like a hundred years ago."
She shifted onto her side and stretched out beside him, her finger tracing an enticing path from his shoulder to his navel, then stopping. "Where are you really from? And please do not give me all that studio bullshit about growing up on your own and riding in the rodeo circuit and hanging around with motorcycle gangs."
Zack's candid mood did not extend to discussing his past. He had never done so before, nor would he ever. When he was eighteen and the studio publicity department wanted to know about that, he'd coolly told them to invent one for him, which they had. His real past was dead, and the discussion of it was off limits. His evasive tone made that emphatically clear. "I'm not from anyplace special."
"But you're no vagabond kid who grew up without knowing which fork to use, that much I do know," she persisted. "Tommy Newton told me that even when you were eighteen, you already had a lot of class, a lot of 'social polish,' he called it. That's all he knows about you, and he's worked with you on several films. None of the women who've worked with you know anything either. Glenn Close and Goldie Hawn, Lauren Hutton and Meryl Streep—they all say you're wonderful to work with, but you keep your private life to yourself. I know, because I've asked them."
Zack made no attempt to hide his displeasure. "If you think you're flattering me with all your curiosity, you're wrong."
"I can't help it," she laughed, pressing a kiss to his jaw, "You're every woman's fantasy lover, Mr. Benedict, and you're also Hollywood's mystery man. It's a well-known fact that none of the women who've preceded me in this bed of yours have gotten you to do any talking about anything really personal. Since I happen to be in this bed with you, and since you've talked to me tonight about a lot of things that are personal, I figure I'm either catching you at a weak moment, or that … just maybe … you like me better than the others. Either way, I have to try to discover something about you that no other woman has found out. It's my feminine pride that's at stake here, you understand."
Her jaunty bluntness reduced Zack's annoyance to exasperated amusement. "If you want me to keep liking you better than the others," he said half-seriously, "then stop prying and talk about something more pleasant."
Rachel had been furious over his badgering and the endless numbers of takes he made her do for each scene, but when he showed her the first week's rushes, she'd looked at him with awe in her wide green eyes and said softly, "Thank you, Zack. For the first time in my life, it actually looks as if I can really, really act."
"And it also looks as if I can really, really direct," he'd teased, but he was relieved and he let it show.
Rachel was amazed. "You mean you've had doubts about it? I thought you were totally sure of everything we've done!"
"Actually, I haven't had a peaceful night's sleep since we started shooting," Zack confessed. It was the first time in years he'd dared to admit to anyone that he had any misgivings about his work, but that day was special. He'd just seen proof that he had a talent for directing. Furthermore, that newly discovered talent was going to dramatically brighten the future of a winsome child named Emily McDaniels when the critics saw her superb performance in Nightmare. Zack was so fond of Emily that working with her had made him long for a child of his own. Watching the closeness and laughter she shared with her father, who stayed on the set to look after her, Zack had suddenly realized he wanted a family. That was what was missing from his life—a wife and children to share his successes, to laugh with and strive for.
Rachel and he celebrated that night with a late dinner served by his houseboy. The mood of shared candor that had begun earlier when they'd admitted their private doubts about their individual abilities led to a relaxed intimacy that, on Zack's part, was as unprecedented as it was therapeutic. Seated in his living room in Pacific Palisades in front of the two-story glass wall that looked out over the ocean, they talked for hours, but not about "the business," which came as a welcome change to Zack, who'd despaired of meeting an actress who could concentrate on anything else. They ended up in his bed where they further indulged themselves with a night of highly pleasurable and inventive lovemaking. Rachel's passion seemed genuine rather than a repayment for making her look good on film, and that pleased him, too. In fact, he was thoroughly contented with everything as they lay in his bed—the rushes, Rachel's sensuality, her intelligence, and her wit.
Beside him, she levered herself up on her elbows. "Zack, what do you really want from life? I mean, really want?"
For a moment, he stayed silent, and then perhaps because he was weak from hours of intercourse or perhaps because he was sick of pretending that the life he'd carved for himself was exactly what he wanted, he answered with only a touch of derision, "Little House on the Prairie."
"What? You mean, you want to star in a movie sequel to 'Little House on the Prairie'?"
"No, I mean I want to live it. The house doesn't have to be on the prairie, though. I've been thinking about a ranch in the mountains somewhere."
She burst out laughing. "A ranch! You hate horses and you despise cattle, everyone knows it. Tommy Newton told me so," she said, referring to Nightmare's fledgling assistant director. "He worked as a grip on the first Western you made when you were a kid—the one where Michelle Pfeiffer played your girlfriend." Smiling, she rubbed her finger across his lips. "What have you got against horses and cattle anyway?"
He gave her finger a playful nip and said, "They don't take direction worth a damn, and they stampede in the wrong direction. That's what happened in that first picture—the steers turned and headed right for us."
"Michelle says you saved her life that day. You picked her up and carried her to safety."
Zack tipped his chin down and grinned. "I had to," he joked. "I was running like hell for the rocks, and the steers were right behind me. Michelle was in my path. I picked her up to get her out of my way."
"Don't be so modest. She said she was running for her life and screaming for someone to help her."
"So was I," he teased. Sobering, he added, "We were both kids back then. It seems like a hundred years ago."
She shifted onto her side and stretched out beside him, her finger tracing an enticing path from his shoulder to his navel, then stopping. "Where are you really from? And please do not give me all that studio bullshit about growing up on your own and riding in the rodeo circuit and hanging around with motorcycle gangs."
Zack's candid mood did not extend to discussing his past. He had never done so before, nor would he ever. When he was eighteen and the studio publicity department wanted to know about that, he'd coolly told them to invent one for him, which they had. His real past was dead, and the discussion of it was off limits. His evasive tone made that emphatically clear. "I'm not from anyplace special."
"But you're no vagabond kid who grew up without knowing which fork to use, that much I do know," she persisted. "Tommy Newton told me that even when you were eighteen, you already had a lot of class, a lot of 'social polish,' he called it. That's all he knows about you, and he's worked with you on several films. None of the women who've worked with you know anything either. Glenn Close and Goldie Hawn, Lauren Hutton and Meryl Streep—they all say you're wonderful to work with, but you keep your private life to yourself. I know, because I've asked them."
Zack made no attempt to hide his displeasure. "If you think you're flattering me with all your curiosity, you're wrong."
"I can't help it," she laughed, pressing a kiss to his jaw, "You're every woman's fantasy lover, Mr. Benedict, and you're also Hollywood's mystery man. It's a well-known fact that none of the women who've preceded me in this bed of yours have gotten you to do any talking about anything really personal. Since I happen to be in this bed with you, and since you've talked to me tonight about a lot of things that are personal, I figure I'm either catching you at a weak moment, or that … just maybe … you like me better than the others. Either way, I have to try to discover something about you that no other woman has found out. It's my feminine pride that's at stake here, you understand."
Her jaunty bluntness reduced Zack's annoyance to exasperated amusement. "If you want me to keep liking you better than the others," he said half-seriously, "then stop prying and talk about something more pleasant."
