Home, at last. The comfort of my favorite armchair reaches up to enfold my tired bones. The softness caresses my aching muscles, cushions my frayed nerves. Bliss.

Tophe, with more understanding than one would expect from an eight year old boy, carefully removes my shoes. I open my eyes to look down at the non-descript brown head, Christopher, my baby. Tophe was a fine nickname - it's the only thing unique about him, poor lad. He hasn't his father's green eyes as my older two children, but my gray ones. Rob, at seventeen, still has my 'guinea gold' hair, which is rather a surprise to me. I fully expected it to darken through the years. Darken to the rich, deep, red-brown of his father and sister. But, poor little Tophe is lodged somewhere in between, neither blond nor brunette. That I, Heather Kent, who even at my age -I will be 60 when Tophe learns to drive- am held to be one of the most beautiful women in the world, and Trevor Ward the 'Handsome Producer', could give birth to such a plain, non-descript child seems miraculous. I once wondered fleetingly if there was some mix-up at the hospital, but no. Tophe has not only my eyes, but my sparrows wing brows as well. Those wide, high cheekbones are definitely Trevor's, and, God love him, he certainly has the Ward temper.

I've always wondered about Tophe. Robin and Amanda were born before Trevor and I married ten years ago. That coupled with being 44 when the laddie was born is probably the reason. Trev and I have been together for twenty years and Robin, our first glorious mistake, was so unexpected, I had to bow out of a film halfway through. More's the pity because it would have been my first for WindWard Productions. Five years later, Trev had to postpone a release when some of the scenes needed to be reshot - I was too pregnant to wear the wardrobe. When we finally decided to get married and plan a baby, we got Tophe. Trev and I shook the world - parents of a new babe at 61 and 44. They called us fools, and our Ugly Duckling seemed to prove them right. But, there was something endearing about my timid, comical, little scarecrow. Though I hate to play favorites, I'm sure Tophe is spoiled like Robin and Amanda haven't been.

I turned to study my daughter as she stood by the French doors. She had made the trip a fiasco. First she moped for a week that she couldn't have designer clothes from Paris. Then she had to see all the sights in a single day. She hated the hotel, the rain, the food, and her brothers. Tophe bought her a scarf, from Harrods and she loved her brothers, London, and Harrods. The entire trip was the emotional roller coaster of a pre-teen girl. Rob had been the only one who had been able to handle her. He'd been unfailingly patient, patted her when she cried, teased her into a good mood, stayed in with her, took her out, and followed her untiringly. I hope it's just a phase she's going through; I'd hate to be that much of a failure. I'm sure it's only her age, because she can be the sweetest, most well behaved child. And beautiful, Amanda Ward has never been anything less than exquisite. Mannie looks the most like Trevor; only a feminine softness of features keeps the two from an eerie resemblance. She wants to be a ballerina, but unfortunately she has also inherited her father's height, and even at twelve shows signs of being far too tall to realize her dream. But, who knows? She's a very determined girl.

Rob gently pressed a wine glass into my hand, bless him. A mother always considers her first-born special, but Robin is one in a million. Never a fussy child, he has the sunniest of natures, which he retains even to this day. He is overcoming his teenage awkwardness and developing a fluid, sureness of movement. Like Mannie, he resembles his father a great deal. Not, perhaps to the extent his sister does, but strikingly so none the less. The only way to tell he is my son is the golden curls carelessly brushed from his brow. They have probably remained gold to a great extent due to exposure to the sun. God knows since we'd moved to Malibu after our wedding, he'd spent more than his fair share of time at the beach. But, never a surfer boy was my son. Rob already shows his father's head for business, and the instinct of a Ward for deals. Trev had been induced to test one of Rob's friends for his last picture and had been impressed with the boy's talent. When Trev had approached him before we left, he'd said he wasn't doing anything until Robin returned from England to advise him. Most producers would have been livid, son or not, but Trevor had swelled with pride, not anger. Yes, Robin is one in a million.

Two hands were set lightly on my shoulders and I didn't need to look to know the owner. One knows a lover's touch in an instant. We'd met at the Cannes Film Festival 20 years ago. The years in between hadn't been smooth, but I wouldn't trade them for the world. At 49, Trevor had been handsome, self-assured, and powerful. Hidden was the tormented man of two divorces. I was told to keep out of his way; he ate actresses for breakfast. But, after being secretly in love with him for years, I had paid no attention to the warnings. I knew my plan of attack. Be where he was, but never close. Same beach-alone; same party-in a group of friends, but alone. When he introduced himself, I volunteered no information, but never lied if he asked questions. Never cancelled an appointment for him, didn't sit by the phone, called him only to return a call, and taught myself to judge his volatile moods in minutes, to a hairs breadth. I was determined to be his friend as well as his lover, and I'd won. Whenever the friends were at odds, the lovers could bury it with passion. The friends could iron out a lover's spat. Now at 69, he was still handsome, a bit gray maybe, but his firmness of feature couldn't really fade. In fact, Trevor looked remarkable for his age.

London had been Trev's idea. It had been six years since I'd been home. Not that London was my home, exactly, I hadn't moved there until I was nineteen. I was from Glasgow originally. Raised in the slums, I'd managed to save enough money, after leaving school at fifteen, to attend a finishing school in London to remove the hated slum burr from my voice, though the Glaswegian gutter talk of my youth was all too prevalent if I lost my temper. Who would have believed that the daughter of a Glasgow lorry driver would become an internationally celebrated actress? Grandfather and I did. It had always been just Grandfather and me. My father - if he had ever been around - left before I was born. My mother had left me with Grandfather to 'find work', I rarely saw her and never missed her. Grandfather gave me not only the loving home every child should have, but a dream to pursue as well. A storyteller at heart, his make-believe world had not only protected me from loneliness and poverty but provided the training ground for my career. What drama school could compare to the roles I played in Grandfather's imagination?

I'd gotten a few lucky breaks on the West End, and a couple of films for the BBC so that I could buy a small cottage for my grandfather, far from the city he hated. He'd died peacefully when I was 28. My only regret was that he never saw my children. I wonder if he'd have liked Trevor? They are very much alike, maybe that's why I love Trevor so much.

Rob moved into view and sprawled onto the couch. I smiled wryly at the Corona in his hand. I felt he was too young to drink, but he had never made a secret of it. As long as he didn't start hiding it or lying about it, I would let it slide. He was responsible about it, and I'd only seen him hung over once. When you indulge yourself, how can you forbid your children? Tophe climbed into my lap. At eight he didn't do that very often, so even though I was tired, I let him stay. Poor laddie was tired too. It would do us both a world a' good to have a bit of a cuddle before Tophe was sent off to bed. Trevor leaned over to ruffle his hair; Tophe was his father's shadow. It seemed natural. Since Trev had moved an office into the house, Tophe saw more of him than he did his older brother.

This trip to relax had taken more out of me than my last film. I always seem to be tired these days. It's not that I don't get the proper amount of sleep, because I do. I rarely have insomnia, but I have had problems with my nerves. Trev is right; I should see a doctor. I don't feel like I did before my collapse. This isn't a frantic, desperate tired, it's just a weary, old kind of tired. I'm really afraid what a doctor would call it. What symptoms do I have? Easily tired, frequent headaches, sometimes short of breath - sounds remarkably like life catching up with me. I have a film coming up in a week. A good role that I've fought for; one outside of my usual image. I can't back out now, and a doctor would probably tell me to give it up. It isn't a big part, perhaps I'll wait; I've nothing planned after this six week job. Most of filming is hurry up and wait anyway. I can just spend most of the day in my dressing trailer. Yes - if I request a car and driver, so I don't have to face traffic everyday, I'll be fine.

Tophe is asleep. He looks so defenseless when he's asleep. I wonder if my face is that innocent in repose? Trevor's is unless he's got something on his mind. Mannie's face is like an angel's face when she sleeps - it has a serenity. Robin's face always has a smile hovering just below the surface, even in his sleep. Even under general anesthesia when he had his tonsils removed, he had a smile ready and waiting. I knew Amanda was just going through a phase. As Trev was carrying Tophe to bed, she offered to put him in his pajamas. Mannie has always loved helping with Tophe. Four years was just about the right spacing. At least between those two. Rob has another Corona, I hope he's not going to make this a habit. Did I cure him of smoking so he could become an alcoholic? Now, I'm being melodramatic I guess. Trevor would say I'm trying to sell a drama school drop out as the next Katherine Hepburn. Dear God I'm tired. I should go up to bed, but I can't summon the will to get out of this chair. I'm far too comfortable here to move. I'm getting that shortness of breath again. I also seem to be unable to keep my eyes open. Robin's lips are moving, but I don't seem to be hearing anything. Maybe I should see a doctor.

". . .right, Mom? . . . . .Mom? . . . . . . .Mama!"