The Bridge Across Forever: A True Love Story

"Three, please," she said. Three was my floor, too.

The door paused a second, softly rumbled shut.

Bluegrey eyes glanced my way in thanks. I held the glance for less than a quarter-second, to tell her that it had been my pleasure to wait, then politely looked away. Darn politeness, I thought. What a lovely face! Had I seen her in movies? Television? I dared not ask.

We rode upward in silence. She was as tall as my shoulder, golden hair swirled and tucked under a spice-color cap. Not dressed like a movie-star: faded work-shirt under a surplus Navy coat, bluejeans, leather boots. Such a beautiful face!

She's here on location for the film, I thought. Is she a technician on the crew?

What pleasure it would be, to know her. But she's so far ... Isn't it interesting, Richard, how infinitely far away she is? You two are standing thirty inches apart, yet there's no way to bridge the gulf and say hello.

If only we could invent a way, I thought, if only this were a world when unmet people could say you charm me and I'd like to know who you are. With a code: "No thanks," if the charm might not be mutual.

But that world hadn't yet been made. The half-minute ride finished without a word. Softly the door rumbled open.

"Thank you," she said. Barely on the walk side of running, she hurried down the hall to her room,

opened the door, entered, closed it behind her and left me alone in the corridor.

I wish you didn't have to leave, I thought, entering my own room, two doors from hers. I wish you didn't have to run away.

By moving my knight, I could shift pressures on the board, blunt her attack. She had an advantage, but she hadn't won, not yet.

Of course! I thought. N-QN5! Threaten NxP, NxR!

I moved the piece, and watched her eyes once more, pleasuring in beauty strangely unflickered by my counterattack.

A year after our meeting in the elevator, I had brought suit against the director of that film, over changes he had made in the script without my approval. Even though he was required by the court to take my name off the credits and reverse some of the worst changes, I could hardly keep from smashing furniture while discussing the matter directly with him. A mediator had to be found with whom each of us could speak.

The mediator turned out to be actress Leslie Par-rish, the woman who had shared the ride with me from the lobby to floor three.

Rage melted, talking with her. She was calm and reason-I trusted her at once.

Now Hollywood wanted to turn the latest book into a film. I swore I'd see the story burned before I'd let it be wrecked on screen. If it were to be made, would it best be made by my own company? Leslie was the one person I trusted in Hollywood, and

I flew to Los Angeles to talk with her once more.

On the side-table in her office had been a chessboard.

Office chess-sets are most often designers' whims, fancy things with queens like bishops like pawns, pieces scattered in random wrong places. This set was a wooden tournament Staunton, three-and-a-half-inch king on a fourteen-inch board, white-corner square to the players' right, knights facing forward.

"Time for a quick game?" I had said when the meeting was finished. I was not the best chess-player in town; neither was I the worst. I've been playing the game since I was seven, and had a certain arrogant confidence at the board.

She had looked at her watch. "OK," she had said.

That she won the game startled me cold. The way she won, the pattern of her thought on the chessboard, charmed me warm again and then some.

The next meeting, we played for best two games out of three.

The next month we formed a corporation. She set to work to find a way to make the film with the lowest probability of disaster, and we played for best six games out of eleven.

After that there were no meetings required. I'd strap myself into my newest airplane, eight tons of ex-Air Force jet trainer, climb to 35,000 feet and fly from Florida out Jet Fifty to Los Angeles to spend a day at chess with Leslie.

Our games became less tournamental, words allowed, cookies and milk at table.

"Richard, you beast," she frowned over the pieces. Her side of the board was in real trouble.

"Yes," said I smugly. "I am a clever beast."