All the Stars in the Heavens (52 page)

Loretta never made it to the fund-raiser, and neither did Gable. Loretta found a blanket in the closet, draped it over Gable, and curled up next to him on the sofa. They went to sleep holding one another. And this is how they stayed until morning.

Gable was strapped into the B-17 fighter-bomber. The whirl of the engine was deafening. Gable adjusted his goggles, which had steamed up from the sweat on his brow. Looking out the tiny sliver of Plexiglas, his only portal to the sky and the ground below, he saw black clouds of smoke and streaks of orange where the shells had detonated on the fringe of Berlin. He held the jammer control on his gun and waited for his instructions to fire.

Gable hoped the war would put distance between him and his grief. He'd joined up because Lombard made him promise he would, but that was just to appease her. If he ever served, he figured he would wind up in a special unit, making movies for the cause. Instead, he requested active combat, and after training, he got his wish. He hoped to be hit in midair, explode into a million pieces, and join Carole on the other side, where he believed she was waiting for him. It was the only way he could make sense of losing her so young, before they had a chance to enjoy their marriage, their new home, and the wealth that came after
Gone with the Wind
. How profoundly his views on money had changed when he lost her! The jewels, cars, and homes meant nothing without her. He attached to her the meaning of his
own life. While Gable thought about death and dying, he didn't want to do anything that would prevent a reunion in the afterlife. That message of religion had gotten through to him loud and clear.

The commanding officer shouted out a code, and Gable gripped his machine gun as the gunner dived close to the rooftops of Berlin. Shells popping around them, the pilot navigated through black smoke, using only his instruments. For a split second Gable was sure they would crash. He thought of his wife and how she must have known before the plane hit the Nevada mountain, how those moments of pitch-black either lead you out into the blue or hurl you into the mountainside in an instant fireball.

Gable steadied the machine gun and peered through the slit. The gunner climbed heavenward. Gable looked down and saw Berlin burning. Turning in his jump seat, the officer gave the crew the thumbs-up, and Gable felt a wave of relief. Perhaps he was ready to live again. This was the first moment since Carole had died that he wanted to; in that sense, it was the start of something new.

Primula Niven, David's wife, held their son in her arms in the garden of their English cottage on the outskirts of London. She was an English beauty, with a lovely complexion and clear blue eyes.

There was a one-day ceasefire for Christmas Day, which had everyone outdoors, without fear of grenades, bombs, and gunfire. Primmie reveled in the peace. Clark Gable, in full uniform, unlatched the garden gate.

“What'd you make for me, Primmie?”

“Your favorite chicken pot pie, Captain.”

Gable kissed her on the cheek. “Where's your husband?”

“He went for flour.”

“Do you think he'll find some?”

“He's a charmer. I only worry what he'll have to do to get it.”

“Let's not imagine the worst.”

“Let's not,” she said as she placed her son in the pram. “It's his naptime—he's out. Here, sit. Make yourself comfortable.”

Gable sat down under an old elm tree. He fished in his pocket for his cigarettes and lit one. He looked at the cottage, with its thatched roof, and thought about trying to re-create it on his ranch when he returned. Primmie had hung red velvet ribbons in the window for Christmas decorations. The simple adornment made him smile as Primmie returned with a tray of tea and biscuits for her guest.

“How are you?” Primmie asked.

“I'm beat.”

“You know, you'll feel better as time goes on.”

“Will I?”

“Grief is never as bad as it is when you first feel it. The trick is to walk with it. Make it a part of who you are. Don't rail against it.”

“Accept it.”

“When you can.”

Gable's eyes filled with tears. “I miss her.”

Primmie put down her tea, went to Gable, and put her arms around him.

“Take your hands off my wife, you horny Yankee!” Niv thundered from the gate. Niv too was in uniform, his officer's cap pushed back on his head like a newsboy's.

“You'll wake the baby.”

“Better it be the father waking the baby than the lovemaking sounds of his wife's affair.”

“David, you're uncouth.”

Niv swept his wife into his arms. “Oh, Primula. I hope you like it.”

“I don't.”

“Here's your flour. I have returned from France, and all I have to show is a bag of flour.”

“You've been home for a week now, darling. Let's stop talking about France. Keep an eye on the boy, will you?”

Primmie went inside to make dinner.

“Old boy, you look a fright.”

“I'm finally fit to be Marie Dressler's love interest.”

“She wouldn't have you.”

Gable laughed. “Probably not.”

“It's almost over.”

“Yep.”

“What's the matter?”

“The usual.” Gable offered Niv a cigarette.

“There's a lovely lady in Bath who has a spectacular view of Cordel Lake . . .”

“I don't need a diversion.”

“Seriously?”

“Nope.”

“But I thought . . .”

“Doesn't help. Funny. It doesn't help,” Gable said.

“Well, that's going to put a dent in the old girls' business. And during the holidays? You cheap Scrooge.”

Niven shook his head. Gable laughed. Soon, Niven joined him. They hadn't laughed this hard since their days on the boat. Before the war, before Carole. Before Gretchen. Before Primmie and the boy.

Loretta's dressing room for
The Bishop's Wife
was crowded with hair and makeup artists, the costumer, and a shoemaker, Signore Stanziani from New York City, on his knees, who was outfitting her for ice skates.

“They feel tight,” Loretta told him.

“I make skates for the Olympics. You leave it to me.”

David Niven came in wearing his minister costume. He tugged at the white Roman collar.

“Niv, you look like you're about to choke to death.”

“There's good reason. I wanted to play the angel.”

“Cary got there first.”

“That's the trouble. Cary always gets everywhere first.”

A playpen and a crib stood empty in the center of the room. “Where are the little brats?”

“Christopher and Peter went home with my mother.”

“About time. Louella Parsons was going to tell the world that you're running a home for unwed mothers out of here.”

“Okay, everybody. Beat it,” Loretta said. “I look as good as I'm gonna get. “

The team that made Loretta sparkle dispersed like bubbles down a drain. “Done with the carwash for now.”

“You do realize that I have one makeup man, and only one, to prepare me for the cameras? You know the bloke, he buffs pancake into my face like car wax.”

“It takes an army for me. And every day past thirty, add in the Navy, the Air Force and the Marines.”

“You and Cary Grant. He has a team that plucks, massages, and brushes him down like he's prepping for the Preakness. He's outside getting a golden glow between scenes with some foil contraption they used to shoot down fighter planes over Berlin. Of course, all he's getting out of it is a suntan. I told him that no one in New England has a tan this time of year. He said he was playing an angel, and angels live close to the sun, ergo the tan.”

“You're just jealous.”

“Probably. He is so handsome, next to him I look like a wall-eyed pug.”

“My character wouldn't be married to a pug.”

“Fair enough. We all know how picky you are.”

“Watch it, Niv.”

“Gretch, I need your help with something.”

“That was your windup to ask for a favor?”

“Pathetic, isn't it?”

“What do you need?”

“We have to find something for Clark. A part in a movie. Mayer is putting him in real junk, so he's sitting out a lot. Our old friend is not the same. He needs work. He got back from the service, and he's out there on that ranch all by himself.”

“You're going through your own terrible grief, and you're worried about him.”

“I have the boys. Gable has nothing.”

“Clark needs a job.” Loretta knew what she was talking about. She had pushed for Niven to be cast in
The Bishop's Wife
shortly after Primmie died in an accident. It was a silly accident, a fall down a flight of stairs during a party game, but Primmie never recovered. Niv had been inconsolable, but Loretta knew that work would help
him heal. Any heartache or disappointment or grief Loretta had lived through was eased by having something to do. Work was not a balm or a distraction, but salvation to the broken-hearted.

“I'll figure something out,” Loretta promised him.

“He needs his friends, but he doesn't know how to ask for help,” Niven explained. “You know, I'm different. I want to burden my friends. For some reason, Clark can't do it. He doesn't want to be a bother.” Niven's eyes filled with tears. “I believe in running from it, to a point. But the truth is, you don't get over it.”

“Let me see what I can do.”

“You have a very big heart, Gretchen. I know he broke yours, so it's an act of compassion to even think about helping him.”

“You only want someone to hurt because you want them to understand the pain you're in. The nature of revenge is to prove you're right. I didn't have to be right about Clark, I just wanted him to be happy. Whatever that meant. Whatever that means.”

“How's that husband, Tad?”

“Tom.”

“Right, right. Tom Thumb, except he's tall.”

“You are evil!” Loretta laughed.

“Let's get the old gang together. That might help. And if you get Gable cast and you come up with a tasty little part for me in the proceedings, I'll be eternally yours.”

“We already made that picture, Niv.”

“Right, right. That's the one that turned me into Limburger cheese at the box office.”

“Don't blame me for your fickle public.”