A Touch of Stardust (38 page)

Carole straightened up from a box filled with dishes, brushing a dusty hand across her face, leaving a streak of dirt on her cheek. Her hair was tied back with a red bandanna, but limp tendrils were working their way through. “What do other people do with their grandmother’s dishes?” she asked, puzzled. “I never really went for the stuff that is so delicate-looking you’re afraid to eat off of it. Maybe I could leave it on somebody’s doorstep, and ring the bell.…”

“Carole, you invited Louella, remember?”

“Oh, sure.” Carole waved her hand airily. “Big dinner for her at the ranch tonight. We’re cooking a deer Clark shot yesterday a few miles from the house. God, I love saying that. On
our land
, waaaay out beyond the house.”

“
You’re
cooking venison?”

“No, a deer.”

“Carole—” Julie started to laugh.

“I know, I know—I just want to see her eyes pop when I ask her
if she wants to see the antlers.” Carole’s eyes were dancing in that impossible way of hers as she threw back her head and laughed. “Let’s get that coffee.”

They made their way past the movers, a crew of burly men in sweaty tee shirts who, having hoisted boxes on their shoulders, were dodging and weaving past the yapping, darting dachshunds and the highly alarmed Pekingese running in circles. Julie was happy to see old Sammy lying contentedly by the fireplace; he licked her hand when she leaned down to pet him. The cat was curled comfortably on top of the box of dishes. Carole scooped her up as they walked by. “She’ll end up in the moving truck if I’m not careful.” She sighed. “She wouldn’t be very happy.”

“You’ve had some good dinner parties here,” Julie said with a smile, looking out into the dining room. “I’m particularly fond of the one for my parents.”

“Didn’t we play our parts well?”

“You sure did.”

“It was a great excuse to reconnect to my Midwestern roots,” said Carole as she set a chocolate doughnut in front of Julie; something in her voice didn’t sound quite as cheerfully flip as usual.

“Do you ever feel tugged back?”

“Once in a great while.” Carole poured some cream into her coffee and stirred it slowly. “I was pretty young when I left, but, hey, there’ve been plenty of goodbyes since then.”

“Your first husband—”

“Yes, that dear, impossible Bill Powell. He’s the only intelligent actor I’ve ever met.” She smiled. “With the exception of my husband, obviously.” Carole’s mood altered as she stared down at her coffee. “I was also in love with a wonderful man, a singer who was killed. A gun accident.”

“Russ Columbo,” Julie said.

“Yes. Hell, I forget sometimes that just about every nook and cranny of my life has been poked out into the sunlight at one time or another.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t say that, hon. We both know actors’ lives are an open book. But I loved him in a way that, for me, was different.” Carole seemed to pause and think for a second; then she reached inside the neckline of her blouse and pulled out a tiny gold locket on a chain. “A friend gave me this after his death, and I still wear it.” She flicked it open. It held a picture of a handsome young man with dark hair and warm eyes. Russ Columbo. “So why am I showing you this?” she said quietly.

Julie already knew. “To teach me that goodbyes can come around the corner when you least expect them,” she ventured. Her voice trembled. She didn’t have to say Andy’s name.

“I’m not predicting it; I’m saying life holds surprises. And sometimes you hold on—and let go—in different ways.”

They sat in silence, neither of them needing any words for the moment. Then Carole stood up, pushing back the bandanna, which had slipped down to her eyebrows. “Let’s go feed the ducks. If they start shitting on that wonderful bear rug at the ranch, I’ll serve
them
for dinner.”

Her laugh was as light and buoyant as ever.

The call came in the form of a telegram from Mayer’s office, which was waiting for Julie when she returned that night to the boarding house. She ripped it open as she hurried to her room, keeping her head down, not wanting to convey anything to any observers until she could digest its contents. Close the door, sit down on the bed. Read.

Louis B. Mayer

She couldn’t help it—she let out a happy shout and ran into the hall, straight for the phone. She could save more money now; twelve weeks would give her a wonderful cushion. Andy, she had to tell Andy first. Could she reach him in the cutting room? Her finger shook as she dialed. Never had the rotary dial taken so long to click past each numeral. The phone rang several times before a male voice finally answered. One of the engineers—would he give the phone to Andy?

Girls were staring at her curiously. “I got a job,” she blurted. “Writing a real movie.”

Waiting there, holding the phone, floating in the air, she saw the mix of responses in the eyes of the girls around her, all the way from true pleasure to frustration to jealousy; each one, she realized, was waiting for something. Someone kissed her on the cheek; someone turned away. She would think about all this, but not now, not yet.

“Andy?” She couldn’t contain the excitement in her voice.

“Hey, you’re excited. You’re hired for
Madhouse Nightmare
, right?”

“Yes, yes!”

He laughed. “I thought you would be. Congratulations, kid, you deserve it.”

“It’s for twelve weeks—”

“That’s great. Mayer is giving you a real step up on the ladder, not that stupid tryout class run by Goldman. Do a good job on this and you’ll be put on another movie.” His voice was warm, but somehow distracted.

“When can I see you?”

“I’ll be here all night again,” he said. He gave a weary chuckle. “Don’t get me started; I’m not going to whine.”

She heard somebody shout his name.

“Tomorrow?” she pressed.

There was a brief silence. Then, “Yes, I’ll make time.” His voice was suddenly tender. “We’ll celebrate at Chasen’s, okay?”

“No. At your place.” Surely he could feel her desire.

“I’ll have to go back to the studio after. Is that all right?”

He did feel it; she heard it returned in his voice. “I don’t care,” she whispered.

“Okay, honey. See you tomorrow. I’ll pick you up.”

Next she called her parents. She knew they wanted to be happy for her—she could hear it in their voices—but she also heard the doubt, which she tried to push away.

“A farce? You’re writing a Hollywood
farce
?” her father asked in a baffled voice.

“What’s wrong with that, Dad?”

“But you do serious work. Isn’t this temporary?”

There was no use arguing with him, which would only sound defensive, especially since girls within earshot were casting politely exasperated looks at her for monopolizing the phone. Anyway, she had one more call to make.

So it wasn’t until she reached Carole at the ranch that she found her mood turning wistful.

“Serious work.” That’s what her father had said. Yes, she had been writing something he might have been proud of. She thought of her original script, the one she had labored over so lovingly and had dreamed of selling. She had been creating a story she believed in.

“My script—it was naïve, wasn’t it?” she asked Carole.

“Oh, honey, it was idealistic; don’t berate yourself. And it was damn good, too. You had to do that first.”

“This is my first step on the ladder, right?”

“Of course it is. You’re going to do great.”

Julie realized something. “I’m changing,” she said quietly.

“We all do,” Carole said. Just as quietly.

The next night, they stood together facing the window, Andy’s hands cupping her breasts, gazing out over the city; the lights below were scattered like a tapestry of jewels to a black horizon.

“I’m always calm here,” she said. “I see now why people want to live in the Hollywood Hills; it all looks … glittering, but containable.”

“It’s an illusion,” he said, kissing her ear. “It’s really gobbling us up.”

“Oh, stop.” Playfully, she pushed him away, ruffling his hair.

He pulled her back and kissed her—a long, questing kiss that needed no words. She knew he would not go back to the studio. He would rest in her arms, and she would kiss away the strain in his face, and they both would sleep deeply and together, twisting and twining, inhaling each other’s breath, and holding fast.

And later she would remember how peaceful she felt that night, how sure of herself, how safe, and how poised on the cusp of all that was new. She would remember all that for a very long time.

By late August, the rough cut of
Gone with the Wind
was ready; that was the good news. The bad news? It was five hours long.

“That’s impossible,” Julie protested when Andy told her. They stood together outside the studio offices, whispering hastily in the kind of quick encounter that was the best each of them could manage lately. She had barely a minute to talk. Her head was filled with her own concerns today—Clyde Denton, a reliable veteran of the cadre of MGM directors, was pressing her for some major script changes in the prologue to
Madhouse Nightmare
. She was also worried about Mayer’s niece, who didn’t like the idea of having her role recast as broad farce. “I’m a serious actress, and I don’t do pratfalls,” she had said with a sniff upon meeting a nervous Julie for the first time.

“Well, Carole Lombard was the queen of screwball comedies for a long time, and that didn’t stop her from being a serious actress,” Julie retorted.

Denton had narrowed his eyes, folded his arms, and fired back. “Sweetheart, I can make you a star,” he said. “Or you can just go back to your uncle’s mansion and suck your thumb and brood about how unappreciated you are by lunkheads like me. Which way, sweetie?”