Duchess (12 page)

“Rosie, is that you?”

Irene came around the corner, her blond hair in tight waves, dressed in a blue work dress, belted at the waist. Obviously home just moments before her. “I'm glad you made it home before midnight. Or at all.”

Rosie dropped her handbag onto the entry table. “I fell asleep last night looking over the latest production sheets. Who knows what Rooney's doing?” She shook her head. “I knew we shouldn't have let him talk us into it.”

“It's a beach movie. Set in Hawaii. With soldiers and hula girls. It'll be a hit.”

“Let's hope that it actually pays for itself. Is Sammy here?”

“Finishing up a sandwich in the kitchen—”

“Aunt Rosie!” Rosie tried to hide a smile at Sammy and the way he skidded into the room.

Times like this, oh, Rosie wanted to hold out her arms to him, to scoop him up, to mold him to herself. But she had long ago schooled those urges into submission and now, at seven, he'd only squirm away. “Hello, Sammy,” she said.

Lanky and already handsome, he had Dashielle's dark eyes and dangerous good looks. Thankfully, he still had enough little boy in him to make her breathe relief.

He grinned at her, his cowlick standing straight up. She had the urge to lick it down. Instead, she reached for her handbag. “There might be a surprise in here for you,” Rosie said and handed him the handbag.

Myrna, tall and robust and enough of a matron to mother them all, appeared behind him, her brown hair tied up in a predictable bun. “He's tired after the plane ride from Ohio. It's been a long trip.”

His once-a-year trip to see his grandparents. Rosie never asked why Irene didn't accompany him.

He grabbed it, grinning up at her as he opened it, found a package inside, something wrapped in tissue.

“I have one guess,” his mother said, but Roxy looked up and winked at Irene.

“Maybe he'll be a detective someday,” she said softly as Sammy unwrapped the package.

“Another Hardy Boys!”

“
A Figure in Hiding
—their new one. I saw it in a shop and thought of you.”

“Aw, this is just swell, Aunt Rosie.” He grinned up at her, and then, suddenly, wrapped his arms around her waist.

She startled, but put her arms around him. Oh, she should have known that a child of Dashielle Parks would possess too much charm for her own good. Too bad he'd never know the identity of his father. Irene made that clear and warned everyone in the household from breathing the truth.

Irene didn't have the heart to blight Dash's name, even now.

“I'm glad you like it,” she said.

Irene picked up the handbag, snapping it closed. “You spoil him.”

“Not enough,” Rosie said, watching him go. He strolled out into the lawn, the fireflies blinking in the twilight, and settled on a chaise lounge, cracking open the book.

In this area only, Irene won. She had the prize, the one thing Rosie would never have. She'd never told Irene about the miscarriage, not wanting to put that between them. But sometimes, she considered the loss of Dash's child.

Considered what a different life might look like.

Thankfully, Irene behaved as if Sammy belonged to the both of them. Much like, perhaps, Rosie behaved with Palace Studios.

Indeed, Irene had developed into a top junior executive, keeping Rosie in the know at Palace Studios, negotiating contracts, watching budgets, working with distributors and the publicity office, even reading scripts. She knew more about the day-to-day studio operations than Rosie. All the same, Rosie's name was etched on the door—not to mention on the loan from Bennett and, especially, the executive papers. And Rosie had engineered the rise from the red books to the red carpet for Palace Studios over the past five years.

So, while Irene raised Sammy, Rosie raised a studio.

If only it filled her with the same sense of joy.

“Sammy looks like he's grown a yard since I last saw him.” Rosie walked into the family room, down the steps to the sunken area, and sank into the white divan. She and Irene had redecorated during the filming of
Eight for Dinner
, for a promotional spread in
Photoplay
, and turned her favorite room into a white cloud with faux lambskin carpets, a white damask silk divan, and two white velveteen chairs. A gold chandelier hung over the white piano—not that anyone ever played it—and they had even reset the stone fireplace in white marble.

A spray of white orchids decorated the center of the glass table.

All of it was a fabulous attempt to turn her bombshell image into pure glamour. More of the star-making machine, but it had worked.

White became the new rage across the country.

Rosie reached up under her dress and unpinned her stockings. Then she rolled them down, past her knees, working them off her feet. “Fletcher turned into a regular beast on the set today, dressed me down in front of the entire crew.”

Irene made a face. “He's terrible if he feels he's running behind. But if it were Rooney, you'd still be there, working.”

“True.” Rosie removed her other stocking then leaned her head back on the divan. Outside, tulips swayed in the evening breeze, the pond rippling. A black swan paddled around the pond, in the shadows. She watched Sammy sitting on the chaise near the pool, her gaze pinned to him until he moved away. She'd once suggested filling it in, but Irene wanted to teach him to swim.

Rosie still had nightmares, occasionally, of finding the child at the bottom.

“You look tired. Maybe you should take a break. No one does twenty films in four years. Fletcher will forgive you for declining the role. Besides, the studio doesn't own you anymore.”

“It doesn't?” She opened an eye. “We have even more at stake now. MGM might be losing money, but Palace Studios has to stay in the black if we want to survive. Still…” She pressed her hands to her face, feeling the bones there. “I'm not sure I can carry the roles anymore.” So unfair that Grayson could act until he dropped at the age of eighty, but a starlet's lifespan lasted until the next It Girl took her place.

“What do you mean?”

“You know what they say. You have three years of fame in this business, tops. And my two years, going on eight, are nearly up.”

“You're an icon.”

She held up a finger. “One flop, just one. But a streak of three and I'm done for. You're just being nice to suggest that
Jungle Nights
wasn't a box-office bust. We need a blockbuster if we want to stay afloat, keep ahead of Paramount and MGM and those Warner Boys.”

She leaned up, running her hand around the back of her neck. “I saw Joan Crawford today, lurking around the sound studio. She's thirsty for this role with Grayson. I can feel it.”

“I think she has something going with Grayson. Did you see them in
Don't Run from Love?
Sparks. Real sparks.” She sighed, and Rosie might have heard something of longing in it. “The buzz is that they actually ran away together for two weeks after that film.”

Rosie rubbed her forehead. “I don't want to hear about Grayson and Joan and sparks. If she's smart, she'll run as fast as her pretty legs will carry her from Grayson Clarke. His kind of sparks could turn her career to flames if gossip queen Louella Parsons gets ahold of any hint of a relationship between them. At best, she's just going to get burned.”

Irene looked at her, wearing a sad smile. “Nearly eight years, and you still haven't figured out how to get Rolfe Van Horne from your heart.”

Rosie stilled. Looked away.

“I'm not blind, Rosie. You barely looked at Tagg Channing last time he was here. He had to play croquet all by himself.”

“He played with Janet Gaynor. He hardly suffered.”

“Tagg is sweet, handsome, and just smitten enough to jump when Fletcher decides you need a date. A guy like that might make you forget Rolfe Van Horne.”

Hardly. But Rolfe had all but vanished from Hollywood the day after Dash's funeral, and not even Rooney hinted at his existence. And after almost eight years she had done her dead-level best to forget him. Besides, it hadn't been love, not really. She'd simply been angry, lonely, even a little thirsty for attention. She didn't need love. Didn't even want it. It was just so…exhausting.

She had to keep reminding herself of that.

“I
have
forgotten Rolfe Van Horne, I promise.”

Irene narrowed her eyes, and then she walked over and picked up a notepad off the desk near the window. “Do you want me to go over your calls? Or would you prefer to know the guest list for Sunday's barbeque.”

Rosie made a face. “Oh no. The barbeque. I forgot. Please tell me that I don't have to attend.”

“Ten minutes. An appearance. And by the way, Joan will be here.” Irene smiled. “And Bette.”

“Perfect. So they can flirt with Fletcher and steal my parts.”

“Maybe you'll steal theirs. How about if I make you some tea for that throat?”

She ran a hand down it. “It sounds pretty bad?”

Irene nodded. Then she sat down on the divan. “Really. Don't you think it's time to take a break? So what if Joan lands this part?”

“And what? I say good-bye to my career?”

“You still have the studio.”

The studio didn't earn her applause or fans lining the red carpet. The studio didn't tell her that she was beautiful and beloved. “How about pouring me a drink? A glass of cabernet?”

A frown creased Irene's brow, but she got up, went to the kitchen.

Rosie undid her scarf, took it off. Then she reached up and drew the wig off her head. Air, blessed, sweet air. It lifted the heat from her scalp. She couldn't help it; she drew off the hair net.

So little remained of the blond hair, she'd gotten used to the feel of her bare scalp. Now she ran a hand over it, feeling the bumps and ridges. Tiny fuzz brushed against her fingers and, along with it, a forbidden spur of hope.

Maybe, finally, it was growing back.

“Oh my—oh!”

A glass crashed, shattered, and she looked up to see Irene in the hallway, the wine puddling on the floor, shards of glass curled around her feet. Her hand covered her mouth. “I'm so sorry.” Her gaze fixed on Rosie's head then to the wig and back.

Oh. Rosie drew her hand down. “I'm sorry. I—shouldn't have—”

“I—Oh, Rosie, when did it happen?”

“On the set of
Riders of the Sagebrush
. It just all came out, in huge clumps. I sat there at the mirror, my hair in my hands and—” She smiled through the burn in her chest. “It's from the bleach, they think. But, it'll be okay. I think it's growing back.”

Dorian came from the kitchen. Short and dark haired, she spoke with an accent and did her best to keep Rosie regularly fighting her figure. “Mademoiselle Price, you're home.” She looked at Irene. “Are you all right?”

“Can you clean this up, please?” Irene said and stepped away from the puddle of glass.

She turned away from Rosie, pressed a hand to her mouth.

Rosie hadn't really looked in the mirror since that day, not without a wig. She always managed to tuck her hair into her net before glancing at the mirror. But, it wasn't that awful, was it?

She heard feet skid across the patio, a low growl, and Rosie reached for the wig just as Sammy bounded in off the porch.

He skidded to a stop and stared at her as she scrambled to fit it on. Then his eyes widened, and he gasped.

It was enough to serrate Rosie clear through.

“Shh, Sammy, it's not polite.” Irene turned him away from her.

“No, he's right. It's terrible.” Rosie fitted on the wig, got up, feeling weak. “Sammy, it's okay. It'll grow back.” She met Irene's gaze, hating that, for the first time, she too wanted to cry. She'd been so brave on the set, glad that Rooney had concocted the red wig for the western production. He'd likely heard about her troubles from wardrobe, but he'd spun it as a new look. A modern, redheaded look designed to turn her into a woman of the frontier.

In a white nightie, of course.

Rosie reached out to Sammy, but he flinched and backed away from her, a sort of horror in his eyes, even as he tried to hide it.

And right then, she caught sight of herself in the mirror on the wall behind Irene. She hadn't put the wig on correctly, it sat askew on her head, messy and awkward.

The face that stared back appeared sallow, her eyes gaunt, her cheekbones pronounced, the lines above her bald eyebrows faded and smudged.

She looked old. Worn.

Maybe she did need a break. Worse, maybe she should just surrender her career to Joan Crawford and Bette Davis. Maybe the flame of her stardom had already flickered out.

“I'll be in my room,” Rosie said quietly, turning. But Irene caught her arm.

“I'm sorry. He didn't mean it.”

Rosie shook her head. “He's just reacting exactly how my fans would react. How I would react. It's not pretty. I know it. But maybe it's who I am. I just have to face it.”

“It's not who you are, Rosie.”

She met Irene's eyes. Put a hand on Sammy's shoulder.

Oh, she hoped not.

But as she gathered up her hosiery, the script, and her satchel then padded down the hall to her glorious, angelic white room to hide, she realized that perhaps she didn't know who she was anymore. Really.

Or maybe, who she was supposed to be.

She nudged open her door and dropped the debris from her arms onto her bed. Stood there in the darkness.

Then she climbed onto the bed, drew up her legs, and wrapped her arms around herself in a quiet, tight embrace.