Miner's Daughter (17 page)

The fact that Madame D stood against a wall,
tapping her foot impatiently, arms crossed over her chest, and
scowling up a storm didn’t soothe Mari’s nerves. It didn’t help,
either, when the seamstress would huff something in French that
sounded vaguely blasphemous, storm over to Mari, and tug at a pleat
here or a seam there.

Mari felt like a child’s toy, being yanked
this way and that. Independent her whole life, feeling like
somebody else’s property was a new and unpleasant experience for
her. She got through it, but not without her mood sinking until it
wallowed in a swamp of dismal thoughts. She’d seldom been so glad
as she was when the fitting session ended, and Tony and the artiste
left her alone in the fitting salon. She felt like a soggy mop as
she put on the clothes Tony had bought for her on Olvera
Street.

However, as she gazed at the transformed Mari
in the mirror of Madame Dunbar’s elaborate dressing suite, she
decided she’d been too hard on Tony Ewing.

Maybe.

She guessed she could buy the part about
Peerless wanting its newest actress to dress like a success, both
on and off the set. But it still didn’t feel right to be having a
man buy clothes for her. She had a feeling her mother would have
been shocked. Mari sure as heck knew she was shocked.

It was difficult, though, when she saw the
image of herself reflected in the polished glass, to care much.
She’d never looked this good before. And the ensemble was really
plain, too. Heck, she could do this herself, and it wouldn’t even
cost much. The smashing effect had been created by a simple peasant
blouse, a brightly colored skirt, and that red sash, which, as Tony
had predicted, brought the ensemble together as a whole. All she
needed now was one of those crepe-paper flowers behind one of her
ears, and she’d look so exotic, she wouldn’t even recognize
herself.

She produced a mental image of herself
waltzing into the Mojave Inn one evening—make it a Friday or
Saturday night, when more of her neighbors were apt to be dining
out—and knocking everyone dead with her new and stunning self.

“I wish Pa was here to see me,” she murmured
at her reflection.

But he wasn’t. And her mother wasn’t here.
And none of her friends or other relatives was here. The only
person she’d be able to impress here in Altadena was Tony Ewing.
Didn’t sound likely to her.

Nevertheless, with that thought in mind, Mari
sucked in a deep breath, made sure everything that was supposed to
be tucked in had been, patted her hair, which was knotted at the
back of her neck as usual, lifted her skirt, noticed her scruffy
shoes, lowered the skirt again, and sighed.

“Fiddlesticks.” She wished, as long as Tony
was flinging money around, he’d, thought to fling some at a shoe
salesman.

But there was nothing to be done about her
footwear at this point, so she squared her shoulders and headed for
the door. She knew that Tony and Madame Dunbar awaited her in the
huge parlor. To get there, she had to descend a flight of stairs
leading to an enormous front reception hall. So be it. At the head
of the staircase, she gripped the banister and, after thinking
about it for a second or two and deciding it would be worse to
tumble down the staircase than reveal her shabby shoes, she lifted
her skirt and started down the stairs.

Tony stood at the foot of the staircase. Mari
frowned when she saw him gazing up at her. “I thought you were
going to wait for me in the parlor.”

“I heard the door open upstairs and decided
to anticipate your arrival. Madame Dunbar has tea for us in the
parlor.”

Mari’d been kind of hoping she’d walk into
the parlor and Tony would be struck speechless by her amazing
transformation. She was disappointed to discover that life hadn’t
taken a magical turn for her. Tony looked the same as ever.
Handsome as sin and impervious to any charms Mari might possess. It
was quite discouraging, actually.

The staircase flattened out into a small
polished platform—Tony had told her the staircase had been designed
specifically for the display of Madame Dunbar’s creations during
her semi-annual fashion shows—and three more stairs set to the left
of the platform led into the hall. As Mari reached the platform,
Tony held out his arm for her. She laid her hand on his arm in a
way she’d seen illustrated in pictures, and walked in as stately a
manner as she could summon.

On the inside, she felt crummy. She’d so
hoped to make some kind of impression on this wealthy man of the
world. Only went to show, one more time, how stupid she was.

“You look gorgeous, Mari,” Tony said
conversationally. “I knew you would:’

His words stopped her in her tracks, although
they didn’t stop him, and he kept walking. Their elbows locked and
jerked, and he glanced back at her with his eyebrows raised. Mari
scurried to catch up with him, embarrassed. “Thank you.”

He’d known she would? Look gorgeous? Was he
kidding her? She wanted to ask, but knew she’d only appear foolish
if she did. It was hard keeping her mouth shut, though. She’d not
had much practice in keeping her thoughts to herself. Of course, it
didn’t generally matter, since the only one around to hear her
unless she had visitors was Tiny. Tiny didn’t care what anybody
said, as long as they said it around him.

Even Madame Dunbar, who sat ramrod straight
in a fancy medallion-backed armchair, lifted one of her
aristocratic eyebrows and nodded her approval at Mari’s altered
state. Was this a triumph? Mari was so darned nervous, she couldn’t
tell, although she was glad she looked okay.

“Thanks for seeing us today, Madame Dunbar,”
Tony said, oozing politeness.

Mari squinted at him and wondered why he
never sounded that nice when he was talking to her.

“Bah! Is nothing.” The woman waved Tony’s
apology away as if she were shooing off a pesky fly. “Peerless has
been good to me.”

For some reason, the dressmaker’s artless
comment made a bunch of things come together in Mari’s head. It was
the first time she’d fully recognized the impact the motion-picture
industry was beginning to have on the overall economy in those
places where pictures were made.

It only made sense. Picture people needed
sets, costumers, makeup artists, camera people, cameras,
automobiles, hair stylists, set designers, set builders, story
writers, artists to paint the subtitles, and God alone knew how
many other folks besides actors to create their product.

Not to mention the businesses cropping up on
the sidelines, trying to profit from the public’s fascination with
the pictures and the people in them. Why, there were magazines,
theaters and people to operate them, writers, and who knew what
else besides. Goodness gracious, the enormity of it boggled Mari’s
mind.

“Don’t you think so, Mari?”

Mari, who’d been occupied with her own
thoughts and not paying attention to the conversation between Tony
and Madame Dunbar, jumped in her seat and spilled some tea into her
saucer, Doggone it! She cleared her throat, tried to pretend she
wasn’t blushing, and said, “Um, I beg your pardon? My mind was, um,
wandering a little.” She gave Madame Dunbar a smile she hoped was
sweet. The woman didn’t acknowledge by so much as a twitch of her
nose, the witch.

“I said,” Tony said, sounding
exasperated—nothing new there, “that it would be a good thing for
Madame Dunbar to create a couple of dresses for you to wear in
public. Like the one you’re wearing now, only for different
occasions.”

Mari stared at him, holding her cup and
saucer very still in her hands. What did this mean? Was this a
legitimate business suggestion, or was he trying to batter away at
her integrity by bribing her.

She scoffed even as she thought it. Why in
the name of glory would he do that? He’d thus far demonstrated no
interest whatever in her, except as a commodity.

“Um . . .”

Tony turned to Madame Dunbar. “She’s too
damned independent, you see, Madame. She thinks we’re trying
corrupt her or something.”

“Now, wait a minute, Tiny—I mean Tony. I . .
.”

Madame Dunbar laughed. Her laugh came out a
silvery tinkle, which didn’t go with her stern demeanor, and Mari’s
confusion mounted. “Silly little thing.”

“But—”

“Precious, though.” The dressmaker gave Mari
the approving look she might bestow on a cunningly crafted
ensemble.

Mari gulped audibly.

“She doesn’t yet understand that the public’s
eye has become focused on the pictures and on the people who play
in them. A studio, in order to protect and promote its product, has
to have attractive stars.”

“But . . .” Good God, did that mean he
considered her unattractive in her native state? Mari’s heart
pinged painfully. But she couldn’t be too hideous, or Martin would
never have asked her to act in his silly picture. Would he?

“Ah, the child is young,” Madame Dunbar said
to Tony, ignoring Mari. Which was all right, since Mari couldn’t
produce a coherent thought to save herself “She’ll learn. And I
shall be happy”—she pronounced it ‘appy—“to create two gowns for
her. I’ll ‘ave them ready in a week.”

“That’s great. Thanks a lot.” Tony grinned at
the dressmaker, jerked his head in Mari’s direction, stood up, and
said, “We’ve got to be going now Thanks for all your help,
Madame.”

“Certainly.” Madame Dunbar rose, too.

Mari wondered if they’d even notice if she
remained where she was, fading into the upholstery along with her
teacup and her red sash.

But, no. At last, after blathering for
another few minutes about costumes and pictures and other things
Mari didn’t understand, Tony turned to her. “Ready, Mari? We’ve got
to get back to L.A. I telephoned the Melrose Hotel from Madame’s
telephone room and reserved a couple of rooms. We can stop there to
wash up, and then I’ll take you out to eat. There are some pretty
good restaurants in L.A. They’re nowhere near as good as those you
can find in New York or San Francisco, but you probably won’t care
about that.”

The smile he gave her took some of the sting
out of his words. As Mari arose from her chair—quite gracefully, if
she did say so herself—she thought morosely that he was right, no
matter how much his words hurt.

She wouldn’t know a first-class restaurant
from a hole the ground except that she’d not yet been intimidated
by a hole in the ground. The mere thought of dining in a fancy
restaurant sent shivers up her spine.

Tony held her arm as he led her through
Madame Dunbar’s sun porch, out onto the flagged patio, and onward
to his great big Pierce Grand Arrow parked on the circular
driveway. She was thinking hard the whole way and didn’t utter a
peep. Neither of the others seemed to notice. They were too busy
blabbing.

After Tony had started the engine, the
motorcar had roared to life, and he took a sweeping turn around the
drive, past a lovely rose garden lined with some kind of plant with
small white flowers that smelled heavenly, Mari decided to say what
she’d been thinking. She didn’t want to, mainly because she didn’t
trust her present companion not to make her feel ridiculous for
speaking of such things.

“Um, Tony?”

He peered at her. He looked happy and
relaxed. Mari wished she were. “Yes, Mari? Did you like Madame
Dunbar?”

Glad for a brief reprieve, she shrugged.
“What’s not to like? I guess she does a good job.”

“She does a great job.” He glanced at her
again, and his smile vanished. “You sound glum. What’s wrong?”

Another shrug. “Nothing’s wrong. I . . .
well, I just wanted to ask you something.”

He appeared taken aback for a couple of
seconds, then said, “Sure. Ask away. Is something bothering you?”
He sounded honestly concerned, and Mari appreciated it. She felt
stupid and awkward.

“Well, I—” Darn it, she was going to cry! She
hated her emotional makeup. It was so demeaning to cry in front of
people like Tony Ewing; people who already thought she was a dumb
bumpkin. She swallowed hard and forced herself to hold back her
tears. This was so embarrassing. After taking a deep breath and
holding it until she was pretty sure her voice wouldn’t break, she
blurted out, “Would you teach me how to act?”

He stared at her. “Teach you how to act?”

Not trusting her voice, she nodded, trying
all the while to appear casual.

He frowned and turned back to survey the
paved road in front of him. Most of the streets in Pasadena and
Altadena over which they’d driven were paved. “I’m no acting coach,
Mari. That’s Martin’s department. I’m only here to watch my
father’s money.”

Bother. She hadn’t expressed herself
correctly, and he’d misunderstood. “That’s not what I meant.”

“No?” Again, he turned and looked at her. She
wished he wasn’t so darned good looking. It would be ever so much
easier to ask this of a plain man.

“No.”

Squinting at her once more before returning
his attention to the road, Tony said, “I don’t think I
understand.”

“I know you don’t.” She heaved a dispirited
sigh.

“Want to explain? Act what? Act how? I don’t
know what you mean.”

Mari’s frustrations finally bubbled over.
“Darn it! I’m asking you to teach me how to behave!” Now she felt
beleaguered, put-upon, and angry, and the focus of all of her
feelings sat behind the wheel of his expensive car, pretending not
to understand what she was telling him. Mari turned on him. “Darn
it, Tony Ewing, you’re the one who keeps calling me a rude country
bumpkin.”

His eyes popped wide open. “I don’t,
either!”

“You do, too! You criticize me constantly.
Everything I do is wrong to you! You even think you have to buy
clothes for me to wear, because I’m not good enough to be seen in
public with you otherwise.”

“Well . . .”