The Blue Bottle Club (20 page)

Now she had a choice. If she said no to Whit's offer, she might risk losing not only him but the movie role she so desperately wanted. But if she put the past behind her once and for all, with its trivial limitations and old-fashioned morals, she could have everything she had ever dreamed of—fame, fortune, and the love of an exceptionally handsome, wealthy, and talented man.

They would most certainly not approve, of course—neither her parents nor the friends who had promised to support and encourage her dreams. To live with a man apart from the blessing of the church and the approbation of society? It was unthinkable.

And yet here she was thinking about it. Seriously considering it, if truth be told.

Whit's voice jolted her back to the present moment. "You're worried about how they might react—your friends and family back home?"

Adora smiled wryly and shook her head. "Are you reading my mind?"

"It doesn't take a mind reader to know that a young girl from Arkansas might still be influenced by her parents' opinions."

"North Carolina," Adora corrected.

Whit shrugged, as if the exact location was irrelevant. "Addie, this is Hollywood. People do things differently here." He arched one eyebrow and appraised her with a cool, measured glance. "You came to California to follow your dreams. I guess it's time for you to decide whether those dreams include me. And whether you're ready to quit being a country girl and start being a career woman."

The implication wasn't lost on Adora. It wasn't a threat, exactly, just an objective evaluation of her situation. And she couldn't bear the idea of Whitman Hughes thinking of her as a naive little girl who didn't have the courage to follow through when her dreams were presented to her on a silver platter.

What difference did it make, in the long run, whether the marriage happened before or after what her father would call "cohabitation"? By the time her parents found out about her new living arrangements, she and Whit would be married. In the meantime, she wasn't about to lose him because of some outdated notion of morality She loved him, and he loved her. Nothing else mattered.

True love was a rare commodity in this life, a godsend. When you found it, you did anything you had to do to hold onto it.

Anything but question whether God really sent it.

October 5, 1930

Addie settled back in the deck chair and gazed out over the Pacific Ocean, a champagne mimosa at her fingertips and the foaming waves of Malibu at her feet. Whit's "beach cabin," this glass-and-cedar luxury home on a jutting rock overlooking the sea, had become her second home. Her first, of course, was his house in Beverly Hills.

"How are you doing, darling?" he called from the kitchen, his voice drifting onto the deck through the open sliding glass doors. "Need another drink?"

"Not now, sweetheart." She raised her champagne flute over her head and waved it languidly to show him that it was still half full. Most Sundays they spent here at the beach house—Whits one day away from the pressures of producing, the one day they had all to themselves. And without fail, he pampered her by making brunch for them—one of his famous omelets, with Belgian waffles and sliced strawberries. And more champagne, of course. A star like Adora Lovell, he said, should always drink champagne.

Addie wasn't really a star, of course—not yet, anyway. Delays in the production of Whit's new movie were still dragging on. First problems with getting the necessary financial backing, then difficulties in casting and finding the right director. It would be spring before they ever began shooting. But she didn't mind. The delays gave her more time—time for learning the part, for drama lessons, for diction classes. She had just about overcome her accent; by the time the cameras started rolling, she would have it conquered. One of the many things she had put behind her.

Addie sighed and shifted in her chair. It didn't feel like Sunday, and it most certainly did not feel like October. She glanced at her watch. Back home, church would be out by now and her mother and father would be sitting down to dinner at someone else's table—Alice Dorn's, perhaps. Or now that they had been married for a while, Philip and Marcella's. The trees on the mountains would be just about at peak, gold and red and russet brown, with a backdrop of that intense Carolina blue sky. She envisioned Tish at college, attending classes and planning for her degree, and Mary Love and Ellie in their final year of high school.

She felt so far away from them, so set apart, in a different world and time. Did they miss her? She wondered. Did they ever think of her? She couldn't imagine herself in their place, still living as . . . well, as girls. Addie herself wasn't a girl any longer—Hollywood grew you up fast, whether you were ready or not. Not yet twenty, and yet here she was, living the life of a starlet, in love with a man nearly twice her age.

Sometimes she missed it, that camaraderie the four of them had, when life seemed so much less complicated. It wasn't simple, of course. The Crash and the resulting Depression had tangled everything up—and not just finances. Relationships, too, and values and morals and dreams.

Out here in California, the Depression didn't seem quite so real, or at least not so immediate. Compared to the rest of the country, Hollywood was an enormous playground, surrounded by a high wall. The world outside could be falling to pieces, but the children inside kept on laughing and playing and enjoying themselves.

People needed entertainment, Whit had reasoned on more than one occasion. The worse things got, the more people needed a way to escape their misery, and Hollywood offered that escape. They were providing a great service, painting portraits of hope and a better time to come. But every time he said it, Addie harbored a dark suspicion that he was rationalizing and had to push from her mind the picture of Tish and her mother in that tiny carriage house, of Little Eleanor James and her commitment to helping the less fortunate.

"Brunch is served." Whit's voice behind her startled Addie out of her reverie and caused her to jump. He was setting out omelets and waffles on a patio table and filling two glasses with pale champagne. "More bubbly?"

"Sure, why not?" Addie got up and settled herself in the chair opposite him. "It looks delicious, as always. I don't know how you do it. You're a genius."

"Darling, didn't your mother ever teach you how to cook?"

"She tried," Addie admitted. "But I wasn't interested."

"Ah." He gave a light laugh. "I suppose you always knew you'd find yourself a man who would take care of you and never let you rough up those lovely hands with kitchen drudgery." He picked up her hand and kissed her fingers gently.

"Actually, I never intended to
find myself a man
of any kind," she countered. "My best friend's big dream was to marry her high school sweetheart and raise a brood of kids. Mine was to come to Hollywood and become a star."

"And you got both," he mused. "The stardom and the man."

"I guess I did." Addie took a bite of omelet and regarded him. He was, indeed,
the man
—the kind of man she would have dreamed of if her dreams had taken her in a domestic direction. Handsome, confident, respected . . . and totally in love with her.

Why, then, had she not written to her friends about her good fortune? Her last letter to Tish had been penned a full two months ago, only a few weeks after she had met Whitman Hughes. At the time she had told herself that it was best to downplay her hopes for the relationship, and for her future as his "brightest star." But the truth was, she couldn't bring herself to admit to her friends back home that she was in love with—and living with—a married man.

Whit was only
technically
married, of course. He had told her about the situation, somewhat reluctantly, the first time she had ever raised the issue of marriage with him. According to Whit, he and his wife had been separated for almost a year by the time he and Addie met. The divorce, he said, was a difficult process, complicated by her demands on his money and a lot of ugly mudslinging. She didn't understand him, had no desire to be a part of his world. They married too young, he explained—if he had only waited, he would have been a free man when Addie came into his life.

When she first heard this confession, Addie had regarded Whit with some skepticism. A man like him—gorgeous and successful and wealthy—had to have women throwing themselves at his doorstep. She would be a fool to think that he would actually wait for someone like her to come along.

But the first time Whitman Hughes had taken her in his arms, all her reservations melted away like ice under the warm California sun. Whit's lovemaking confirmed his words, that she was the only woman he could ever really give himself to. Whenever he touched her, she felt a renewed sense of his commitment to her, a commitment that didn't need formal words or a legal document for verification.

None of that would matter to her parents, of course, particularly to her father. He would say that she was living in sin and condemn her to the fires of perdition. Just look at her life—she had abandoned the church, left home and hearth, broken her mother's heart, and given her virginity away to a man who was not her husband. That's what he would say.

But she would never have to hear it, except in her own head, because he didn't know.

Addie had written exactly two letters to her parents—one the first week she arrived at Miss Mcllwain's Hollywood Home for Young Ladies, and one in response to a brief note Mama had sent wrapped around a five-dollar bill:
Thank you for letting us know you're safe. Take care of yourself and keep in touch. Your father sends his love.

Her father had sent no such thing, Addie knew. And her mother's hurried scrawl left her with the distinct impression that Dad didn't know Mama was writing at all—he had probably forbidden any contact.

Addie had written back, thanking Mama for the money and giving a glowing report of the promising possibilities that waited just over the horizon. When no response came, all correspondence between them ceased.

Shortly after that she met Whit, fell in love with him, and moved out of Mother Mac's dismal boardinghouse into his big home in Beverly Hills. She had, in her mind, followed her destiny over the hill and out of sight of the life she had once known.

There was nothing more to say.

20

TROUBLE IN PARADISE

March 1931

S
pring came—although in California, you could hardly distinguish spring from any other season—and shooting began on Whitman Hughes's new film. The director worked them all brutally, but Addie most of all, making her do her scenes over and over again until she got them right. Once or twice Addie overheard the director arguing with Whit, yelling about some "she" who just didn't have what it took to play the part, and why didn't he get his mind back where it belonged and look for a
real
actress. "You'll never learn, will you, Whit?" he yelled. "You keep bringing me these brainless beauties who can't learn their lines and think that acting is simply a matter of standing there and flaunting their wares!" He followed this accusation with a series of invectives pertaining to the producer's body parts, and Addie took herself out of earshot lest she hear something that would completely unnerve her.

A week later, Whit fired the director and went on a search for someone who, he said, would "understand his vision" for filmmaking. The set was shut down, and everyone went home.

For Addie, the additional delay could not have come at a more opportune time. She had contracted some sort of influenza, she thought—an illness that made her feel drained of energy and queasy. She could barely stand the sight or smell of food. Even when Whit made his wonderful Sunday brunch for her, she could only get down two or three bites. Worst of all, she no longer felt like making love. She tried to explain it to Whit, but he obviously took it as a personal rejection.

One Saturday morning shortly after Whit had hired a new director, he turned his anger on her. He had brought her breakfast in bed, but was obviously more interested in bed than breakfast. Addie, for her part, felt her insides churning and attempted to resist his advances without hurting his feelings. It didn't work.

"You are going to the doctor immediately," he snarled. "Monday morning, and no arguments. Shooting resumes at noon on Monday. Be there." He stalked out of the room and left her to wonder what had happened to the gentle, loving man she had fallen in love with. Maybe he was just under stress about the new picture, she rationalized. He wasn't the kind of man, after all, who would put his needs before hers.