The Slipper (53 page)

“Lay off, Loni,” the director warned.

John Stevens was a grizzled veteran in his mid-sixties, though he looked a decade younger. Tall and rangy, with cynical gray eyes and floppy sand-colored hair generously streaked with gray, he'd been around since the silents and he'd seen them come, seen them go. He had no illusions whatsoever about this crazy, fucked-up business or the people in it, but he felt a special fondness for this little girl who clearly had no business being in pictures. She was already on the pills, already hitting the booze. A real pity.

“You feeling all right now, Julie?” he asked. “You look a little pale. Think you can make it?”

Julie nodded. She was rushed into the makeup van and makeup was applied and her hair combed and styled, color heightened with fine gold dust. She was dressed in the peach organdy dress with puffed sleeves and eyelet lace inset at the neckline and when they were finished with her she looked like a demure seventeen-year-old high school student. She felt fifty, her head still throbbing painfully when she left the van. The director patted her arm. Loni gave her a nasty look. Lights and microphone were tested, and shooting eventually began. It was a very simple scene. Valerie and her mother came out of the church and stopped to speak to the minister and Phil Sherman stood nearby, hands thrust into his jeans, looking at Val. She smiled at him and Martha, her mother, pulled her aside and said, “Stay away from that boy, Valerie. Do you hear me? Stay away from him!”

It took them four hours to get it on film.

They broke for lunch, and that afternoon they shot the scene where Valerie and Phil wandered into the woods, hand in hand, exchanging shy looks and clearly very much in love, both unaware that they are half brother and sister—Phil being the bastard son of Valerie's long-dead father. They were shooting a mile outside of town, the trees in glorious autumn splendor, gold and yellow, bronze and brown and blazing orange. It seemed to take the crew forever to get everything set up, and Julie smoked half a pack of cigarettes, lighting one right after the other. Biff Norris, who played Phil, was twenty-nine years old, made up to look a convincing nineteen. He was a good-looking, personable youth who had been at the studio for years, never graduating to leading roles but dependable, competent and steadily employed in secondary roles like this one. He and Julie made a very attractive couple as they walked into the woods. Shot after shot was ruined because of an airplane flying overhead, a shadow falling across their faces, a microphone buzzing, a generator failing. Julie still felt like death and it was hard to look innocent and dewy-eyed, but they finally got the scene in the can before the sun went down.

She didn't see Lund Jensen that evening. She had dinner in her room. She didn't go down to the lounge. She hadn't remembered to speak to John about replacing the pills, she had been too busy, and she didn't know how she was going to get any sleep without them. She studied her script, restless, edgy, and she finally undressed and climbed into bed, damning Lund Jensen for his high-handedness and yet … she remembered his strength, his warmth, and she knew he had taken the pills for her own sake. Had he not been there, she might indeed have taken too many, drunk as she was, might indeed have died. That thought frightened her badly. Lund Jensen may well have saved her life last night. She remembered his face, that battered, lived-in look, those blue, blue eyes. He was a stranger and she didn't ever want to see him again, she was much too ashamed, but he had cared what happened to her. He had held her close and rocked her in his arms until she finally went to sleep … Julie slept, without the aid of alcohol or pills, and when she woke up at six the next morning she felt remarkably rested.

Loni Danton was a total bitch during the next three days, trying to determine just how far she could go, just how much she could get by with. She hated her wardrobe. It made her look much too old. She had no intention of wearing that hideous blue print, even if Edith Head had designed it. Stevens explained that she was playing a prim shopkeeper with only a modest income and she wouldn't wear velvet, wouldn't wear pearls, this wasn't MGM, goddammit. She didn't like her lines. There weren't enough of them. Loni wanted to dominate every scene she was in and she bloody well tried to do just that, fussing with a handkerchief, brushing her skirt, patting her lacquered blonde tresses, doing everything she could to distract attention away from Julie. Stevens called her hand time after time.

“I'm an actress,” she snapped. “I happen to be giving a performance.”

“One that could mercifully be called inadequate,” he retorted. “Lay off the cheap tricks, Loni. They're costin' us money.”

She gave him an icy look and stalked off to her dressing trailer. Stevens wearily called for a break.

“Check this broad out,” he advised Julie. “Learn how not to conduct yourself on a film set. Her problem is she's not getting fucked enough. Loni Danton without a young stud on tap is a very unhappy lady.”

On the afternoon of the third day Loni threw a royal tantrum and icily informed everyone that she was a star, she didn't need this shit, she was walking off the picture. John smiled a beatific smile and told her that Eleanor Parker was waiting in the wings, ready to fly out at a moment's notice, she'd been his first choice for the part to begin with. Loni burst into tears and sobbed that no one understood her, giving a much better performance than she had ever given on the screen. After that she was as meek as could be, taking direction like a dream. A handsome young lighting technician in tan windbreaker and tight jeans caught her eye and she invited him into her trailer during the next setup.

“Problem solved,” Stevens said. “Guy's a hustler from L.A. I had him flown in yesterday. It'll add a few thou to the budget, but it'll be worth it if it keeps that bitch in line.”

“I—I hope I'm never like that,” Julie said.

Stevens looked at her for a long moment and then shook his head. “It happens to the best of 'em eventually, sweetheart,” he said bitterly. “Give yourself a few more years.”

Two days later Julie had her first opportunity to really explore the town. They were filming the fight scene in the gymnasium that afternoon, and her presence wasn't required. She left Meadows Inn after lunch and strolled leisurely down tree-lined streets with lovely old-fashioned houses, golden leaves drifting down as she walked along the sidewalks, past the green with its old cannon, past the red-brick library and the post office and newspaper office. The shops on South Medford's main street were all fascinating, very up-to-date but retaining an old world charm. She bought postcards in the drugstore and had a chocolate soda in the ice cream parlor. The people here were friendly and warm and didn't make a big deal over her. They all recognized her, she could tell that, but they were much too polite to intrude on her privacy. She had never seen so many friendly smiles.

It was after three when she started back to the inn, and as she passed the hardware store a tall blond man in tan denims, tan turtleneck sweater and brown nylon windbreaker stepped out, carrying a bag of nails. Julie stopped, and she felt a blush tinting her cheeks. He nodded and gave her a warm smile. She was seeing him clearly for the first time, without an alcoholic haze, and he was as good-looking as she remembered, rugged and real. She didn't know what to say. She finally decided it would be better to say nothing at all, and she walked on past him. Lund Jensen fell into step beside her.

“Going back to the inn?” he inquired.

Julie nodded, keeping her eyes averted.

“Mind if I walk partway with you?”

“It's a free country, Mr. Jensen.”

“You remember my name,” he said.

“I remember everything,” she retorted. “I suppose I should thank you for what you did.”

“It's not necessary. That wasn't the first time I've helped a tipsy guest up to her room. I seriously doubt it'll be the last. By the way, just in case you've been worrying, I had Mrs. Gibbons come up and get you into bed. Mrs. G. was working night shift.”

“I haven't been worrying,” she said coldly.

“Look, Miss Hammond, if I'm bothering you, just say the word and I'll fall back and leave you alone.”

“You—you're not bothering me. I'm just—I'm just horribly embarrassed. I made a terrible spectacle of myself, and you must think—”

“I think you were very unhappy because you were missing your little boy so you drank a bit too much. I took your pills because I didn't want you to croak on us. Things like that give the inn a bad name.”

“I'm sorry to have caused you so much trouble. You were—very kind.”

“I try to make all my guests feel secure. So, tell me, what happens after you have your abortion and get raped by the two football players? Do you commit suicide?”

Julie shook her head. “I let myself be seduced by the exotic and attractive female art teacher who's been casting soulful glances at me throughout the movie. As the final credits roll we leave together for an uncertain future in New York.”

“I really must read that book,” he said. “I understand the people living in the author's hometown raised quite a ruckus when it came out, wanted to run her out of town on a rail for depicting them in such lurid colors. What do you think of
our
little New England town?”

“I think it's enchanting,” she told him.

“Very few rapes,” he said sadly. “Not much incest or lesbianism, either, but it'll do in a pinch. We've got excellent schools, several churches, a fine community theater, our own symphony orchestra. If things get too dull, Boston and New York are only a few hours away by train.”

“It—it must be wonderful living in a place like this,” Julie said wistfully.

“It is. That's why I came back. It gets pretty lively around here during the skiing season. Our slopes are among the best in the country, and there's a great influx of colorful, fun-loving types—a real winter carnival atmosphere. That explains all the inns and lodges you see nestled among the hills.”

Leaving the main street, they turned onto one of the tree-lined streets Julie had strolled down earlier. There was a gentle breeze, and gold and yellow leaves whirled in the air like scraps of bright confetti and then drifted slowly to the ground. It was one of the most beautiful sights Julie had ever seen. Jensen saw the look of awe in her eyes, and he was silent, pleased that she was moved by the beauty, rather surprised as well. The sensitive young woman walking beside him this afternoon bore little resemblance to the drunken, babbling woman he had taken upstairs last week. He felt very protective toward her. He felt emotions he never thought he would feel again after Nicole died. That had been ten years ago, a long, long time, and he had assumed those particular emotions were long since beyond him.

“It's so beautiful here,” Julie said.

He nodded, a dark-blond wave spilling over his brow.

“And peaceful,” she added.

“Most of the time,” he agreed.

“These houses—”

She stopped to look at one in particular. Beyond a white picket fence and spacious lawn stood a large two-story Victorian house, pale yellow with white shutters and white gingerbread trim around the front verandah. It had the mellow patina of age and recalled a more gracious era when there were close families and time to savor life and serenity in which to do so. How lovely it would be to live in a house like this, she thought.

“It was built in eighteen eighty,” Lund told her, “by an immigrant who came here to establish a textile mill. The mill was closed almost thirty years ago, but the house still stands. I'm rather fond of the place.”

“It's my favorite,” Julie said.

Lund opened the white picket fence. “Want to see inside?”

“I—” She hesitated, looking doubtful.

“It's all right.” He smiled. “I grew up in this house. It belongs to me now.”

“I—I thought you lived at the inn.”

“I keep rooms there, but I spend as much time as possible here at home. A place this big, this old, keeps me pretty busy—” He held up the bag of nails. “I'm always having to do repair work. I'm currently putting down new flooring on the back porch. Put in new electrical wiring only a few months ago.”

“You did it yourself?”

“Working on the house is great therapy, and I suppose I'm what people call handy. There's some lovely antique furniture inside, a nice collection of porcelain. Want to have a look round?”

Julie still hesitated. She looked into those blue, blue eyes and she knew the invitation was perfectly innocent. He was an honest man, an admirable man, and unlike those people who surrounded her in Hollywood, he had no ulterior motives. She longed to see the house, and she longed to spend more time with him as well, but instinct told her it would be unwise.

“I'm sorry,” she said. “I have a very important phone call to make. I'd better get back to the inn.”

“I see.”

He covered his disappointment with a friendly smile.

“I wonder if you'd let me take you out to dinner tonight?” he asked, and until that moment he had had no idea he was going to say those words. “There's a marvelous restaurant up in the hills, best cuisine in the county.”

“I—I really don't—” She paused, looking pained.

“I understand,” he said quickly, covering. “An important Hollywood actress like you, a hayseed like me—I shouldn't have asked. Forgive me for being so presumptuous.”

Lund Jensen was a Yale graduate, a veteran of Korea. He was virile, good-looking, an intelligent and capable man who lived in this small town by choice. He was hardly a hayseed. He made the men of Hollywood seem like so many glossy automatons.

“What time would you like to leave?” she asked.

“Seven all right?”

“Seven is fine. I'll be waiting for you in the lobby.”