All the Stars in the Heavens (16 page)

Alda wondered how the cook could possibly prepare meals for their group. The work space was about the size of Ruby's in Sunset House but without the beauty, convenience, or modern appliances.

Luca unfolded his paint kit on the floor of the dining room. He selected brushes, chose the tubes of paint, and set up his palette.

“Over here, Alda,” Luca called.

“What's this big project?”

“This place is giving me the heebie-jeebies. Look at it. It's an old barn—all that's missing are the cows and pigs. There's no pizzazz. No color.”

“What are you going to do about it?”

“You're going to help me give this place a little personality. We're going to be eating three squares a day here, so we need to make it pretty. Help me pull down the shades.”

The long windows that overlooked the mountains had no draperies, just simple paper pull shades with a ring hook on a string. Alda pulled the shades to the sill.

“Wellman wanted me to paint a welcome sign for the cast and crew. Look at these.”

Luca gave Alda a set of small fabric samples.

“The costume designer and I collaborated on the fabrics. We had this idea that if we put Eskimo symbols into the costumes, wove them into the fabric, or painted them on leather or suede, it would feel like the turn of the century, and give a sense of authenticity to the picture. I thought it would be fun to paint these symbols on the shades.”

Luca went to the first shade and, swirling the brush into the vivid red on the palette, created a symbol that looked like a cross made of knife blades. He filled in the blades with a deep coral, splashed yellow outside the red, then blended into the background with a smaller brush. “Want to try?” He handed her the brush.

She shook her head.

“You can't make a mistake, Alda.”

“Oh, yes I can.”

“There are no mistakes.”

“I've seen great art, and I disagree.”

“That depends upon what you think great art might be. I think great art is as simple as where you're standing and what you're looking at. Does this color make you feel something?”

“Happy.” She shivered. “And warm.”

“So tell me, Alda, what greater purpose is there for a painter?”

“I don't know.”

“You do know. There is no greater purpose for art than to move you, to elevate your mood, to make you think, to remind you of places you have been or places you want to build. It does everything—nourishes the soul and lifts the spirits of the people.”

Luca put a brush in Alda's hand. He guided her on the next shade. They made giant circles together.

Alda took over and painted colors within the swirls. It felt good to stretch and reach high with the brush to the top of the shade, then drag the ruby-red paint down the length of it. She could only describe the feeling as total freedom.

Luca was, as an artist by profession, more particular. He had a notion about the designs on the fabric, so he followed them. Alda and Luca spent the afternoon painting, and they did not rest until every shade was filled with color.

The late-afternoon sun poured through the paper shades, revealing the brushstrokes through the light. It was all there—color, form, line, and perspective—in the swirls, broad strokes, and sweeping details. Alda's rudimentary skill was on display, contrasted by Luca's craftsmanship.

Alda stood back as Luca gathered the supplies and took the brushes to the shed behind the kitchen to clean them. She stayed and watched the sun as it played through their creations. Luca was right. Art changed everything: mood, climate, perception.

Alda was beginning to see the world through Luca's eyes, something she believed wasn't possible. He loved life and art with such enthusiasm, he made everyone around him seem bloodless by comparison, including her. She longed to be free like him, to choose colors without judgment, to say exactly what needed to be said, to embrace life and squeeze every moment out of it with intention. Luca had the ability to meet any challenge. She wondered if he would accept her once he knew the truth about her. She doubted it, but she knew the time had come to tell him about what had happened to her.

Alda knocked on Loretta's door.

Loretta had the day to herself, as Wellman decided to shoot the
scenes with Buck before getting her material. She had done some reading and written some letters, but it wasn't enough to fill the long day.

“Am I disturbing you?”

“No, no, come in. I'm bored to death.”

“You don't like a day off.”

“I hate them. I never know what to do with myself. When I'm home, I can drive into town and putter around, but here, there's nothing but snow.”

“I need your advice.” Alda sat in the chair by the fire.

“You don't want to quit, do you?”

“No, no, nothing like that.”

“Whew. Because I can't get along without you.”

“Thank you.”

“So what's the problem? Let me guess. It started in Brooklyn.”

Alda blushed. “Yes.”

“What's the problem?” Loretta leaned in, loving a moment where she could talk about men, and it wasn't her issue. “Tell me everything.”

“Luca is very determined.”

“That's because he's crazy about you.”

“How can you tell?”

“He waits for you by the door at the barn when it's mealtime. He makes up excuses to sit with us when we're reading by the fire. He's the first to jump up when you need something. Mr. Chetta has it bad. He gets goof eyes when he looks at you.”

“I was afraid of that.”

“Afraid? You don't like him.”

“No, I do.”

“Oh, you're out of the convent, and you have no experience with men.”

“Not exactly.”

“What does that mean?”

“I had a beau in Italy.”

“Oh.”

“It wasn't meant to be, though. I feel like I should tell Luca about him.”

“Holy Hannah, don't tell him!”

“Why?”

“He'll be jealous of a man he'll never meet. It'll make him feel small. He'll wonder if you like the man overseas more than him. No, don't tell him.”

“What if it was a serious relationship?”

“Hmm.” Loretta had to think about this. Her serious relationships always wound up in the newspapers. She knew that if she ever had a secret, it would be impossible to keep. But Alda was different. She had a private life; she actually owned her privacy, and could dictate the terms of her life and relationships. “I need to think about this.”

“I think it's best to be honest.”

“Maybe. I'm not saying be dishonest, but you need not volunteer details that will make him unhappy and therefore make you miserable.”

“I wouldn't want to hurt him.”

“No, you can't. He's a good one.”

“Do you think so?”

“Oh, yes. He's kind. He's fun. He's talented. Let me see, what else can I say? He gets you because he's Italian too. That's important, you know. Any common ground is good. I really want to marry a Catholic when the time comes. I would just feel understood.”

“My mother said to fall in love with a man from your own village.”

“She's right. But I've had a little too much of my own village lately, if you know what I mean.”

Alda laughed. “Hollywood.” She stood to go. “Thank you.”

“Don't thank me. I have never had a single romance work out. I should be coming to you for advice.”

“I think Mr. Gable is interested in you.”

“Please God no! He's a wolf.”

“Even with you?”

“The only reason he has decent manners around me is because I'm the only woman in his sightline. And you know what? That's all right with me. I've had enough of the dramatics. I like being alone.”

Loretta meant it. She wanted no part of an on-set love affair with a man who was famous for them. To that end, Loretta kept the image of Mrs. Gable at the train station at the front of her mind like a purple
billboard. She'd had enough of married men, their problems, their indecision about whether to stay or go, and especially their desire for amusement outside of their responsibilities. She hoped that someday she would meet a nice fellow who was kind and devoted to her. If he didn't come along, that was fine too. She made her own money, owned her own home, invested in real estate, and took the best scripts she could get from the offers that came her way. The rest was up to fate, and for now, she could live with that.

“How does this look?” Loretta asked Alda, placing a freshly baked apple pie on the rack next to the dozen she had baked that afternoon. The crust was golden brown. Loretta brushed it with butter, glazing it, and sprinkled sugar on it.

“Looks like snow,” Alda said. “Ruby would be proud of you.”

“I didn't think I could bake a pie. Much less a baker's dozen of them.”

“All it takes is a recipe,” Elvira the cook said as she stirred the stew on the stove. The cook was only in her thirties, but she had the countenance of an old gray barn, weathered with loose hinges on all the joints.

“And time. Nobody saw how bad that first batch of dough turned out.”

“And they'll never find out neither,” Elvira said. “I don't believe in showing weakness in the kitchen.”

Clark Gable burst into the kitchen, with Bill Wellman and Jack Oakie in tow.

“What's for dinner, girls?”

“Stew,” said the cook.

“Again?” Gable complained.

“I don't know how to feed a hundred people if I don't make stew.”

Gable took the ladle from her and stirred the stew. “Now, Elvira, surely you have some recipes in your file that you can make for us that don't involve carrots, potatoes, and chunks of meat so tough it's like chewing rubber stoppers.”

“I am following the menus approved by Mr. Wellman.”

“Don't blame me, Elvira. I checked chicken cordon bleu for dinner tonight.”

“Yeah, well, the truck with the chicken got stuck in the ice in Bellingham.”

Gable assumed a full-tilt flirt. “There's got to be something else in that icebox. Elvira dear, couldn't you change it up it for me?”

“Why should I do it for you?”

“Because he's Clark Gable,” Loretta interjected.

The men laughed. “You could do it for me—I'm Jack Oakie.”

“Elvira is not impressed by Hollywood,” Loretta reminded them.

“The last picture I saw was
Birth of a
Nation
. I have no idea who you people are.”

“Don't you find us charming anyway?” Gable teased.

“Not really. Your girlfriend made pies.”

“My girlfriend?”

“She means me,” Loretta said. “I guess I left the script lying around and Elvira read between the lines.”

“You made these?”

“I have many skills. Many I didn't know I possessed,” Loretta admitted.

“Tell the folks dinner will be ready at six,” Elvira announced.

“I'm going to put my feet up till then,” Wellman told Oakie.

“I'm going to have a cocktail myself,” Oakie said, following him out. “Don't even need a glass.”

“I'll let the front desk know about dinner,” Alda said, following the men back to the inn.

“The pies look delicious.” Gable was impressed.

“Thank you.”

“I haven't had a woman cook for me in years,” Gable admitted.

“How's that possible?”

“Well, I've had women feed me, but they didn't do the baking. They hired a cook for that.”

Elvira rolled her eyes.

“I like a woman who knows her way around a kitchen.” Gable smiled.

“You must be madly in love with me,” Elvira said. “I live at this godforsaken stove.”

“I will fall madly in love with you if you come up with something
for supper besides that godforsaken stew.” Gable laughed and left for the inn as Loretta sprinkled the pies with sugar.