All the Stars in the Heavens (37 page)

Franchot Tone, the elegant, well-bred actor with an eager smile and the confidence of an East Coast education, lay on the pier of Catalina Island, the sun turning his skin a golden brown. Gable was fishing off the end of the pier.

“I love a day off,” Franchot said.

“Nothing like it.”

“What are we doing for dinner?”

“Niven is making plans. And that's a good thing, because I'm not going to catch anything off this pier. This bay might as well be filled with concrete.”

David Niven jogged down the pier toward them. He was resplendent in white tennis shorts, a matching pristine polo, and tennis shoes.

“Here he is,” Gable said, keeping his eyes on the water. “The white knight.”

Niven joined them. “I just got another job on the picture.”

“Get you.” Franchot Tone sat up and shielded his eyes.

“Not only am I an extra in the torture scenes, thank you Mr. Gable, I am now delivering the mail, which is a torture all its own.”

“In this light, you're causing glare,” Gable said. “Tennis whites should only be worn on the court.”

“I think he looks like an angel,” Franchot added.

“You would.” Gable chuckled.

Niven handed Gable a letter. “They call me ‘Director of Communications.'”

“I bet they do.” Gable smiled. “The longer the title, the less you get paid.”

“Is it a summons?” Franchot asked.

“You're a card,” Gable grumbled. “My luck, I'm getting sued.” Gable looked at the return address: Padua, Italia. He stuffed it into his pocket.

“Aren't you going to read it?” Niven asked.

“Not in front of you.”

“I don't have x-ray vision,” Niven said.

“You never know.” Gable yanked on the fishing line.

“If I did, I wouldn't use it to read your mail. I'd find a more pervy purpose for the skill.”

“How's Mr. Laughton treating you?” Franchot asked Niven. “Does he bite your hand when you deliver his mail?”

“Well, he doesn't kiss it, if that's what you're asking.” Niven shrugged.

“I'd like him to look me in the eye when we're acting in a scene,” Gable complained.

“Tell him,” Franchot said.

“You tell him,” Gable said.

“Gentlemen, this is a dilemma with a very obvious solution. I beg you, let me be of service, because it seems that's all I'm good for in Hollywood,” Niven began. “Mr. Laughton is jealous of you, Clark, green-pickle jealous. He looks at you across the deck of the
Bounty
with disdain, not because you're an awful human being, or a great actor . . .”

“Thanks a lot,” Gable joked.

“. . . but because you're a handsome man with a trim waist and a fat paycheck, all of which he covets, all of which he can't get because he looks like a potato and can't stop eating them.”

“You're a cold Englishman, Niven.” Franchot laughed. “Clark looks better in a ponytail. You left that out.”

“I hate the ponytail,” Gable complained. “And I miss my mustache.”

“I found your mustache on a lovely barmaid in Pismo Beach last night.”

“I'll bet you did.” Gable laughed.

“It barely tickled. Felt like a tease, really.”

“Niv has everything figured out, including how not to be lonely on location.” Tone was impressed.

“You must become adept at psychology if you're going to survive in pictures. I learned this bitter lesson from Mr. Gable.”

“Gable has everybody figured out. Me? Not so much.” Franchot flipped his body toward the sun. “Show business is rough.”

“Mr. Tone, you are correct. Show business is for swabs. Therefore, I have an announcement to make. I am going back to university to become a doctor, so in the event that I lose my mind in the pursuit of fame and fortune and attractive women, I will have something to fall back on—the ability to give myself my own lobotomy.”

Loretta had to stoop to enter the cellar where Signore Ducci made his grappa. The space was so small, only two people could fit. She descended the makeshift ladder down into the dark.

Signore lit a small oil lamp. The scent of dank earth and sweet grapes surrounded them. Loretta could see rows of wooden barrels along the wall, with spigots and stoppers. Signore had written symbols in chalk on the barrels.

“Grappa,” Signore said as he swished a sample in a small round glass. “Taste.”

Loretta took a small taste of grappa. It was bitter, strong, and left the taste of tobacco. As a smoker, Loretta liked it.

“You're the first woman to like grappa.”

“How is it made?”

“It's the skins of the grape, the seeds, and the stems. Any part that is thrown away to make wine, we put aside for the grappa. Grappa is life. You use everything to make it, all the things that no one wants, that no one can use, we use. Everything in life, whether sweet or bitter, ends up in the glass.”

When Loretta thought about Italy, she would remember grappa, the drink made from the parts of the grape that no one wanted.

Gable undressed to shower before dinner. As he folded his trousers to hang them in the closet, the letter from Padua fell out. It was the first he had received from Loretta, after all the ones he had sent to her, and frankly, he was steamed. He wasn't used to women ignoring him, especially one he had feelings for. He opened the letter, and was surprised when it was from Alda.

   
Dear Mr. Gable,

I hope you are well. I am writing to tell you that Gretchen is in good health, and blossoming under the Paduan sun. We plan to return home in early September, and hope we will see you then.

Yours truly,

Alda

P.S. Please keep an eye on my Luca and your Chet.

If Luca thought that painting a Yukon gold-rush town in a blizzard was a challenge, the historically accurate English port from
Mutiny on the Bounty
topped it in every way.

Cedric Gibbons had designed an English seaport inspired by the marine paintings of Peter Monamy and the battle scenes of John Wootton. Irving Thalberg had approved of the scope of the set design and wanted the backdrops to be spectacular regardless of the cost. Luca Chetta was responsible for the facades of the shops that lined the pier. He used actual gold leaf on the signage, so it would shimmer on camera, playing off the water in the bay.

Luca was lonely without Alda, and didn't mind filling the long hours with overtime. It kept him out of trouble, though there was plenty to be had on location. Catalina Island and the village of Avalon were enchanted. The company had taken over its charming
hotels, bars, and restaurants, which were open around the clock to accommodate them.

Luca was climbing down off the scaffolding to check his work when Clark Gable turned the corner. Luca waved to him.

Gable walked toward Chet with a pretty young blonde wearing a sundress and platform heels. She ran alongside Gable to keep up with him. Around the corner, a petite redhead skipped to catch up.

“How's it going?” Gable asked.

“Most expensive picture in Hollywood history.”

“And it's all going for paint,” Gable said, surveying the open cans on the pier.

“I like to try things,” Chet admitted. “Paint is cheap. My time? Not so much.”

“Ladies, this is Luca Chetta, the best scenic artist at MGM. He even painted the lion.”

The blonde, shivering in the night wind off the water, latched on to Gable's arm. Gallantly, he put his arm around her waist. The redhead took his other hand.

“I got a letter from Alda,” Gable said casually.

“You did?”

“There's probably one waiting for you back at the hotel.”

“What did she say?”

“She wanted me to know that her visit was going well.”

“That's just like Alda.”

“It sure is.”

“You know, she has a soft spot for you—you were our best man.”

The memory of that day crossed Gable's face like a shadow. “That was a great day,” he said. “Hey, we're going to dinner. Going to meet up with Franchot and Niven—and some of the crew.”

“Some of my friends will be there too,” the young redhead said with a sly smile.

“Come on, Chet. Join us?”

“No, Mr. Gibbons has me on a tight leash over here, but you go and have fun,” Luca said.

“I won't hear of it. Meet us in the club room of the Hotel Saint Catherine in an hour. You work hard enough. I'll talk to Irv.”

“All right,” Luca said.

“Oh, goody,” the redhead said, taking Gable's arm again. She turned and winked at Luca as they walked away.

Luca watched Gable walk down the pier with a woman who couldn't keep up with him, and another who couldn't be bothered trying. Chet heard the tap of their platform shoes, hollow on the wooden slats, as they skipped next to Gable.

When the three of them turned to head for the wharf, Luca Chetta exhaled, a long, low whistle.