Duchess (13 page)

“Why did you come back to me? To break my heart? To destroy me?”

Rosie turned away from Grayson, kept her head up for the camera to find her face and stayed on her mark, holding her emotions taut for the close-up.

He came up behind her, sliding his hands over her shoulders. “Why do you think, Eva? Because every day I was rotting in that cell, the only thing that kept me alive was you. I kept thinking of you and the idea that, maybe, you'd be waiting for me.”

She could smell his breath, close to her neck, hot and tickling her skin. Dressed in a satin bathrobe, the sweat from the soundstage lights clung to her skin and beaded down her spine. Grayson pressed her close to him, looking up for the camera to capture his angst.

“I don't love you anymore.” The line came out just as she'd hoped, filled with lies, a tremor at the end. But she'd used what Rolfe taught her so long ago. Find the truth in the emotion, let it roll out into her character. “You shouldn't be here.”

“I know you still love me, Eva. I know it as sure as I stand here breathing.” He took her by the shoulders, turned her, lifted her chin.

She could smell a hint of his old-fashioned from lunch, the dusky scent of cigarettes. After four films, Grayson no longer turned her stomach aflutter as he stared into her eyes, no longer made her believe when he ran his thumb so sweetly down her cheek. No longer swept his name into her mind as he pulled her close and pressed his lips against hers.

But she could admit to wishing that, perhaps, one day, some man might find her, mean it. Some man might pine for her as he sat in jail for a crime he didn't commit, and crossed a country to come back to her, believing in her love despite her brutal words.

She put that longing into her response, kissing him back, making sure her face stayed beautiful and strong as she finally pushed him away. “What are you doing?”

“Making you remember all we had. Eva, you're my girl. That's never going to change.”

“Get out, Patch. Get out and leave me alone!”

She pressed her hand to her mouth, turned away, again found the camera, delighted that she'd managed to conjure real tears.

She held herself there as Grayson turned. Closed her eyes as he marched stage left, toward the door.

She knew that he would turn and look at her and she let her face betray the urge to run into his arms.

Then he left, slamming the door, and she shook at the sound, visibly wounded by her own hardened heart.

“Cut!” Fletcher emerged from the darkness, where he'd been watching from one of his camera angles. He gave her a rare smile. “Well done, Roxy. Take a break, and we'll pick it up at the start of scene 123 in the café, retake what we lost yesterday.”

He came over to her, indicated that Grayson should join them. “I have a few changes for the scene. We're going to start it with a shot of you, alone, cleaning tables instead of Grayson at the bar. That's when you enter, Grayson. Then the baby cries offstage and you, Roxy, rush to pick him up, exit stage left. You'll come back in, holding your baby, and Grayson, we'll do a close-up then on your realization that Roxy had your child.”

Grayson cocked that irritating smile. “She's always keeping secrets from me, aren't you, doll?”

Her head had begun to pound, but she found a smile. “You deserve it.”

Fletcher waved his hand for a grip, who came over with a sheaf of papers.

“Not more pages,” Grayson said, taking the papers, flipping through them.

“Just a few more lines,” Fletcher said. “We'll do a run-through in twenty.” He turned away, heading for one of his cameramen.

She looked at the pages, running through the blocking, the stage directions, the lines in her head.

“I'll have to get Fishe to run lines with me,” Grayson said. “Unless you want to give it a go.”

“Why don't you ask Joan?” she snapped. She hated that the words ran out of her mouth. Grayson frowned.

“No, I didn't mean that. Sorry, Gray. I'm not feeling well.” She pressed a hand to her forehead, felt the moisture there. Heat bled into her hand. Her head pounded, probably from the shouts of the grips and gaffers staging the café scene.

“Joan has nothing on you, Roxy.” He gave her a smile that could woo the world. Then he tucked a hand under her elbow. “Let me get you a drink of water.”

She let him steer her to her dressing room, and she sank into a canvas chair, closing her eyes. An assistant appeared with water and a plate of fruit. “
Joan has nothing on you
.” After today, no. She'd prepped half the night for today's shooting, came before 7:00 a.m. with a raging headache, her throat scratchy.

No temper tantrum for her. She was an actress, and the trades wouldn't kill her career yet. Besides, as long as she showed up, Fletcher had no reason to replace her.

She opened her eyes, took an orange, and began to peel it. Her costume, a blue and white dress, now hung from a dressmaker's stand. Her hairdresser arrived to affix a scarf to her hair, waiting for her to change first.

Beyond the canvas curtains, she heard the grips moving the cameras to the café set.

She just wanted to sit here and rub her feet. Instead she finished peeling the orange, separated the sections, and bit into one. Then she took a drink. Her throat burned as it went down, still aching.

When she got up, the world turned woozy and swam before her eyes. She put a hand out, and her hairdresser caught it.

“Are you okay, Miss Price?”

She blinked, righted herself. “Yes.” But the water sloshed in her stomach, turning her nausea. She slipped behind the screen and allowed the wardrobe assistant to help her with the dress, stepping out of the frilly, high-necked robe from the previous scene, and into the waitress uniform.

She drew in her stomach as the dresser zipped her and relived a memory from the days her mother made her wear a corset, her breathing arrested, her head swimming.

She kept her smile as she ventured back out and sat in front of the mirror. The makeup artist applied powder and lipstick as her hairdresser affixed a scarf around her red wig.

“Can you hand me my pages?”

They appeared in her view, and she took them, trying to commit her new lines to memory. But the world felt hot and close and slanted.

She swallowed again and winced.

“You look flushed today, Miss Price. Is everything okay?” Her makeup artist layered on another round of powder.

Her hairdresser, pinning the scarf in place, ran a bobby pin like a razor against her scalp.

“Fabulous,” Rosie said. Offstage a baby began to cry—the Photophone guys working out the sound mix.

Beyond the hanging canvas curtains, she heard Grayson running his lines with Fishe, who played her part.

“I told you not to come back.”

“I got halfway to Central Station and realized, I have nowhere else to go, Eva. I don't care if I have to sit here every day, watching you hate me. I'm not leaving. Not again.”

She imagined the beat there, how she'd frame her expression, then mouthed the words with Fishe. “You've shouldn't have left the first time.”

“I know.”

“Cue the baby,” Fishe said, reading the stage directions.

“What is that?” Grayson said. According to the script, she'd leave and come back with his child in her arms. “Is that—is that my child?”

Grayson had a way of delivering lines—

“Miss Roxy, are you crying?”

She looked up at her makeup artist, dark hair, petite. What was her name—Vera? Fletcher had found her in the extras' line, put her to work as an assistant.

“No, of course not.” She blinked back the moisture, glanced at the script. She'd lost her place.

Vera said nothing as she dabbed at the corner of her eyes, drying them, repairing them.

“Are you ready, Miss Price?” An assistant peeked into her room. “Mr. Harris wants you on set.”

Twenty minutes already? She blew out a breath, nodded. Got up. One more scene and then she'd retire to her office, look over the script that she'd fallen asleep against last night. She reached for the plate of unfinished orange, and the world churned again, this time quick and fast. She blinked against it, shook her head.

She fed herself the orange as she exited, her pages tucked under her arm.

Grayson stood on set, redressed in a white workman's shirt, rolled up at the elbows, his hair tousled, some shadow to his dark whiskers. No wonder Fletcher waited until the end of the day to shoot this scene.

She walked through the scene, moving to her blocking, stood for the camera to find the shot, then walked to the next mark.

She could nearly hear her blood pumping in her head, swooshing hot, furious through her body. Maybe she was running a fever.

“Let's run the scene,” Fishe said, folding his arms and leaning against the bar. “No blocking, just lines.”

She scanned her lines fast then put the script away. See Joan do that, memorize her new pages in ten minutes.

She took a breath. Smile. Be brilliant.

Grayson exited, stage left, to get his timing right.

“Cue Grayson.”

He came in the door, and she looked up, as if she'd seen a ghost. “Patch, what are you doing here? I told you not to come back.” Even as she said it, the words felt far away, as if they lacked power.

She saw his mouth move, heard him, but his words scrambled in her head.

He stared at her, and for a moment, her mind blanked. Then, “You shouldn't have left the first time.”

But maybe she'd said the words only to herself, because Grayson was staring at her, something of a horrified expression on his face. He advanced toward her, arms out just as the world slanted.

And then, she was falling, her body simply dropping, hard.

She never knew if Grayson caught her.

“I don't care what Louella says—don't believe the gossip, because Roxy Price is not finished!” Rosie didn't care that her voice echoed into the hot June air, probably loud enough for the neighbors to hear. Let the entire world hear. She wasn't ready to be forgotten. Not yet. “Last time I looked, they hadn't taken my name off the letterhead. Fletcher Harris better start returning my phone calls, or he'll find himself knocking on Jack Warner Jr'.s door!”

She slammed the receiver down on the cradle, wishing it had the effect she desired, and handed the phone back to Louise. “Wake me the minute Fletcher calls.”

Louise turned away toward the house. Rosie reached out to touch her arm.

“Tell him I'm busy. He'll have to come out to the house.”

Louise nodded.

“No. Wait. Set up a meeting at Musso and Frank's. See if you can get Charlie's booth. That will cause a stir, make them realize I'm not out of the game yet.”

Louise paused. “Are you sure you're ready to go out?”

Rosie's hand went to her head, almost as if it had its own mind. Hmm, maybe not. She couldn't bear the thought of another moment in the wig, not after she'd managed six weeks of freedom. Besides, light brown fuzz now covered her head in tiny ringlets. Another month, and she'd have enough to style.

And, she did need to add a few pounds. Yesterday she nearly wrapped her robe twice around her frame. Sammy could almost knock her over with a hug.

She sighed. “Fine. Tell Fletcher I expect to see him after shooting tomorrow. Here. At the house.” That would give her all day to prepare a response, something that reminded him that he worked for
her
.

She could handle being replaced, once, by Joan.

After all, even she could agree the show had to go on.
A Man to Hold
couldn't wait six weeks or longer for her to recuperate.

But enough was enough. She was Palace Studio's top star. So what that she had hit her thirty-fourth birthday two weeks ago? They clearly needed reminding that she wasn't just a star but a studio head. Even if the board of directors did decide to take over control during her illness, she still owned the majority shares. They couldn't shove her out of her office, couldn't keep her from entering the gates.

So, they'd managed to wrestle the reins of the studio from her. The minute the doctor slapped a diagnosis to her fatigue—mononucleosis—the board swooped in and began picking apart her hard work. If she didn't regain the helm soon, Palace Studios would turn into another version of United Artists, no actors on contract, a company that simply distributed independent films made by unknown directors.

They might not be as large as Warner Brothers, but Palace Studios could make a film that swept the nation. Maybe even the world. She just had to find the right script.

“And what shall I say to the man who keeps calling, asking to see you?” Louise said. “He says he's representing an independent film.”

See? Already the word was out. “Tell him I'm resting. Or better yet, tell him that we don't take independent films. We're Palace Studios—we make our own films.”

Louise nodded. “Shall I bring your mail?”

“Yes, please. And some orange juice.” Rosie replaced her sunglasses, leaned back on the chaise lounge, her head wrapped in a turban, her robe cinched tight. She let the heat find her bones. The fragrances of her climbing roses that hung over her privacy fence perfumed the day. She might actually stay awake for the duration of the day instead of sinking into a fatigued slumber by mid-afternoon. See, she'd be back on her feet in days, not months.

Mostly, she needed to see her name in the press associated with something other than disaster. A
CTRESS
C
OLLAPSES ON
S
ET
. R
OXY
P
RICE
D
IAGNOSED WITH
F
ATIGUE
. J
OAN
C
RAWFORD TO
A
SSUME
R
OLE
.

She would fix this. Even if she had to write a script herself.

Direct her own show.

Cast herself in the lead.

She wasn't done with Hollywood quite yet, thank you. Her public wanted her. She just needed to remind them what they were missing.

She wanted to track down Louella, that gossip for Hearst's newspaper, and—well, Hollywood Hotel wouldn't be receiving an interview from Roxy Price anytime soon.

Rosie watched Sammy as he played a game of croquet by himself in the grass. Myrna read a book in the shadows of the broad willow tree, one eye on him.

“Watch this, Roxy!” Sammy lined up the ball, sent it flying toward the pond. A white swan nestled in the grass rose and argued with him. He ran over waving his hands, and it waddled toward safety, still angry.

“You need a hat, Sammy,” Rosie said. “Your nose is getting red.” The late summer heat should be enough to drive both of them inside, but she longed for the warmth of the sun, the way it seeped inside her bones. She improved every day.

Still, how she had relished this last six weeks of regaining her strength, spending the days with Sammy as Irene went to work.

Almost felt like he could be her son. Except, he wasn't, and motherhood wasn't her life.

Yes, next week she'd lunch at Musso and Franks, or perhaps make an appearance at the Brown Derby. She'd have to make sure the studio sent over a makeup gal—and let that information leak to Louella. Maybe she could ring up Tagg, see if he wanted to accompany her.

The three bouquets of irises he'd sent suggested that, perhaps, Irene's words about him might be accurate. He did make a handsome and willing date, someone the paparazzi loved to capture in print. It did them both good to appear at the Coconut Grove together, and she was fond enough of him to enjoy his overtures of affection without requiring anything of her heart.

Louise returned, a glass of fresh-squeezed orange juice on a platter. Two envelopes lay beside it.

She reached for the glass, the envelopes. “Where are the rest?”

Louise made that funny shape with her mouth, looked away.

Oh.

Rosie cleared her throat. “Well, the less to answer then,” she said, forcing a smile.

Two letters. How had the cascade of fan mail trickled to nothing so quickly? She opened the first. Good. An encouraging note from an admirer wishing her a speedy recovery, a picture inside of a girl about seventeen.

Probably an aspiring starlet looking for a break.

Rosie made a mental note to send her a photo. She'd sign it herself this time, add a word of thanks.

Not too much, however, because she didn't want to encourage a trip across the country only to have the poor girl end up waiting tables, praying for a tidbit role from Central Casting.

Or worse, discovering herself as easy prey on some director's casting couch.

Rosie picked up the second letter and ran her thumb under the lip. “Be careful not to hit one of those balls into the pool, Sammy!”

The edge opened, and she pulled out the letter, another photograph. Stared at the picture.

A man, dressed in suit pants and a black suit coat stood in a field beside his wife, petite with high, regal cheekbones and short, dark bobbed hair. She wore a simple dress and stared down at three children. A baby played in the grass while a little boy stood before his father, looking robust and proud. Rosie placed him at about five. And in the middle, holding a bouquet of moccasin flowers in her fist, stood a little girl, about ten years of age. Her long hair hung down in two dark plaited braids and she stared at the camera with eyes that could see into Rosie's soul.

Coco. Rosie recognized Guthrie in the little girl's expression, the ability to look right through a person and leave them undone. But Rosie saw herself in the lift of Coco's chin and the stubborn edge of her posture.

However, the unwavering confidence in her expression seemed something all her own. Pure Coco. Or perhaps Lilly had given the little girl that quality, that piece of herself.

After all, Lilly was her mother now.

Rosie's breath caught, her throat tight.

Oh.

She ran her thumb over Coco's face. She probably knew how to ride her daddy's horse. What if Lilly had taken her up in an airplane?

“Who's that?” Sammy came over, leaned against the back of her chaise lounge, his shadow draped over the picture. “They have a dog.” He pointed to the black wolf-looking animal seated beside the baby. “We should get a dog.”

Rosie looked up at him, blinking back the moisture in her eyes. “Maybe. Someday.” She considered him a moment then suddenly reached over and pulled him down next to her, putting her arm around him.

Oddly, he leaned back against her, as if this embrace might be an everyday occurrence, picking up the tail of her robe's belt and rubbing it between his fingers. “I'd call him Harvey. Or maybe Pete.”

He was warm, his body all bones, but he smelled like the grass, fresh and sweet. She missed the little-boy exuberance, but this thoughtful, considerate child won her heart just the same. She hugged him to herself as she opened the envelope, taking out the letter. “Those are good names for a dog.”

The door is open. Rosie drew in a shaking breath then folded the letter and tucked it back into the envelope, along with the picture.

“Mom will never let me get a dog.” Sammy turned sideways in her lap. “But you could talk her into it.” His dark eyes found hers, so full of hope. Myrna had risen, was walking toward him, but Rosie waved her away.

“Why do you want a dog, Sammy?”

He pushed away from her, his expression earnest. “Every kid needs a dog.” Sammy said. “Nick Templeton has a dog. He sleeps with Nick every night. A dog will never leave you.”

She resisted the urge to run a finger down his chubby face. “A dog it is then, Champ. As soon as we can find the right one.”

He grinned at her as he got up, and she would have given him a pack of dogs. Myrna gave her a frown, but Rosie refused to acknowledge it.

Why not? Everyone deserved someone to be their friend and never leave them.

She leaned back on the chaise, closed her eyes. Traced the image of Coco in her mind. “
The door is open
.”

And what, she'd simply walk through it, right back into her daughter's life? Coco had probably long ago stopped thinking of her as her mother—in fact, she'd never known anyone but Lilly by that name. Coco had a family, a good family, and Rosie couldn't destroy that. She'd had her chance at happiness and walked away from it.

No, the door wasn't open. She'd closed it long, long ago.

She opened her eyes to the sound of splashing and spied Myrna and Sammy sitting by the pool, kicking their legs into the crystalline surface.

What if this was the end, just as Louella said? What if God had finally caught up to her, found her, and decided that this dream too should die?

She pressed her hand to her mouth as the truth slid through her. How had it come to this? A hairless, boney, wretched old mess, childless, wishing she knew how everyone else had the magic but her.

“
Blessed are the meek: for they shall inherit the earth
.”

She wasn't sure where the words emerged from, but they tumbled around inside her.

“
Do you know who the meek are, Miss Price? The ones who hope in the Lord. The ones who wait for Him. Those who allow God to set their course
.”

She remembered now—the words from the nurse at the hospital. But she couldn't afford to be meek. Not with the board trying to steal the studio out from under her, and Joan and Bette horning in for her parts, and even Irene dating too many Hollywood hopefuls. Someday Irene would find love again and then…

The thought burst in her chest. Then she'd take Sammy away. And this house would again be empty.

Her life would be empty.

Maybe she should have let God decide her course, her life. But last time she'd left it in His hands, her brother had disappeared across an ocean, never to return. And her husband—but wait. No. She couldn't blame God for Guthrie's death.

Not when she could have stopped it.

And she certainly couldn't blame God for her act of abandoning her daughter.

She didn't have the right to be meek, to hope in God's love for her. Not after the choices she'd made.

And not with all she had at stake.

Louise came out, holding a plate of sandwiches. She set them down on the table, called Sammy over. He sat on the metal lawn chair, gobbling a tuna fish sandwich.

“I don't want to disturb your lunch, ma'am, but that fellow from the independent film company is here.” Louise handed her a plate, four-quarter sandwiches, a stem of grapes.

Rosie sat up, taking the plate. “Here? As in at the house?” She took a bite of her sandwich and washed it down with orange juice.

“He's been at the gate for ten minutes. I told him to leave, but he's simply parked out there. What shall I have him do?”

Rosie picked at a grape. Rolled it between her fingers. “Let him in. I'll hear what he has to say. Maybe he's got something the studio might pick up.” How she remembered those days, when she had shown up at Dashielle's door desperate for a part. He hadn't turned her away.

Maybe she wished he had.