They call her Dana (55 page)

"It's a very flattering picmre," I observed.

"It doesn't even begin to do you justice," Laura said kindly, and then she gave me a hug. "I'm so pleased, love. I knew the minute I laid eyes on you, you had something special. It's been a great eight months, hasn't it?"

"Just great," I replied dryly. "Wretched accommodations. Inedible food. Nights spent waiting in squalid railroad stations. Freezing cold dressing rooms. Backstage squabbles. Forging ahead through thick or thin—mostly thin."

"Adulation. Admiration. Applause. Stage Door Johnnies

flooding your dressing room with roses. Ardent fans clamoring for your autograph. Newspaper articles extolling your beauty and skill. You've loved every minute of it."

''I've loved every minute of it," I agreed.

Laura smiled and brushed her grass-soiled skirt. "I really must get back to my room. Michael's taking me to lunch, and I have to bathe and change and see if I can do something with this hair. Care to join us?''

I shook my head. "I'm going to the bookstore."

"It figures," she said. "Think about what I said, love. You deserve a bonbon."

There were several people in the lobby as I made my way down the gracefully curving staircase. Two well-dressed matrons were sitting on one of the red velvet sofas, exchanging bits of gossip, and an attractive older couple were checking out at the mahogany front desk. Rubber tree plants stood in brass urns, and a rather worn red and gray oriental carpet covered the floor. As I reached the foot of the stairs, two teenage giris swooped toward me, giggling nervously and holding out pictures for me to sign. I did so graciously, chatting with them a few moments before moving on. It still amazed me that anyone would want my signature, that anyone would think me glamorous or exceptional. It wasn't all that long ago that I had been wearing rags and feeding chickens in the swamp.

Wavery sunlight streamed down from a pale blue-gray sky as I strolled slowly toward the bookstore I had seen earlier but, until now, had not had an opportunity to visit. Savannah was a lovely, tree-shaded town with mellow, slightly weathered old buildings and a genteel, leisurely atmosphere. No hustle and bustle here, I thought, but a great deal of charm. Carriages moved slowly down the street, horse hooves clopping, and the people I passed on the sidewalk seemed to have all the time in the world. Several of them recognized me and gave me shy, friendly smiles. Actresses might be considered exotic, immoral creatures little better than prostitutes by some, but that wasn't the case here in Savannah. The good folk here had given us a very warm reception, packing the theater each performance and treating us like honored guests in their town.

Flowers grew in neat beds in front of Gittman's Book Shop, and white wooden steps led up to a shady porch where tables of dusty bargain books invited browsing. It had obviously been a

small private home at one time, I reflected, pushing open the front door. A bell tinkled pleasantly overhead. I found myself in a large, sunny room filled with book-laden tables and shelves, colorful rag rugs on the floor and an abundance of potted plants giving the place a homey, welcoming air. A plump gray cat drowsed atop a huge leather-bound dictionary, basking in a ray of sunlight. There was a wonderful selection of new novels, I noticed, many of them imported from England and France, and I was delighted to discover a new Balzac and a gothic novel by Mrs. Ann Radcliffe I had not read.

"The Radcliffe's frightfully spooky," a plump, rosy-cheeked woman informed me, entering from a back room. "I read it when I was a girl—a number of years ago—and I couldn't sleep without a night candle for weeks. There's a scene in the graveyard that'll curl your hair. Hi, honey, I'm Sally Gittman. I see you have picked up the new Balzac, too. I don't read French myself, but I understand from some of my customers that this one's a scorcher. Old Lady Marceau said it jolted her right out of her rocking chair—she bought three more copies to give to friends."

She laughed and gentle nudged the cat off the dictionary. She had bright, intelligent brown eyes, a small pink mouth and shiny blue-black hair pulled into a neat bun in back. She wore a fresh gray cotton frock and a white organdy apron and looked efficient, industrious and slightly self-satisfied, the kind of woman who would belong to several clubs and dominate them all with jovial tyranny. Although her manner was a bit officious, she was warm and friendly and very likable.

"Balzac can be quite racy," I said, "but he's always interesting."

"Old Lady Marceau certainly thought so. Can't wait until they translate it into English. Enjoying your stay in Savannah, honey?"

"Very much," I replied.

"I know who you are, of course. I saw you opening night-last Tuesday as well. I'm president of the Ladies' Theatrical Guild, and we bought a block of tickets. You were enchanting, honey.''

"Thank you."

"Much better than the fat lady. Herring? Is that her name? I don't mean to be unkind, honey, but when she waddled onstage

in that gray velvet gown, she looked exactly like a hippopotamus. I had to laugh when that handsome leading man took her in his anns and vowed eternal love."

"Carmelita is—a very good actress," I said tactfully.

*'Not a patch on you, honey. You want those two? I'll just take them over to the desk and let you browse a while longer. IVe got the best stock in this part of the South—won't find a better bookstore anywhere around."

"I've not visited a better one," I told her. "You certainly have a—"

I had been eyeing various tides as I spoke, and I cut myself short when I spotted a handsomely bound, boxed two-volume set on one of the tables. I moved to the table, my heart fluttering. Flora and Fauna of the American South stood out in bright gilt letters, Julian Etienne in smaller letters beneath. My hand trembled as I took one of the volumes out of the box. So he had finished it at last. So it had finally been published. I opened the volume at random, and my breath seemed to catch as I saw the beautiful full-color plate of the flower he had been painting diat day in the swamps, fragile pale orange petals delicately flecked with gold and bronze, opening to reveal the deep orange center with the tall stamen projecting like a golden fairy wand. It was a superb reproduction, and I remembered the fussy old printer, Monsieur Delain, and his cluttered, dusty shop. My heart filled with pride, with sadness, too. He had done it, and I had not been there to share his triumph with him.

"Are you all right. Miss O'Malley?" Mrs. Gittman asked. "You've suddenly gone pale."

"I—I'm fine," I said. I closed the volume and slipped it back into its box. "I'll take this, too," I told her.

"My last one," she said, carrying the set over to the desk. "Would you believe I've sold twenty sets—and it's a frightfully expensive item, too. Of course, all the giris bought copies when Monsieur Etienne talked to our Literary Circle. He came here to the store afterwards and signed all the copies—this one's signed, too, by the way."

"He—Monsieur Etienne was here in Savannah?"

"Three weeks ago. Quite the charmer he was, too. He's still a bachelor, you know—surely you've read about him in the papers?—and Mildred Drake made an absolute fool of herself. He was as polite as could be, so suave, so witty, so handsome. I'd

have made a play for him myself if I 'd-a thought a plump middle-aged widow like myself had a chance.''

"There—thereVe been articles about him in the papers?"

"Honey, where have you been the past two months? The book's caused an absolute sensation, and Julian Etienne is all the rage. He's been traveling all over the South, giving lectures, signing books, being interviewed by all the important papers. The book is already in its fourth printing—this is a first edition, incidentally—and he's wildly in demand everywhere."

"Who would have thought a book on plants would be so popular," I said to myself.

"It's a prestige item," Mrs. Gittman explained. "People buy it because it's the thing to ^—every cultured home should have one. Very few of them read it, of course, but they display it in their parlors to show how au courant they are. Actually, it's delightful reading, beautifully written and extremely witty."

"I'm not surprised."

"All those newspaper articles have helped, too. Southerners are proud one of their own has penned what the critics are calling a monumental woric, and the journalists have taken him up. He's his own best salesman, of course, touring all over, giving his talks, delighting the ladies. I read that he was in Washington last week and the president invited him to the White House. No doubt he charmed the First Lady right out of her leggings."

"I think it's wonderful. No one deserves success more than Julian."

"You ATZowhim?"

"I—met him in New Orieans," I said quietly. "He's a wonderful person. Was—did he seem happy when he was here?"

"Beaming all over the place," she told me. "Proud as punch, he was, but modest all the same. He published the book himself, you know. He told me in confidence that he hadn't even expected to make back his costs, and now it looked as though he was going to make a bloody fortune. The family could certainly use it, he added. Like so many fine old families today, the Etiennes are apparently experiencing financial setbacks."

I made no reply. Mrs. Gittman added up the price of the books, and I paid her for them. She pulled heavy brown paper off a roll beside the desk and began to wrap them.

"It seems he's not spending all his money on the family,"

she added, tying the package with twine. "When he was here, Josie Laidlaw saw him in the hotel dining room with a gorgeous brunette. Her name is Amelia Jameson—Josie's a terrible snoop, she chatted up the desk clerk and found out everything. Monsieur Etienne and the Jameson woman checked in on the same day—not together, mind you—and she left the same day he did. They were very discreet, stayed on separate floors, but there's no doubt they're traveling together. Of course, a man as handsome and virile as Monsieur Etienne would have a mistress."

"Of course," I said.

' 'Here you are, honey.'' She handed me the books. "It's been nice talking to you. The girls and I plan to see the show tomorrow night. They'll be real impressed when I tell them you came in today."

I thanked Mrs. Gittman politely and left the shop with my parcel of books, a prey to conflicting emotions. I moved through patches of sunlight and shade and passed the other shops and returned the smiles I received, but my mind wasn't on what I was doing. I was surprised to find myself in front of the hotel, moving up the steps onto the spacious verandah. Great swirls of mauve and purple wisteria draped the white wood banisters, and beds of vivid blue larkspurs grew beneath. I didn't go inside. I didn't want to see anyone just now. I stepped over to one of the white wicker sofas with its plump pale blue cushions and sat down, gazing pensively over the railing. Several long minutes passed, and tears spilled down my cheeks as I remembered all that had been and all that I had left behind.

This is absurd, Dana, I scolded myself. You're much better off" now. You're making your own way, beholden to no one. Julian is better ofl", too. He's finally come into his own and he's savoring every minute of his hard-earned success and . . . and he's not pining over you either. He's got Amelia. No doubt she's very good for him. I remembered her wry wit and sophistication and that breezy, insouciant manner. Yes, he needed someone like her. Society would not look askance at a lovely mistress— indeed, it was expected of men in Julian's world-but they would never have accepted the wrong wife. Even if Charles had not been in the picture, I could never have married Julian, no matter how grateful to him I may have been. It would have ruined his life. It would have made him an outcast in the only world he had ever known. He might pretend indifference to society's opinion.

but he was an Etienne nevertheless. I couldn't have deprived him of all that that entailed. I had done him a good service by leaving New Orleans, no matter how it may have pained him at the time.

How thrilled I was for him. How pleased I was by his success. The ineffectual dreamer had showed them all. He had come into his own at last, and he was riding high, basking in all the attention and acclaim, as well he should be. The money was pouring in, too. How ironic it was that Julian should be the one to replenish the family coffers. Charles loved his brother and would be proud of him, I granted that, but nevertheless it must rankle that the brother he had fondly patronized all these years had achieved such a success. Charles had always been the superior one, the breadwinner, the one who held the reins, and it was Julian who had come through, Julian who had been invited to the White House to dine with the President and First Lady.

Julian was happy now . . . That was all that mattered. And Charles? I didn't want to think about him. Charles had never loved me. He had used me, yes, but I had let him, relishing those nights of passion every bit as much as he did. I had loved him, I had loved him with all my heart and soul, and that was my own mistake. I had paid deariy for it in heartache and pain, but. . . it was over now. Charies could go to hell. I was appalled to find more tears brimming over my lashes, and I brushed them away angrily. I took my books and went inside, moving through the lobby and going up to my room.

I unwrapped the books and put the novels aside and sat in the overstuffed rose silk chair and slowly turned through the pages of the first volume of Julian's book. I recognized many of the plates—he was a superb artist, his plants and flowers magnificently executed, as fine as any of Audubon's birds—and as I scanned the text I remembered many of those oft tedious table conversations when he had regaled Delia and me with botanical anecdotes we had found less than fascinating. Those same anecdotes were presented here in clear and lucid prose asparkle with wit. Thanks to the vitality of his writing, even the driest facts seemed interesting. I had no doubt Julian would, in time, become as famous as Audubon, for though their fields were different, his contribution was equally as important.