The Slow Rise of Clara Daniels

by Christy English

  She found herself wishing that she loved him back.

  Clara squeezed his hand and said nothing. The moment stretched between them, and he simply looked at her as if he were memorizing her face.

  “Pete, if you ever need anything, I want you to come to me.”

  “Anything?”

  He quirked an eyebrow at her over his glasses, and she was tempted to laugh, as he intended. She knew, though, that he was leaving and never wanted to see her again.

  His smile faded, and he reached out and brushed her cheek with his fingertips. She knew, even as he spoke, that he was lying.

  “I will, Clara.”

  He moved away from her, and she felt a physical pain in her chest. She stood alone in the middle of her party, listening to people she didn’t know laugh and drink her wine.

  She kept her gaze on Pete as he slipped through the crowd, speaking to no one, because no one knew him. She stood alone after he disappeared, long after he drove away from her house and was gone.

  The film industry was a small town of sorts, but Clara never saw him again.

  25

  Palm Springs, 2019

  The desert stretched towards the mountains in the distance. Clara remembered from long hikes during her childhood that the desert met the hills and stretched beyond them, too.

  She caught herself holding her breath as they drove towards her hometown, and she released it slowly. Fred looked over and offered a smile. He didn’t speak, though, and Clara turned back to look out the window of his Jaguar, grateful for the silence. She watched as the buildings of Palm Springs rose before them, low lying structures that were built to stay cool in the searing temperatures of the desert.

  Clara found herself fiddling with her gold bracelet as they approached her mother’s estate. She stopped, forcing her fingers to lie still. They pulled past the gate and drove up the long drive, past manicured lawns and pinon trees, up to the main house. Fred stopped the Jaguar at the front steps, and Clara didn’t move. She felt as if her mother might step out of the house and greet her, waving casually, dressed in her perpetual tennis whites.

  Clara sat still and watched as the front door of the house opened. A woman in a business suit greeted Fred as he stepped out of the car. He shook her hand before turning to open Clara’s door. Clara looked up at him, frozen in her seat. She didn’t think she could force herself to rise. Fred extended a hand to her, and she took it. He helped her stand. Once she was on her feet, she took her hand away and stood on her own.

  She turned to look at the house, not hearing the woman as she spoke about the tennis courts, the acres of garden, the marble foyer and the ten Jacuzzi. Clara didn’t need her own home described to her.

  Fred thanked the woman and asked if they might look around on their own. The realtor agreed and disappeared in the quiet manner of all good servants. Darren had remarried, and his wife wanted him to sell his first wife’s estate. Clara noted that the woman had no objection to keeping her mother’s millions, however.

  Clara walked into the marble foyer through the front door—the door through which her mother’s body had been carried out. Her footsteps echoed against the stone, and Clara stopped for a moment, surprised to find the house empty. Of course, Darren had removed the furniture and all her grandmother’s antiques.

  She walked on and heard Fred behind her. He didn’t move to take her arm or to speak to her, and again she was grateful. She stepped into the conservatory, looking through the glass walls into the garden. She could see the desert shimmering beyond the pinon trees at the edge of the lawn.

  “I’d like to go outside,” she said.

  “All right.”

  Fred opened the door to the terrace, and Clara led the way as they walked through the lush garden. The plants were just as her mother had left them. Darren had little use for gardens and hadn’t bothered to change anything.

  Clara kept walking, and Fred followed her until they reached the edge of the lawn and stood in the brown desert rock with bits of shifting sand blowing past them.

  “It’s beautiful here.” Fred’s voice was quiet.

  Clara turned to look at him. “It is beautiful, isn’t it?”

  He reached out and touched her hair, letting his hand slide along her cheek. She turned her head and pressed her lips into his palm.

  “Do you want to see more of the house, Clara?”

  She felt the play of emotions as they crossed her face. Two weeks ago, she would have made sure her expression was a bland mask. At best, she would have given him a sardonic smile. Now, she allowed her pain to rise into her eyes as she looked at him.

  “No. I remember what the house looks like. I just wanted to see the desert again.”

  He took her in his arms and held her. They watched as the sand blew in patterns across the rock face in front of them, the slanting sun casting their shadows toward the mountains far to the east.

  The old landline was ringing when they walked into Clara’s house, and she picked up the receiver. Margherita had long since gone home, and the lights of the yachts were bright on Malibu bay.

  “Hello?”

  “Clara, you’re home. Where have you been?”

  She frowned for a moment, trying to place the voice.

  “Clara, it’s me, Chuck. Where were you?”

  She smiled. Only her favorite director would call her house, ignoring her cell.

  “It doesn’t matter. What’s up?”

  “I’ve got a job for you.”

  She chuckled. “Chuck, you’re not playing the game. Your people are supposed to call Donna and tell her that. Then she calls me, then I say yes, and then she relays that back through your people, to you. That’s how it’s done.”

  “So you’ll do it?”

  “I’d work for you if you were doing a story about laundry detergent. Yes, I’ll do it.”

  “Great!”

  Clara heard the joy in his voice, and that it was genuine.

  “I can’t pay you as much as last time.”

  “Oh, I know that. Last time the studio was kissing my ass. This time, they’ll be back to business.”

  Fred smiled at her from the lighted foyer, where he leaned against the mahogany-paneled wall, watching her.

  “It’s a great script, Clara. It’s a story of a mother and daughter who reconcile after years of animosity.”

  “And I’m playing the mother?”

  Chuck snorted on the other end of the phone. “Seriously, Clara, you’re going to love it.”

  “I know I will. Messenger it over in the morning and let Donna know when you’ll need me to sign the contract.”

  “You don’t want to see the script tonight?”

  Clara almost laughed at the eagerness in Chuck’s voice, but her respect for him kept her silent. She leaned back into Fred’s arms as his lips trailed down her throat.

  “Not tonight, Chuck. Tomorrow will be soon enough.”

  Early the next morning, Fred found Clara standing on the terrace, looking out over the bay. She had given Margherita and the rest of the staff the day off, and now she was brooding.

  He pressed one hand against her lower back, and she tilted her head for his kiss. He could see she was still preoccupied and rubbed her shoulder.

  “I’ve read the script,” she said.

  “Already?” Fred raised an eyebrow. “When did Chuck send it?”

  “It got here about dawn. He probably thought the staff would be here.” She leaned against the railing and looked out over the blue waters of the bay.

  There had been rain yesterday, and the pollution that usually hung over the water had washed out to sea.

  “What did you think of the script?”

  “It’s brilliant.”

  Clara turned to him, her face unreadable except for the pain in her eyes. “The story is about a mother who’s never around, and her adult daughter who chooses to forgive her.”

  “That hits close to home.”

  “I never said I forgave
my mother.”

  “No. You never said so.”

  Clara looked at him and expected to feel anger rise up to choke her. She didn’t feel angry, though, and she realized he was right. She had forgiven her mother long ago. Her mother had been so selfish that she truly hadn’t seen anyone or anything else beyond what she wanted. But her aunt had been her mainstay and her haven, the one person she was sure would never leave her.

  It was April’s abandonment she couldn’t forgive.

  Clara leaned against him, resting her head on his chest as he stroked her hair. Fred spoke as if he’d heard exactly what she was thinking. He did that from time to time, and by now it seemed natural.

  “Maybe your aunt will see the movie once it’s done.”

  “My aunt doesn’t go to the movies.”

  “She may go to this one.”

  “Fred, stay out of it.”

  He ran his hands over her body. “Come back to bed.”

  “Read the script first.”

  “It’s that good?”

  “Yes.”

  He took her hand, drawing her into the house. “I’ll read it now.”

  26

  Malibu, 2020

  Clara picked up her cell on the first ring. Margherita and Paolo had left for the evening, and Fred hadn’t come home yet. She’d spent the day lying beside the pool, her first quiet day since her public relations tour to advertise her newest film, Slow Rise.

  “Clara?”

  Donna sounded breathless on the other end of the line, and Clara smiled. Her manager never hurried unless something important was brewing.

  “Hi, Donna. How was your trip to Biarritz?”

  “Great, fine, yeah, great. Listen, I’ve got news.”

  “You’re pregnant.”

  Donna choked on a sip of her bourbon. “Hell, no.”

  Clara listened to her splutter and covered the receiver so Donna wouldn’t hear her laughing.

  “No, Clara, it’s much bigger than that.”

  “What?”

  “You’ve been nominated—”

  “For a People’s Choice Award. I know. My public is ever faithful.”

  “No, listen to this.” Donna took a deep breath.

  Clara even heard her put her drink down.

  “You have been nominated for a SAG award.”

  Clara listened for a long moment to the silence on the line. She didn’t think she’d heard right.

  “Donna, come on, that’s bullshit.”

  “No, really, Clara. I wouldn’t bullshit you about anything, but especially not something like this. The Screen Actors Guild nominated you. They called and told me today. It’s going to be announced in the morning.”

  Clara’s eyes narrowed. “Who called and told you?”

  Donna picked up her drink again and rattled the ice in the glass. “I really can’t say.”

  “So, they’re announcing it tomorrow, and you know about it today.”

  “Yes.”

  “Holy shit.”

  “Congratulations, Clara.”

  Clara blinked at the sincere admiration in her manager’s voice.

  “You really deserve it.”

  “Thanks, Donna.”

  Fred came in the front door, carrying a dozen roses, all yellow with pink tips.

  “I’ve got to go,” Clara said. “Thanks for telling me. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “Call me about what you want to wear. We’ll go see some designers next week.”

  “OK, Donna. Thanks.”

  Clara hung up, watching Fred put the roses down with a flourish.

  “You will not believe this,” she said.

  “Try me.” He grinned, his eyes gleaming as he pressed a kiss on her throat.

  “The Guild nominated me for my performance in Slow Rise.”

  Fred kept grinning. “That’s what I heard.”

  “How is it that you and Donna know, and I have no clue?”

  “That’s the business, kid.”

  She punched him in the arm, but he just held her tighter.

  Chuck gave Clara a kiss on the cheek. They stood backstage at the Screen Actors Guild Awards. Clara had already accepted her award for Best Female Actor in a Feature Film. She was shocked that she’d won. Most people in Hollywood watched her films and rolled their eyes. Of course, the last film Chuck had made was different from all the others.

  “Clara, congratulations again. You deserve it.”

  “Thanks, Chuck.” Clara smiled at him, resisting the urge to brush his bangs back from his eyes.

  “I’ve got another project I want to talk to you about.”

  “Chuck, I’m going to be taking a few months off.”

  “Oh, that’s great! I need about six months to get the script finished.”

  “You’re writing it yourself?” Clara raised an eyebrow.

  “I’ve written it already. I’m re-writing it now to see if I can get something that the studio and I can both live with.”

  Clara laughed at that. “If anybody can, you will. You’ll probably end up getting an Oscar for it.”

  He blushed, and Clara smiled at him.

  “Just say you’ll look at it when it’s ready.”

  “You know I will.”

  A willowy woman walked up to him, offering him her hand. She was to direct him back to his seat. He wasn’t a member of the Guild, but Clara had gotten him into the award banquet anyway.

  “I’ll see you at Bob’s party after?” Chuck asked as he moved away.

  “You will.”

  Fred came up behind Clara, brandishing her trophy.

  “Fred, I thought you were going to stay in the audience and smile supportively in case they get you on camera while I’m presenting.”

  He chuckled, running his free hand down her back. “I’d rather be back here with you.”

  Clara turned to him, her gaze fastened on his lips. “Do you think we could sneak off somewhere and neck before I have to go on?”

  He laughed. “I don’t think we have time.”

  He ran his hand over the silk of her dress, brushing his fingers over her bare back. Clara shivered.

  “Clara, I need to tell you something.”

  She smiled at his serious tone. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt so light-hearted.

  “What?” she asked.

  “Your aunt is out there.”

  “What?”

  “Your Aunt April is in the audience.”

  Clara took a deep breath and released it slowly.

  Fred kept his gaze on her face. “She wanted a ticket, and I got her one.”

  “She came alone?”

  “Yes.”

  Clara leaned against him. “You shouldn’t have interfered, Fred.”

  “Yes, I should have.”

  She met his gaze and saw nothing but love for her in his eyes.

  “It was high-handed.”

  “That’s right.”

  “No one gets in my family’s business.”

  “I just did.”

  Clara sighed deeply, suddenly feeling tired.

  “She loved the movie, sweetheart. She wants to see you again. I want you to talk to her afterwards.”

  Clara shifted her gaze to the woman striding toward her. “I’ll think about it.”

  “That’s all I ask.”

  She felt his lips brush her hair. Then she was moving towards the stage. She stepped onto it, greeted by applause as she walked under the hot lights. She smiled her studio smile for the cameras she couldn’t see. She stood at the podium, speaking easily to the crowd of actors in front of her, some of whom she actually respected.

  As she spoke, she looked out over the crowd, and past the bank of lights, she saw April sitting by herself, with the Shakespearean actor James Simpson on one side of her and Pat Mulligan on the other. Both men were not watching the stage, but had their gazes set on her aunt. Clara looked down at the envelope in her hand so she wouldn’t lose her train of thought and get distra
cted by April’s conquests.

  When she looked up again, she met her aunt’s gaze over the distance that stretched between them. April’s eyes were bright, and Clara knew that they were full of unshed tears. She felt the same tears in her own eyes and wondered what the people watching on television would make of them. Surely, they would not believe that she was moved by the Best Female Actor in a Miniseries.

  Clara read the name of the woman who had won the award and stepped back as she came to collect it. As the woman made her speech, Clara’s gaze never left her aunt’s face. As she watched, April dabbed at her eyes, and Pat Mulligan leaned over and offered her a handkerchief from his pocket. Her aunt accepted it graciously.

  April and Clara smiled at each other, and Clara felt her heart lighten. She moved off stage, with the winner of the award in tow. When she reached Fred’s side, she kissed his cheek.

  “Does this mean you’ll see her?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  Fred took her in his arms and kissed her, oblivious to the people standing around them. Clara didn’t pull away.

  27

  Malibu, 2020

  Clara sank into the Jacuzzi and sighed. The warm water bubbled around her, soothing her tired muscles. She felt good, but it had been a long night. Facing her aunt in the lobby after the ceremony had been harder than she’d expected.

  She could still feel her aunt’s cool lips on her cheek. Fred had stood by, close enough to be supportive, but far enough away to give them a moment of privacy.

  Aunt April had looked serene in her blue silk gown, her hair swept up in the inevitable French twist. Pat Mulligan had looked at her aunt with more than a little interest, but April hadn’t noticed.

  April touched Clara’s hand. “I’m proud of you, Clara.”

  “Thank you.” She took a deep breath, knowing she couldn’t allow herself to cry in front of all these actors, some of whom wished her ill.

  “Your mother would have been proud of you.”

  Clara swallowed hard, dropping her gaze to the crimson carpet. Fred stepped forward, putting his hand on the small of her back. She felt his strength flow into her, and she straightened, her eyes dry. There were no words to bridge the span of ten years, to bridge that span of loss and pain. It was with that touch that Clara took the first step.