Kathryn lifted her mug to join his. “Here’s to courage. And change. And coconuts.”
“And no more Cocoanut Grove!” Gwendolyn added.
They clinked their mugs and returned to an easy silence. Kathryn broke it. “That was some party.”
“I dunno,” Marcus yawned. “Seemed like the standard Garden of Allah party to me. Some people ended up in the pool, some people ended up kissing a movie star, some people ended the evening in tears, and everybody got thunderously drunk.”
Gwendolyn spotted a messenger in a Western Union uniform at the top of the path. “You’ve got something for Kathryn Massey?” she asked.
Kathryn tipped the delivery boy with all her Schwab’s change and ripped open the envelope. Her eyes darted back and forth as she absorbed its contents. “Oh no!”
“Where is he?” Gwendolyn asked.
“Maine. Any farther from LA and he’d be in another country. They couldn’t have sent him to the one in the Mojave Desert! How the hell can I—” She finished her question in a deep sigh and stared at the telegram in her hand.
They sat in silence again.
It’s nice to sit quietly every once and a while, Gwendolyn reflected. Everyone here is always rehearsing, or typing, or fighting, making up, radios, laughter, car engines. The quiet of Hawaii would be a welcome change.
Her thoughts turned to Monty. He’d found an apartment for her on the western side of Honolulu. She repeated the name several times to herself: Honolulu. Honolulu. Such a peaceful name. And yet at the same time exotic and mysterious.
“MARCUS! KATHRYN! GWENDOLYN!”
Madame Nazimova stood barefoot at the front door of her villa in a pair of jade-green Chinese silk pajamas. “GO INSIDE!”
“Why?” Marcus shouted back. “What’s wrong?”
Madame had her hands bunched together at her chin. “Turn on your radio! They are attacking us!”
“Who is—?” Marcus called back, but she was gone.
Marcus, Kathryn, and Gwendolyn raced to Marcus’ villa. He cleared away his near-empty whiskey bottle and tumblers while they crowded around the Philco radio on his kitchen table. He snapped it on and muttered at it to warm up faster. The light bulb behind the dial glowed to life and the speakers spluttered and crackled; finally, a man’s voice, deep and serious, filled the room.
“—and gentlemen, we now have official confirmation from Washington, DC, that the rumors are true. Japan has made a planned, deliberate, and fatal attack on the United States of America. We cannot confirm at this stage the number of fatalities.”
Gwendolyn looked at Marcus and Kathryn. The Japanese? Attacked America? But the war was in Europe, not the Pacific.
“But where?” Marcus asked the radio. He spun the Bakelite knob to turn up the volume.
“To repeat,” the announcer said, “we have confirmation of a premeditated attack launched by Japanese aerial forces on the US Navy’s Hawaiian base at Pearl Harbor.”
“MONTY!” The word flew out of Gwendolyn like a startled hawk. She felt like she’d been blinded. Vague, blurry colors swirled before her eyes—Marcus’ brown carpeting, the patch of blue sky through his kitchen window—but nothing landed long enough to register. She staggered backwards from the table until her legs hit Marcus’ sofa.
“This just in,” the announcer continued, but a burst of static drowned out his voice. Gwendolyn screwed her eyes so tightly shut that she saw stars, desperately dreading the rest of the story. But she knew she must listen—she had to know what the chances were that Monty survived.
“. . . of US battleships and two destroyers have been sunk, and possibly a minelayer. Our sources have estimated that as many as two hundred aircraft are now completely out of commission. The loss of American lives appears to be above two thousand.”
Gwendolyn felt Kathryn grab her trembling hand, and heard her ask Marcus, “You got anything stronger than coffee?”
She watched Marcus open his liquor cabinet and pull out a bottle of brandy. He set three snifters on the counter, but before he began to pour, something caught his attention and he crossed the kitchen to peer out of his window.
“The word’s getting out,” he commented, and motioned for the girls to join him.
Through the window, they watched their neighbors begin to emerge from their villas, hands against mouths, arms linked with arms, tears spilling into handkerchiefs.
Gwendolyn pushed against waves of desperation and loneliness when she felt Marcus and Kathryn standing on each side of her, pressing their shoulders to hers, Kathryn’s hand in her left, Marcus’ in her right. She took a deep, unsteady breath.
“Everything is going to be different now, isn’t it?”
THE END
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Martin Turnbull
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ALSO BY MARTIN TURNBULL
Book One in the Garden of Allah novels
The Garden on Sunset
Right before talking pictures slug Tinsel Town in the jaw, a luminous silent screen star converts her private estate into the Garden of Allah Hotel. The lush grounds soon become a haven for Hollywood hopefuls to meet, drink, and revel through the night. George Cukor is in the pool, Tallulah Bankhead is at the bar, and Scott Fitzgerald is sneaking off to a bungalow with Sheilah Graham while Madame Alla Nazimova keeps watch behind her lace curtains. But the real story of the Garden of Allah begins with its first few residents, three kids on the brink of something big. They learn that nobody gets a free pass in Hollywood, but a room at the Garden on Sunset can get your foot in the door.
Book Two in the Garden of Allah novels
The Trouble with Scarlett
It’s 1936 – Gone with the Wind is released by first-time author Margaret Mitchell and becomes an international sensation. Everyone in Hollywood knows that Civil War pictures don’t make a dime but renegade movie producer David O. Selznick snaps up the movie rights and suddenly the whole country is obsessed with answering just one question: Who will win the role of Scarlett O’Hara?
Book Four in the Garden of Allah novels:
Searchlights and Shadows
The dark days of Pearl Harbor loom over Los Angeles, and posters warn Hollywoodites that loose lips sink ships. MGM screenwriter, Marcus Adler, needs to come up with a sure-fire hit. Gwendolyn Brick dreams of opening her own dress store, but it threatens to drag her back into the orbit of Bugsy Siegel. Columnist, Kathryn Massey survival depend on a place nobody’s heard of: Las Vegas.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Heartfelt thanks to the following, who helped shape this book:
My editor, Meghan Pinson, for her dedication, perseverance, guidance, and professional nitpickery.
My cover designer, Dan Yeager at Nu-Image Design who thinks in images the way I think in words.
My advance readers, Vince Hans, Jerry McCall, Jeff Kurti and Gene Strange for their invaluable time, insight, feedback, and advice in shaping this novel.
My proofreader, Bob Molinari whose attention to detail never ceases to amaze and impress me.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
From an early age, Martin was enchanted with old movies from Hollywood’s golden era – from the dawn of the talkies in the late 1920s to the close of the studio system in the late 1950s – and has spent many a happy hour watching the likes of Garland, Gable, Crawford, Garbo, Grant, Miller, Kelly, Astaire, Rogers, Turner, and Welles go through their paces. It feels inevitable that he would someday end up writing about them. Originally from Melbourne, Australia, Martin moved to Los Angeles in the mid-90s where he now works as a writer, blogger, webmaster, and tour guide.
VISIT MARTIN TURNBULL ONLINE AT:
www.MartinTurnbull.com
The Garden of Allah blog
Goodreads
Citizen Hollywood (Hollywood's Garden of Allah novels Book 3) Page 35