CHAPTER 44
Kathryn’s coral suit with the white cuffs was the fourth outfit she’d put on in the last thirty minutes. The aquamarine suit was too bright for April. The green one made her look like a walking key lime pie. And the brown ensemble was too somber for a day like this.
She reread the enigmatic postscript in Marcus’s letter.
Don’t be shocked when you see what I’m wearing. And don’t jump to conclusions. Just brace yourself.
“Brace myself?” she muttered out loud. “For what?”
His P.S. was the whole reason why she was so indecisive about what to wear. Normally, she’d choose a nice outfit, add a sparkly accessory, drag a brush through her hair, and be out the door in twenty minutes. What could he possibly be wearing that would cause her to faint?
The coral didn’t seem right at all. She ran her hand along the contents of her closet until it landed on a skirt Gwendolyn had made for her a couple of years back when she’d found some poplin dyed the exact same shade as Francine’s favorite dahlia—a dark terracotta that teamed perfectly with her reliable standby black silk blouse.
Kathryn pulled off her jacket and was about to unzip the skirt when she heard a knock on her door. Whoever it was had better be quick—she had to leave for LA International Airport in ten minutes. This was one flight arrival she refused to be late for.
She opened it to find Leo scraping his feet on her welcome mat. “Hello!” She stepped back to let him in, then headed toward her bedroom. “I’ve had the most terrible time choosing what to wear. Sounds silly, I know, but Marcus’s P.S. threw me for a loop. I’m about to change into my fifth outfit!”
“I know this is a big day for you, but I’ve got a life to live too.”
She watched the way he rolled the brim of his favorite fedora around his fingers. “Nobody’s said otherwise, have they?”
He dropped his hat onto the coffee table. “I know the past week has been unprecedented for you. You got your father out of jail; you took him back to Manhattan and showed him a wonderful time. Nobody’s happier for you than I am that it all worked out.”
The past week had been a giddy blur of one emotional high stacked on another. We both hate blue cheese! We both prefer Pepsi over Coke! Neither of us considers Red Skelton as funny as everybody else seems to think he is!
They had had four glorious days getting to know each other before Winchell announced his release and the press had swamped him. Now he had the pieces of a life to pick up and she had pressing business back in Los Angeles—not the least of which had been Marcus’s letter waiting for her when she got home.
“It’s all been such a rollercoaster,” she told Leo. “I’m only now starting to catch my breath.”
“Which is why I’ve waited to have this conversation.”
Kathryn knew what he meant. It was the same one she’d been putting off until after she got back from New York, and after Marcus returned from Italy, and after life resumed to some semblance of normal. But she hadn’t counted on Leo beating her to it.
“I know about Nelson Hoyt,” he said quietly. “That you and he had a past.”
Kathryn felt wretched for not giving him more credit. “How did you find out?”
“I did my homework before I even approached you that first time. But he’d disappeared so I assumed the coast was clear.”
“It was,” she admitted. “When we walked into Dudley’s office and I saw him there, I was floored.”
Leo inched forward onto the end of the sofa. “Have you been—seeing him?”
She reached out to touch him but he recoiled. “Leo, honey, please believe me. There’s been no sneaking around behind your back. Nelson and I have done nothing.”
“But you’ve wanted to.”
There had been that kiss during Bette Davis’ welcome-back party, but it was just a kiss and nothing more. The truth hovered on the tip of her tongue, but pushing the words out took more courage than she possessed. “All our contact has been professional and above board.”
“So it’s just a matter of time?”
He wasn’t going to let her off the hook, and he wasn’t going to make this easy on her. Nor does he have to, she realized. He’s a decent guy who deserves the truth.
It wasn’t until she was an hour out of Idlewild that she had given any thought to how significant it was that the first person she’d called to share the news about her father with had been Nelson, not her fiancé. She tried to fool herself into thinking it was because he’d helped her on the case, so he deserved to know. But by the time she was over Colorado, she was ready to face the truth.
She folded her hands in her lap. “I expect so, yes.”
His body shuddered inward as though he’d taken a punch to the chest. “Thank you for being honest.”
“Please know that none of this is a reflection on you. You’re a wonderful and thoughtful man—”
“—who doesn’t get the girl.”
She held off to let the comment evaporate. “Nelson fell afoul of Hoover and was banished from LA. I didn’t know where he went and never thought I’d see him again. But then he popped up. And then you proposed—”
“I could see there was unfinished business between the two of you so I wanted to head him off at the pass. I thought if I could land that rock on your finger—”
“And I was so very flattered! And I wanted it to be right. Truly, I did.” Kathryn tried to whip up some enthusiasm, but the words came out hollow. “And it was a beautiful ring.”
“Right ring, wrong guy?” He let out a cross between a resigned sigh and a stifled grunt.
“Nelson and I do have unfinished business,” she admitted, “and I need to finish it, whichever way it goes.”
He looked at her for the first time since they’d sat down. “I hope you do, for your sake.”
“Thank you, Leo. It’s very kind of you to say so.”
Another sigh-grunt.
“But I want you to know: this—you and me—us—the past five years, it wasn’t nothing to me. I’ve cared for you deeply, and I still do. I’d hate for you to think what we’ve had has just been a lark for me. It hasn’t. Anything but, in fact. Please know that.”
He shot her a new look—less guarded but more resigned. They sat in silence until Kathryn asked, “So where does that leave our professional life? We’ve still got six more shows to do, and a possible tour beyond that—”
“You don’t need to worry.” He collected up his hat as though he was about to leave. “I’ve got nothing to do with the show anymore.”
“You don’t?!”
A rueful smile. “The Suncrockerhouse campaign has been so successful that Sunbeam have promoted me to head of national marketing.”
“National? That’s huge! Congrat—”
“In New York.”
“But you hate New York. You said it’s the ultimate Nice Place to Visit but You Wouldn’t Want to Live There.”
“Ain’t nothing like a huge career opportunity to change a guy’s mind.”
“I suppose so.”
“I had it all planned out. We’d get married here, then move to there to make a whole new life for ourselves. I even contacted a friend of mine at the New York Journal-American about you taking over the Cholly Knickerbocker column.”
“I think Igor Cassini might object to that.”
“There are ways to massage these sorts of situations. Lucky for Igor, though, you’ve got—” his eyes turned desolate “—other plans.”
“I’m so very sorry.” She reached for him but he stepped to one side. “Our time together has been incredibly wonderful,” she said, “and under different circumstances—”
“Let’s stop right there.” He jammed his hat on his head. “You’ve got a plane to meet so let’s not draw this out. You’re one hell of an amazing woman, and I hope he knows it. Goodbye, Kathryn.”
He headed out the door and into the dappled sunshine.
As the door closed, the inevitability of
this moment cemented her to the rug. She had meant it when she went to say that under different circumstances they could’ve worked out. Leo Presnell was a caring, thoughtful guy whom she really had loved.
She fell back onto the sofa, her heart heavier than granite as she drew in one tattered breath after another in an attempt to steady herself. Leo is great on paper, but he’s not the one. “Face it, Massey,” she told herself, “Nelson is.” Hearing it out loud, her heart gave a little flip. He is! He really is!
The urge to run and tell Nelson engulfed her, but the clock in the living room chimed the top of the hour. She should have been on the road by now. The coral suit was entirely the wrong choice but it was too late to change.
Kathryn gathered together her jacket, handbag, gloves, and hat and dashed outside, slamming her door behind her. She hurried along the path leading toward the rear of the Garden. “GWENNIE!” she called out. “ARE YOU READY?”
Gwendolyn appeared in her open doorway. “Do you realize how late we are?” Every inch of her was the perfect put-together picture that Kathryn had been trying for all morning.
Kathryn hustled her toward the main house.
“Aren’t you parked in the side lot?” Gwendolyn asked.
Kathryn covered Gwennie’s eyes and guided her toward Sunset. “Wait for it . . . wait for it . . .” At the right spot, she pulled her hand away.
Gwendolyn squealed when she saw the banner Kathryn had ordered a couple of days ago and paid the handyman to string up this morning across the back of the main house.
WELCOME HOME MARCUS!
When the banner painter had told Kathryn she could have any color combination, she’d been overwhelmed by all the options. In the end, she chose a white background with thick bold letters in candy-apple red, but wasn’t sure how it’d look. “Do you think he’ll like it?”
Gwendolyn clutched her arm. “Are you nuts? He’ll love it!”
“I wanted him to know how much he’s been missed.”
“I think he knows that already. But if not, this will surely get the message across.”
Kathryn pulled on her gloves and started heading for the Garden’s parking lot on Crescent Heights. “We’ve got a little more than an hour. That should be enough time, right?”
“It’ll have to be. We were at the gate when he left, and I want us to be there when he returns.”
Kathryn’s Oldsmobile was parked in the first space. They climbed inside and she revved the engine. “Okay,” she said, “let’s go get our boy.”
THE END
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ALSO BY MARTIN TURNBULL
Hollywood’s Garden of Allah novels:
Book 1 – The Garden on Sunset
Book 2 – The Trouble with Scarlett
Book 3 – Citizen Hollywood
Book 4 – Searchlights and Shadows
Book 5 – Reds in the Beds
Book 6 – Twisted Boulevard
Book 7 – Tinseltown Confidential
Book 8 – City of Myths
Book 9 – Closing Credits - due out November 2018. (Scroll down for preview of Chapter 1)
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Heartfelt thanks to the following, who helped shaped this book:
My editor: Jennifer McIntyre for her keen eye, unfailing humor, and the willingness to debate every last letter.
My cover designer: Dan Yeager at Nu-Image Design
My beta readers: Vince Hans, Nora Hernandez-Castillo, Bradley Brady, Beth Riches, Royce Sciortino, and Gene Strange for their invaluable time, insight, feedback and advice in shaping this novel.
My proofreaders extraordinaire: Bob Molinari and Susan Perkins
My thanks to Vilma Galano D’Aprano, Terese Scalise, and Jacqui Turnbull for their assistance in the Italian translations used in this novel.
And to Susan Milner and Andie Paysinger for providing verisimilitude. I can only dream of these lives but Susan and Andie lived it.
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.
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PREVIEW FOR BOOK 9:
CLOSING CREDITS
CHAPTER 1
Kathryn Massey wished she had a button on her desk labeled “SILENCE.” In the twenty years she’d worked in the Hollywood Reporter newsroom, she’d grown inured to the incessant shrieking of telephones, lewd comments thrown around like clay pigeons, and barking laughter at the expense of some studio peacock whose weekly salary exceeded the gross national product of a small European nation.
The zip and zing of sixty-five people battling to meet a collective deadline usually galvanized her into a feverish blur of fingertips pounding typewriter keys. But there were days when the din drowned her thoughts and she wished she could hit her SILENCE button and make the racket fade away.
This was one of those days.
She fell back in her chair and reached for her Chesterfields. The pack was empty, the ashtray filled to overflowing. She had worked hard to build Window on Hollywood into the read-first column that had filmland denizens asking, What is Kathryn Massey writing about today?
Tomorrow’s column addressed a subject that could point the way for a brand-new future for Hollywood. But only if she worded it exactly right.
She had just come from a press preview for The Man with the Golden Arm. The movie had everything going for it. Starring Frank Sinatra, directed by Otto Preminger, and based on a National Book Award–winning novel, it was about an ex-con’s attempt to kick his heroin habit. Stirring stuff. Gritty. Unflinching. And likely to be at the front of the line when it came time to hand out shiny awards—except for one little detail: the producers planned to release the picture without Production Code approval.
Preminger had done it with The Moon Is Blue, and that brave shot across the bow had paid off handsomely by pulling in eight times its budget. But this Sinatra movie, with its ex-cons, card sharks, strippers, and heroin addicts did more than break the Code’s rules; it was a double-fisted, middle-finger salute to the sacrosanct Code and the bluenosed puritans whose morality was stuck in Victorian-era quicksand.
This was 1955, for crying out loud. What could and could not be depicted on screen needed to be ove
rhauled—or better still, overturned. If The Man with the Golden Arm was the hundred-pound bowling ball to knock over those carefully arranged wooden pins, Kathryn was all for it.
And if she could word her column to persuade rather than browbeat, she might set the whole town talking. But she needed to say it right, and at the moment, the squall around her served to distract rather than ignite.
She dropped the empty cigarette pack into her trashcan and cast around the office for a catalyst to kickstart her juices. What caught her eye, though, was the Reporter’s honey-blonde receptionist stomping toward the women’s bathroom. Deadline or not, the sight of this one-woman Sherman’s March to the Sea was worth investigating.
Her telephone buzzed.
“This is Kathryn Massey.”
“Are you free to talk discreetly?” Darryl Zanuck sounded as though every syllable was being throttled out of him.
“I’m sitting in a roomful of people all within spitballing distance.”
“I want to come see you.”
In the usual course of events, men like Zanuck issued summons and people like Kathryn broke the speed limit to accommodate them.
“When did you have in mind?”
City of Myths Page 39