by Anne Girard
She didn’t want to be seen. It was really the last thing she wanted but she had been raised always to be polite. “Thank you,” she said as she took the letter and pressed it into her handbag. “Are you ready, Rosalie?” she asked, then stepped back into the car and started the engine.
As they drove off the Fox lot and back out onto Sunset Boulevard, she could feel Rosalie’s reproving glare. “I’ve been trying to get that kind of attention in this town for over a year. All you do is sit there and they come to you like three foxes about to raid the henhouse.”
“I didn’t do a thing, Rosie, I swear.”
“I know. And that’s what makes it so damn frustrating! And where do you think you’re going? This isn’t the way to Central Casting.”
“You’re right, it isn’t. I’m going home. I told them I don’t want to be an actress, and that’s the truth.” It was certainly flattering to have been noticed like that, and to have had three studio executives see her as something unique. Secretly, it was even a bit enticing. However, the heartbreaking disappointment and struggle most actresses endured dampened any real enthusiasm she might have had.
“Well, what the hell do you want to do? Bake cakes and have babies?”
“Maybe write a novel.”
Rosalie stared at her. “A novel? You?”
“I know it sounds silly but I’ve always wanted to try.” She felt herself flush. “I love all kinds of books. I read everything, poetry, even some of the German philosophers—Hegel and a little bit of Nietzsche.”
Rosalie’s expression remained one of incredulity. “I’ve never even heard of those guys.”
“I read them but I didn’t really like it,” she amended and blushed. “I really love poetry, Shelley especially.”
“Now, him I’ve heard of,” Rosalie said, sounding relieved.
“I read his poems over and over when I’m sad or when I’m lonely. And Keats, I just love Keats.”
Rosalie shook her head. “Wow, who’d have guessed you were so well-read?”
Harlean had never told anyone about her love for Keats, her passion for reading in general, or about the novel she was starting to formulate in her mind. She wasn’t sure why she had confessed it now to someone she didn’t know all that well. Even Chuck did not fully understand the dear companions her books had become in the lonely hours of her childhood. They were both quiet for the next few blocks.
“So, a writer, hmm? Like Jane Austen or something?”
“More like George Sand. Now there was a gutsy woman.”
“George Sand wasn’t a man?” Rosalie asked, and Harlean could tell that she meant the question.
“No, Rosie, she wasn’t a man. But she did have to figure out how to make her way in a man’s world. Anyway, don’t tell any of our neighbors about me wanting to write, okay? They would have a real good laugh at my expense.”
“Now, why on earth would I tell those magpies anything, honey? At least you do want to do something with your life. You’ve got goals, anyway,” Rosalie said. “I don’t think I could stand it if I thought there was nothing more than washing Ivor’s dirty socks and cooking his dinner for me to look forward to.”
“There’s more to marriage than just that. Personally, I’m pretty fond of the more intimate parts.”
“Is that a fact? I already find those pretty damn repetitive,” Rosalie giggled.
“Then you sure aren’t doing something right.”
“Not everyone is as free-spirited as you, Harlean. You’re this stunning young gal with an amazing head on your shoulders. No wonder Chuck’s always all over you, and mad-jealous to boot. Especially after the awful way his parents died, he probably lives his life terrified he’s gonna lose you.”
Rosalie had been so kind to her on the cruise that night when she’d been so upset with Chuck’s drunkenness. When Harlean had told her about the tragic death of his parents, she had offered sympathy and advice.
“Well, that isn’t gonna happen,” Harlean declared. “Whatever you think I am, first and foremost I’m Harlean McGrew, now and forever.”
“What you are, honey, is a plain old-fashioned contradiction.”
Harlean felt a smile begin to lengthen her lips at the sound of that. “I don’t mind being a contradiction as long as I know my own mind. And I can write a book anytime as long as I have my husband with me. Chuck really is the only thing that matters to me when it comes right down to it.”
After she dropped Rosalie off, Harlean rushed home. She burst through the door and called out for Chuck, eager suddenly for the assurance of his arms around her again, but the only sound that came in answer was from Duke Ellington’s orchestra. Chuck had forgotten to turn off the radio before he’d gone out.
As she glanced around she saw that he hadn’t even left her a note. There was only the Saturday Evening Post spread open on the sofa and a half-empty cup of coffee on the floor in front of it. She worked hard to press back her disappointment. She wondered what he would think if she told him about what had happened earlier at the Fox studio but of course she had no intention of telling him. He wouldn’t be pleased, it might even make him angry because Rosalie was right, he did get jealous easily. He’d said more than once that he couldn’t bear even the thought of losing her, which made sense to her after the traumatic way he had lost both parents, so she tried to be understanding about it.
After all, that was the deeper reason he drank so much, wasn’t it? He hadn’t yet fully grieved their loss, or accepted that he was not at risk of losing her to some sudden pull of fate, too. She had tried so many times to talk to him about it since that first night, but he always swiftly changed the subject. She wanted desperately to help him, but she just wasn’t sure how to do it. Right now, the blissful calm between them seemed reason enough to leave it alone for now.
Since he wasn’t home, Harlean went into the bedroom and stuffed the letter from the studio executives into a hatbox in her closet, then closed the door. When she turned back she saw their silver-framed photograph of the two of them taken on their honeymoon cruise displayed next to the orchids. He must have set that out before he left, and the assurance that seeing them gave her was enough to bring a smile back to her face.
Yes, the letter was certainly flattering but it was going to stay right there where she had hidden it. Her marriage meant more than the momentary whim of a collection of casting agents.
Chapter Four
“Breakfast in bed, milady,” Chuck said with a gallant nod as he set the tray on her lap one morning after they had been out late the night before with Rosalie and Ivor.
He was barefoot and wearing only a pale blue pair of pajama bottoms.
Harlean struggled to sit up as she brushed the hair back from her face. “What’s this for?” she sleepily asked.
“Just for being you. I brought all of your favorites—hard-boiled egg, orange juice, coffee and toast with marmalade. Look, doll, I know I’m not the easiest person sometimes, so I have to work that much harder at things.” There was a single pink rose in a bud vase beside her coffee. She leaned in to smell its sweet fragrance before she looked up at him.
“You’re perfect just as you are, Chuck.”
He drew back the draperies and morning light flooded their bedroom. His expression was calm and she could see that he was totally at ease. “If only that were true.”
Harlean pushed away all thought of the hidden note and pressed a happy kiss onto his cheek. “I’m starving.”
“I knew you would be.”
He sank onto the bed beside her and propped himself back against the headboard as she took a sip of coffee. “I have something for you,” he said.
And with that, he drew from his end table a small leather volume and gave it to her. He was awkward with it, this humble offering, one he did not fully appreciate, but it w
as an offering nonetheless to the woman he loved—an early volume of Keats’s poetry. Harlean gasped seeing it. Tears brightened her eyes.
“How did you know?”
“I’ve listened to every word you’ve ever spoken and I’ve heard them all. Read me one,” he bid her.
“Are you sure?”
In response he very tenderly said, “I’m not going to pretend I understand any of those poems, but read me a bit of something and I promise to try.”
And so she read him her favorite poem by John Keats, taking time with each exquisite line, because it was the one that had always reminded her of love, of marriages, and how they came apart sometimes, as her parents’ marriage had. It also made her the more insistent that her own never would.
Afterward, she kissed him again but more deeply this time. Her heart was so full of love for this complicated, tender young man, and it made her worry for him. She so wanted him to be happy here. Then she asked him about his new world here, and how his golf game with the others was coming along.
Chuck had been disappearing from the house for hours at a time when she and Rosalie were off shopping for furniture. She knew he was working to be included in the group of young men in the neighborhood. But for now the saving grace in Harlean’s mind was seeing him carefree, his demons hopefully put to rest. Winning them over was at least an objective and she decided that it was better for him to have some sort of goal than none at all.
As she had predicted to him over dinner one evening a few days earlier, he was eventually invited to the country club to join them for a game of golf and then for tennis. Their days of sporting routinely ended with drinks at the country club bar in a private room where a blind eye was turned to the dictates of Prohibition.
“I’m pretty pitiful at it really,” he said of his golf game. “But my aim at this point is to charm them sufficiently so that they don’t care.”
She pressed another breezy kiss onto his cheek, rose from the bed, then yawned and stretched in a long butter-yellow ray of sunlight. “If you haven’t won them over yet, you will soon enough.”
“You really do believe in me, don’t you, doll?”
“One hundred percent. I just want you to be happy. And thank you for the book.”
“You really like it, then?”
She heard the familiar catch in his voice, just a note—but it came from that fragile need for reassurance. “You knew I would. It’s incredible. It’s a very rare volume, you know.”
“I’d like to think I’ll always know what you like.”
“You sure don’t have to win me over like that with things, Chuck. You know I adore you already. I always will.”
He searched her face for a moment and when she saw him finally give away just a hint of a smile, she knew that he did.
Later that day they decided to go to the pictures. Harlean was thrilled that Chuck was willing to sit through a romantic comedy because she knew he disliked them. He didn’t even complain about this one, though, and he told her he actually enjoyed it as they walked back to their car. Marriage was give-and-take, and it was so good to feel that they were both doing their part. Harlean couldn’t imagine anything that could be better than what the two of them had together right now. She loved decorating their home, and learning to cook. Even thoughts of writing a novel began to fade from her mind. The only thing lacking was that she missed her family more every day, her mother most especially, but she tried her best not to think too much of that.
* * *
Over the next few days, Harlean relished seeing how happy Chuck was here in their lovely hideaway, and how at ease he was when they were together, cooking together, or when she was trying to teach him about poetry. Please let things stay just as they are, she found herself thinking. She repeated that to herself daily until it became almost like a mantra. Coming to California had been good for him. He had left everything behind in the Midwest just as she had. She said it to herself even that evening a few days later, when his new set of friends delivered him back home, propped up between them after an afternoon of carousing.
“Ol’ Chuck sure is the life of the party. He was dancing on tables over at Musso and Frank’s an hour ago.” Blake Kendrick who lived next door gave Harlean an apologetic shrug as he handed Chuck over to her.
Harlean did her best not to show her disappointment. Damn, why did he always have to drink so much?
She thanked them with a believable smile and, after they’d gone, she dutifully tucked him into bed, kissed his forehead and turned out the light.
An unsettling concern pressed in on her again as she leaned against the closed door and let out a heavy sigh. She needed for him to stay just as content as he had been at first. Everything for her depended on that. They were alone here after all, and with Chuck gone so often lately, she had begun secretly to feel the greater pull of homesickness every day. Of course, she couldn’t tell Chuck that because he always said they were each other’s family now. For his sake, she tried very hard to make that true.
A few moments later, she went to the telephone and quietly dialed the number, hoping he was too sound asleep to hear. It wasn’t Sunday yet but, tonight especially, she just needed to hear her mother’s reassuring voice on the other end of the line.
* * *
Once the house was fully furnished, Chuck insisted on organizing another party. He planned on inviting everyone they’d met so far in Beverly Hills. It seemed a huge undertaking, but helping him gave Harlean a way to keep busy as the shine of the housewives’ world was fading by the day for her.
He planned to grill hot dogs, since he knew they were Harlean’s favorite food, and he had a florist fill the house with orchids and fragrant roses.
“I’ve put out the rest of the hootch we brought with us from Chicago. I hope it will be enough,” he said as he set clean glassware onto the kitchen counter next to bootleg bottles of gin and whiskey.
“Will you stop your worrying? Everything will be great.”
“So many of them have houses that are so much larger than ours. Maybe we should have bought a bigger place.”
Harlean went to him and twined her arms around his neck. She was wearing her favorite unstructured beige trousers, sneakers and a crisp white polo shirt, the way she had seen Joan Crawford do. Although, she didn’t think she could look quite as chic as the young star it was certainly fun to try.
She pressed herself against Chuck’s taut chest, and tenderly kissed him. In response to the gesture, he took her face in his hands.
“I love you like this, without makeup or anything. You have such lovely skin,” he said as he reached around and pressed his hands against her spine, drawing them closer together. “But I do wish you would wear a brassiere.”
She turned her lip out in a pout. “You know how I hate them, and my breasts are so small no one notices anyway.”
“Oh, they notice, all right.”
“Just to make you happy, I’ll put one on, then,” she said with a seductive half grin. “And I was going to do up my face for the party.”
“Then good thing that’s not for a while, because I have plans for you first, Mrs. McGrew.”
He pulled her more tightly, murmuring the words into her hair, and she felt a delicious shiver of anticipation. “Do you now, Mr. McGrew?”
“Oh, yes, indeed I do.”
“Anything I should be warned about?”
His smile was fox-like and adorable to her. “Not a chance. That would ruin all the fun.”
An hour later, the house pulsed with the sound of boisterous laughter. Music rolled and spilled out into the backyard where one of the guys was just lighting the BBQ. Harlean allowed herself a gin and soda with some of the girls. Then they wanted her to play the upbeat Louis Armstrong tune, “Weather Bird,” on the gramophone so they could dance.
She
went back inside to change the music and paused at the kitchen window. She glanced out, and was surprised and happy to see Chuck looking like the life of the party, a real part of the group as he told a story, and everyone looked rapt.
She turned back around and saw Rosalie and Louis B. Mayer’s dignified and rail thin daughter Irene dancing the Charleston in the living room. Rosalie proudly explained earlier that she had met the MGM boss’s daughter one afternoon after she had weaseled her way into the studio commissary after a casting call and they had become friends. Irene brought her boyfriend David Selznick with her tonight and was intent on showing him off since he was an up-and-comer in the industry.
The story of how Irene and Rosalie met hadn’t surprised Harlean after their escapade at the Brown Derby. Clearly, Rosalie had perfected the art of looking like she belonged, and Harlean could stand to take chances like that, as well. Harlean had gone to school with Irene when she was in California the last time, but if Irene remembered her, she didn’t show it.
“Come over and dance with us, Harlean!” Rosalie called out to her happily.
“Yes, come on!” Irene seconded, her face already glistening as they all did the animated steps of a flapper.
Harlean finally joined in and shimmied to the end of the tune, when they all collapsed back onto the sofa. Irene introduced her friend then, a dark-eyed and exotic-looking girl named Katie. Her father was a powerful director, Cecil B. DeMille. As they were introduced, Harlean tried hard not to gape at the two spirited girls whose fathers practically owned Hollywood.
“Well, there are certainly no dance stars among the lot of us!” Katie DeMille sighed as she dabbed her face with the back of her hand.
“Probably no stars at all,” Irene added.
“I don’t know if I’d say that’s true,” Rosalie countered. “Last week, Harlean here got a personal letter of introduction written to the head of Central Casting from two Fox executives, and she wasn’t even trying. She was just sitting in the car waiting for me to check the rolls. They said she had ‘the look.’”