Stars in Their Eyes

by Pema Donyo

  Praise for Pema Donyo

  One Last Letter

  “ . . . friendship, broken love, regrets, family, sacrifice, renewed love, and choices . . . I recommend this novel to anyone who is looking for a lighthearted, feel-good romance.”—5 stars, History from a Woman’s Perspective

  “There’s romance, and then there’s heart-pounding, breathless, fabulous, fantastic romance. Pema Donyo’s One Last Letter falls in that category . . . I can’t wait to read it over again.”—4 stars, The Canon

  “ . . . young love becoming true love . . . a lighthearted love story with passion. I am looking forward to the next book Pema writes.”—5 stars, Let’s Get Romantical

  Revolutionary Hearts

  “My absolute favorite thing about this book was watching [the heroine] grow. . . . You could not use that to hurt her or belittle her if she moved to the point where [her heritage] no longer harmed her. A powerful message for anyone being discriminated or bullied over something they cannot change . . . ”—4 stars, Once Upon a Dream Books

  “It’s Donyo’s writing that makes Revolutionary Hearts shine . . . Donyo’s work, from One Last Letter to Revolutionary Hearts, is a must read for any romance/historical fiction lover.”—5 stars, The Canon

  Thank you for downloading this Simon & Schuster ebook.

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  Contents

  Cover

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  ‘Revolutionary Hearts’ Excerpt

  About the Author

  Copyright

  Guide

  Cover

  Contents

  Start of content

  Stars in Their Eyes

  Pema Donyo

  Avon, Massachusetts

  To the ones who support the ones who dream.

  Chapter One

  Los Angeles, California

  1920

  Iris laughed at the driver rolling by in his massive Model T. The middle-aged man shook his fist through his open window as he drove past, exhaust smoke fuming behind his machine. The road expanded ahead of him as clear as day—he had plenty of space to move down Figueroa Street.

  A tug on her left hand snagged her attention once again, and she turned her attention back to Owen. He looked toward both sides of the road, then led the way as they crossed the street lined with palm trees. The smell of lye wafted from the entrance of her father’s laundromat. She bet if she pressed her nose against her cotton chemise, she could still inhale the scent of fresh soap.

  Owen stepped ahead of her, guiding her hand forward. His pressed trousers were cuffed at the ankle, stain-free, beneath his white oxford shirt. She would have been amused at the formality of his outfit under normal circumstances, but they were about to see a film. And it wasn’t just any film. It was hers.

  A stiff breeze sent a chill up her spine as they headed toward the shade of the ticket box and out of the late afternoon’s dull heat. Owen asked for two tickets to The Red Lantern. The man at the ticket booth peered at Iris, who stood behind Owen’s shoulder. The man frowned. At the beginning of her relationship with Owen, she used to pretend the looks were because she had something on her face or she had worn the wrong hat with her dress. It wasn’t because of the shape of her eyes or the shade of her skin. Owen handed her a ticket, and she squeezed his hand.

  “For the future star of the screen, Iris Wong.”

  “Not yet,” she said. There was a certain intensity in his gaze that made her cast her eyes downward.

  She held her breath during most of the film, waiting for the right moment. Each scene lay between title cards, a black screen with white type explaining what was happening. The pianist below the stage played a soundtrack to accompany the movie, turning his sheet music to the next page every so often.

  With each title card passing and each new scene beginning, she edged toward the end of her seat a little more. It was always possible the studio had cut out her scene. And then—there! Her image appeared on the screen, before everyone in the audience to see. The scene was set in an ancient kingdom. Multiple extras crowded the street to await the opening of a palace gate. She stood as one of the lantern bearers, one of only five carriers flanking both sides of the gate. The gate opened and the actor stepped out. Then the camera angle panned to a different location, and she was no longer within the frame. But she had been seen. For the first time, she would be on multiple cinema screens throughout America. A bubbling sense of anticipation filled her chest.

  This was the beginning; she was sure of it.

  She turned to Owen. When she’d told him about the role, he insisted they see it together. Every time she became discouraged about an audition, he encouraged her to try again. Without him, her dream would have stayed just that: a dream.

  “I made it,” she whispered.

  He nodded and reached for her hand. “Right where you belong.”

  • • •

  After the movie, Owen drove her to his house. They sat on the wooden bench on his front porch. His parents were at a charity function again. He didn’t keep many of Iris’s belongings at home, but he did have a small pile of her books on his bookshelf for whenever she came over. A person revealed a lot by the way he or she read a book. Whenever he became bored with a story in his latest read, Sherwood Anderson’s short story collection, he skipped to the ending after reading the first paragraph. But not Iris. She never skipped around. She read one page after the other, as attentive to each paragraph as the last. Would she be as patient with him?

  “What is it?” She rolled to her side, bookmarking her place in the novel with her thumb.

  Owen drummed his fingers against Sherwood’s leather-bound spine. “Can’t a writer admire a muse?”

  She poked his side, making him sit straight up on the porch bench. “A muse? I prefer star.”

  “The star of . . . ” He scratched his chin. “What is your next project again?”

  “I’ve been offered the role of a servant in a short film. It’s a start. Douglas Fairbanks is in it.” She set the book down, the words forgotten in favor of moving pictures. “Twenty-two might be my lucky year. It’s finally happening.”

  “Have you ever thought about filming outside America?”

  “Why would I do that?”

  He stood up from the bench and began to pace on his porch. “They say the film industry in Europe might soon give Hollywood competition.”

  “I can’t remember when you suddenly took an interest in film trends, Owen.”

  He rubbed the back of his neck and stared out at the night. Maybe the view would help him figure out how to bring it up. Gas lamps lit the winding dirt road leading toward the city. The crooning tunes of instrumental jazz played on the radio behind him, its volume dimmed to prevent upsetting the neighbors. It made the mood feel light, airy almost. He couldn’t bring himself to break it.

  “Owen?”

  She sounded worried. The static from the radio spiked, and then the music stopped. She must have turned it off. Only cricket chirps filled the space between them.

  “Remember when I talked about writing a novel?” He le
aned against the porch railing to face her, his arms crossed over his chest.

  She nodded.

  “Well, to do that, you see . . . All these writers and editors are moving to Paris. And I think maybe if I want to get serious, you know, really write it, I should move too. I want to talk to other writers, hear what they’re doing.”

  Her eyes narrowed. Silence was dangerous when it came to her.

  “My father knows a friend in Paris, a writer. My father says I can learn from him. Stay with him for a few months, learn the craft from someone more experienced. Says he has friends involved in the city’s literary circle.” His shoulders tensed, waiting for the rebuttal.

  She clasped her hands in her lap. Her knuckles looked white even under the warm glow of the lamplight beside her. The relentless sound of crickets chirped back at him, teasing him. She needed more convincing.

  “Maybe . . . Maybe you could be an actress in Paris. Then you could come with me.”

  “What?” She furrowed her brows. “Paris?”

  “I’m planning to move there soon. You should join me.” He scuffed his shoe on the wooden slats.

  “Why?” She raised her voice. “You never mentioned this to me before.”

  “I was trying to think of the right time to tell you.”

  He had spoken too soon. This wasn’t the proper place to propose it. Not before the end of the year, not before he figured out all the details with his parents. But that didn’t stop the hope from swelling in his chest. She could still agree. He waited for her smooth lips to curve upward or her bright brown eyes to twinkle at his idea. He could imagine the two of them bashing around Europe, exploring nightlife in a city he didn’t yet understand but wished to know. They could relive the Belle Époque. They could wake up every morning together in the same flat, watching the sun rise over the Eiffel Tower without their parents or society giving them disapproving looks. They could . . .

  “No.”

  He leaned against the railing with enough pressure to almost topple backward. Anything to keep him upright. “What?”

  “I said no.” She jutted her chin forward. “I can’t go to Paris.”

  He swallowed hard. “All I’m asking is for you to think about it.”

  “I don’t need to.” Her voice brimmed with anger. “How could you ask me to leave my family here?”

  “It would only be for a while, maybe a few years. We would come back.”

  “I don’t have ‘a few years.’ My family needs money, whether that comes from me washing customers’ clothes or at the studio.”

  “It’s a part-time gig in the prop department. I’m sure that job exists in Paris. We can send money back home.”

  “My uncle got me that job, I told you. How am I supposed to find new work?” She crossed her arms over her chest, mimicking his position. Her gaze was glued to the fresh wooden floorboards his father had recently ordered a coat of paint for. “All the films are being shot here.”

  “Cinema exists in France. There’s the theater; there’s always something.” He was making desperate claims, and she knew it. He closed his mouth midsentence.

  When he envisioned life in Paris, he was exchanging narrative techniques and swapping stories with others who shared his passion for words. But Iris had been a part of his life for as long as he could remember. Any life he envisioned for himself involved her in it.

  The low hum of a car rumbled behind him. Its flashing lights illuminated Iris’s face and caused her to shield her eyes. He cursed under his breath. If his parents had tried, they couldn’t have had worse timing. Owen looked over his shoulder at the approaching vehicle. It slowed to a halt before his home. His mother and father wouldn’t be happy to find him with Iris so late. He doubted they would be happy to find her even in broad daylight.

  His mother stepped out of the car first, a thick mink fur wrapped around her neck. Never mind the temperate weather outside, she always had to make an entrance. Her cool gaze settled on Iris first, then Owen. He sucked in a quick intake of breath. Time to get Iris home.

  “Son? Is that chink with you again?” his father’s voice called out to him.

  He planted his feet on the porch. It was offensive. Iris deserved better treatment. His father’s insults stung with fresh force each time. If only he could make his father stop. “I told you, her name is Iris.”

  “It’s fine.” Her thin hand rested on his shoulder. Yet when he looked over at her, her expression had darkened.

  He gritted his teeth as his parents walked up the porch steps. His mother leveled a look of warning at him. His father, however, tipped his hat toward Iris.

  “Good evening, Miss Wong.” His tone was calm. “How is your father’s laundromat?”

  Owen wanted nothing more than to usher her away from his parents and drive far from them. He thought his father would have exhausted possibilities by that point, yet each time he saw her, he thought of a fresh jab.

  “My father’s business is well, thank you for asking.” Her voice never wavered.

  His father quirked up an eyebrow. “Still work there, I assume?”

  “That’s enough.” Owen stepped in front of her and met his father’s amused gaze. “I’m taking Iris home.”

  She bowed her head. “I am sorry for staying so late. Please excuse me.”

  His father gave a curt nod to Owen. “Take her home.”

  Owen gestured to Iris to walk in front of him. She made her way down the steps and he followed, not daring to look back at his parents. He didn’t need to turn around to recognize their disapproving looks. An infatuation with the exotic, his father had called it at first. His father refused to acknowledge the possibility of anything more.

  Owen waited until they were halfway down the road and headed back to the city before speaking. “You know I don’t care what my parents think, right?”

  She stared straight ahead. “You need them.”

  “I don’t,” he lied.

  “You can pay for your own voyage to Paris?”

  He averted his eyes from the road every so often to glance at her. The moonlight lit her pale expression and delicate features. Her nose always seemed to be angled upward, as if above everyone else and rightly so. Yet her thin lips, normally curved into an easy smile, formed a tight line instead. It made his stomach sour. He turned back to the windshield as the car rolled past the adobe buildings that lined the streets. The familiar high domes of the cinemas and parked bicycles along the road lit up with the glow of streetlamps every few yards or so. Shadows covered most of the path and submerged the next street corner.

  He slowed the car to a halt. Her house was set deep against the other adobe buildings in a cul-de-sac unreachable by the main road. Even if it had been, he doubted her parents would be pleased to see him.

  He let out a harsh laugh. “What excuse is it this time?”

  “My friend Paula asked me to go to the cinema with her. We went to her house for dinner afterward and lost track of time.”

  His name was Paula tonight. Fair enough. He reached for her hand on the black leather seat. She pulled hers away.

  “I think it would be better if this is the last excuse I make. At least for a while.”

  He looked over her shoulder and into the shadows. Did she see her father out there? Was she worried about someone overhearing? But one glance at her told him otherwise. She pressed her lips so tightly together that they almost disappeared into her face.

  “If this is about Paris, I promise you: I’ll find a way for us both to travel there. Think about it: we wouldn’t have to deal with our parents, with people telling us whom we should be with, with any of that. We’d have each other. We’ll make it; you’ll see.”

  “You’re scaring me. I can’t give up my dream just so we can be together.” Her voice was firm. “I want to make it here.”

  He wanted to drive away and drown her out. Then he wouldn’t have to hear her. He could keep the memory of their day together unscathed. The impossibility of keeping
the memory almost made him laugh again.

  “We’re going in different directions.” The way she spoke was so matter of fact. It was Iris through and through, announcing her decision like one would announce the date. “I’ve been thinking about it. I still care about you, but if you’re going out of the country . . . ”

  He swept his hand across the dashboard in front of him, the brown leather covering the huge wheel in the center of a silver scepter. She had called it so the first time he brought the car ’round to her neighborhood. The key jutted out from the ignition, ready to take him home without her. Why had he ever brought up moving? They could have stayed as they were, future unknown.

  “Are you trying to say good-bye?”

  “I think we should see what happens. Maybe take a break. It’s better that way.”

  “Here? Right now?” He felt numb. Better for whom? Not for him.

  “You shouldn’t waste your time trying to keep in touch with me when you’re there. I think you should focus on the writing.” She ran her fingers through her hair, playing with the ends of her bob.

  “I’ll have time for both.”

  “Maybe. But we can’t control what happens.” She hesitated. “You can still write to me, of course.”

  “I won’t be gone long. It’s not like I’m asking you to put your life on hold.”

  “We need to focus on our own dreams. You should go if that’s what you want, but I want to stay here.” She gave him a sideways glance. Her eyes were wide and solemn. “I still really like you. I do.”

  Likewise. He couldn’t turn off his feelings for her like a light switch. “Then we should stay together. This makes no sense.”

  “It will.” Her tone grew steadier as she spoke. She made it sound as easy as closing a book. “That’s the way it has to be.”

  “I don’t agree with this. We could try to make it work.” He clenched and unclenched his fists over the wheel. They had something worth fighting for. “Can we at least try?”