by Jill Zeller
Indeed the rest of the day, restful as it was supposed to be, became filled with Loretta’s plans for us.
Oddly, she disappeared for several hours as I lay beside the pool, thinking nothing was quite so peaceful as the call of mourning doves in the shrubbery, and the chatter of oriels and hummingbirds in the honeysuckle, the sharp odors of sage, the orange-stained kaleidoscope of sun through my eyelids. Shoes off. Heat and light draining the tension out of me, like water from a tub.
I was asleep when Loretta finally swept up to me; I squinted at her, a vision in royal blue chiffon, and sat up in surprise.
“You’ve cut your hair!”
She wore her dark glasses, and her lips parted in a smile. “I so adore your hair, Nola. You have no idea the effect your short hair has on men, especially Denny. He remarked on it.” I saw her eyebrow lower as if she winked at me. “I thought I would give it a try, get some juice back into him, prick his interest, so to speak.”
I felt my face redden. If there was trouble between Dennis and Loretta, I, a true stranger, had no right to know about it.
“Well, then,” I said, shifting my legs off my chaise. “It looks lovely.”
“Aren’t we a pair, now? Come. You are going shopping with me. I want to show you off.”
There was no argument, except from Milo, who staunchly refused to visit the downtown Los Angeles shops. He had, I was glad to see, accepted Loretta’s offer of a linen jacket, although it was too big for him and he had to roll up the sleeves. But the change in color from his navy-blues to pale ochre brought out a light in him that I hadn’t noticed before—he was quite a handsome young man, I thought. And I clearly could see in the way he tried not to gaze at her but couldn’t help himself, that he was fascinated by Loretta Carré.
Shopping with Loretta was an experience I would not have missed for the world. As soon as she swept butterfly-like into the store, little fluffy Cecil under her arm, the shop owner advanced, thin white hands clasped over her black shift, an adoring smile on her face.
Madame LeClare—who was not French, I could tell instantly—blinked as Loretta picked her hatpin from her yellow silk toque and swept it off her head.
“I am setting a new trend. What do you think?”
Madame LeClare recovered with excellent poise. “Oh, Mademoiselle Carré. A triumph. Fabulous. Adventurous.”
Loretta removed her glasses, gave the shop-owner a demure smile. “With me is Miss Nola Lynch, the adventuress who has just returned from a first-hand look at the Mexican Revolution.” She hugged my arm, and I felt my face grow hot again as Madame LeClare’s eyes widened.
“Oh yes, we have heard. It is a great pleasure to meet you.” Her French accent was very poor, but Loretta seemed to be impressed.
After that there were more shops for gowns and shoes, camisoles and hats, lunch at Cole’s, and finally home. My legs ached, as they sometimes did when I was very weary, after my bout with malaria. A headache bloomed behind my forehead. So much for the relaxing day Loretta insisted to her husband that I needed.
Before we arrived home I sent a cable to my parents, to tell them I was safe in Los Angeles in the capable hands of Loretta Carré and her husband, all arranged by Edison. Thinking of him I sent another cable to him in Houston, hoping he was recovering well and able to go home to his wife very soon. I did not thank him for my sudden notoriety.
It was a day for cables. One waited for me when we arrived at the Carré castle. It was from Edison. In a clash with rival revolutionary groups west of Mexico City, Colonel Jesus Robles had been killed.
0
Milo was absent, taking one of his three-hour walks. Loretta, wearing a pouty smile of sympathy that did not feel sincere, poured me a brandy. I went up to my room.
Lying on the bed, I wept. I knew, intellectually in a practical, dismissive way, that this was likely inevitable. Jesus had lived a dangerous life. But my heart broke, became a dead weight pushing me into the mattress. I lay motionless, staring at the pale masonry ceiling.
I realized I had been, was, deeply in love with Jesus Robles. This felt different from the way I had felt about Philip. Philip and I were passionate, physical, additive, perhaps. But loving Jesus was like loving a calm, beautiful beast, with the honor—respect—that I craved.
We had made love just the once, but I still pored over the entire moment in my mind, and the thought of it kept me going through the next difficult weeks. Of all the men I had known, and been with in that way, Jesus cut the deepest swathe.
Dusk darkened the sky outside my window. A breeze carried a distant rumble of traffic and horns, odors of crisp sage mixed with the faint tinge of motor oil into my room. There was a tap at my door.
“Nola, it’s Milo.”
Getting up, I opened the door. He came in, wearing the borrowed linen suit, his face sunburned and hair windblown.
“I’ve heard. I’m sorry.”
Tears swept through me again, as if rising from my toes and stinging into my eyes. Milo held me, a little stiffly, but still he did, and it helped. I dampened the shoulder of his jacket and apologized. He handed me his handkerchief.
We spoke of Jesus, and Paloma—all of it, carefully and without emotion, even with laughter, Milo on a chair near the window and I sitting on the floor, my back against my bed. It was a relief, we both suspected, to be away from the fluttery, nervous Loretta Carré.
“I remember you from the very first time you boarded the ship,” Milo said unexpectedly, after we settled into silence.
My face heated. He was so serious as he spoke, looking straight at me, the only hint of expression one eyebrow slightly cocked.
“You have to be joking. Why me, of all the girls boarding that day?”
Milo shrugged. “You caught my eye. You were tall, confident.” His cheeks pinked up. “Very pretty, too. But there was something else.”
“I was by myself. A woman, traveling alone.”
He shook his head. “No, it wasn’t that; that’s not so unusual these days. It was a sense of something, like tragedy. As if, when people meet you, their lives change, and not always in a good way.”
His words stung me. The muscles in my chest tightened. “You mean I am the touch of—well, not death, maybe, but chaos, turmoil?”
My anger deepened. I blamed myself for the events on board ship with Philip and his sister, and poor Mrs. Farragut. With a pang I wondered how she was getting along, whether she was able to close, a little, the wound of her dead son. But none of it would have happened if it weren’t for me.
Perhaps getting captured by Mexican rebels was a fluke, but Jesus did remark he took me because I was brave, and beautiful. But would Francisco Robles have murdered Hammer if it wasn’t for me?
“No, not that.” Milo’s words came quickly. “I didn’t mean that at all. I just think people are drawn to you.”
Leaning forward, his elbows on his knees, Milo clasped his hands tightly. “I just mean that I knew you were special. And, things have happened to me, things I never imagined. I don’t think I would have survived all that, of being held prisoner, if you hadn’t been with me.”
In all our travels together over the last several weeks, Milo had only said more than two sentences to me when he was very upset. He had been ever quiet. I stared at him, astonished.
I knew he was educated, articulate, and personified the old comment that still waters run deep, but now he looked so young, a child in confession. For a moment, I could think of nothing to say.
There came a tap at the door. Getting up, I opened it to find Merlin, the old Chinese servant. His deep brown gaze fanned over my face before he bowed low.
Straightening, he looked straight at me, did not try to see who might be in my room. He said, “Please, if you and Mr. Dudek would come down to dinner, the hosts would be gratified.”
“Thank you, Merlin.” Turning, I smiled at Milo, shook my head. “Tell them we’ll be right down.”
Merlin didn’t move. He looked straight at m
e. His hair might be white, but his skin was smooth, youthful.
He said, “This humble servant would like to present you with a gift. It is nothing, worthless. You might want to throw it away.”
From the sleeve of his black tunic he pulled a small bottle and lay it in the palm of his hand.
Dr. Lynch’s Health & Happiness Tonic.
Shock hit me full in the chest. I couldn’t breathe. How—? Is Papa here? Did he come?
My hand shaking, I took the bottle, read the label again.
Dr. Liu’s Health & Happiness Tonic.
My fingers at my mouth, I looked at Merlin, who bowed again. “My mistress desired you should have this. She kindly buys it from me, likely to be polite. It is nothing, worthless.”
I could think of nothing to say—once again speechless. How did Loretta know how many times I had missed my little bottle, left behind on Leopardo as she grounded herself off Acapulco?
It had been weeks, and I felt fine without it. Or was I really fine without it? Panic still rifled me, though less often. The nightmares, though, they continued to come at regular intervals.
Finally my throat opened. I slipped the bottle into my pocket. “I’m very grateful. I’ll tell the mistress myself.”
Merlin’s eyebrows rose. “Oh no, miss. She prefers to be subtle in her gifts. Do not mention it.”
I nodded. I thought I understood. There would be reasons, if Loretta used this compound herself, that she might not want people to know. There were, my father warned, some people who craved such medications to excess, himself an example.
After Merlin left, I stood in the doorway and glanced at Milo. His mouth and eyes had gone slack, bereft of emotion, so like his usual self. If he had heard the entire exchange he made no sign. If I had caught his notice weeks ago when I boarded Leopardo in New York, perhaps he already understood. There was little, I was beginning to believe, that got past Milo’s discerning glance.
I had no appetite, but not wanting to be rude, I came down to dinner with Milo. The meal was laid outside on the patio. Odors of mint and cigarette smoke filled the air, and the sun was a great molten globe to the west. I thought I saw, in the seam of the horizon, a glitter of ocean. But perhaps this was all an imagining.
Dennis Purfoy sat alone at the table, Duke at his feet. At the sight of us the Chinese maid vanished into the kitchen. Getting up, Dennis walked to a rolling glass table laden with bottles. Milo demurred, but I accepted something called a Green Vesper, burning and sweet on my tongue.
“You wore my sweet wife out, Miss Lynch, with your shopping trip today.” He smiled as he handed me my drink, but I saw fine lines of tension around his mouth.
“Not my fault, Mr. Purfoy—”
“—Dennis, please.”
“Dennis then,” I walked to the edge of the pool, trying to shake, at least for the moment of this perfect sunset, the ache of sorrow for Jesus’ death.
I said, “Loretta insisted. She was tired of seeing me in my borrowed clothes, I think.”
Dennis Purfoy came to stand beside me. Refusing his offer of a cigarette, I stood next to him a moment, looking across the still pool water to the line of sage and oak bordering the bricks.
“So she will not be joining us for dinner.” A false heartiness, and smile, then a big sigh as he exhaled smoke into the air. “Damn, I really prefer a good cigar.”
I thought of the bottle in my pocket. I had not tasted it yet—perhaps I was savoring the gift, like leaving a box of chocolates unopened. I thought of Loretta Carré’s shifting moods, and now a disappearance. Did Dennis suspect, or know?
“She wants to have a party, invite a bunch of moving pictures people here.” He sighed, smiled; but the wrinkles around his blue eyes did not relax. He pointed his cigarette at me. “To meet you, and Dr. Dudek, of course. That’s what I get for marrying the most beautiful woman I ever set eyes on.”
I could see it now, how much this man loved his wife. “I don’t know that I’m much up to a party.” In truth, I used to love parties and never passed up an invitation, but right now verbal wit and true laughter seemed to be the talents of someone else, someone I knew once and had forgotten.
“That’s what I told her. You only just got here.” Dennis’s eyebrows rose in a way I was getting used to seeing. “I know I pushed, trying to get you to meet some producers, a director or two, but I know when to back off, too. I can see you aren’t ready.”
We watched Milo circle the pool, a glass of water in his hand. I knew he was listening, but politely had moved off.
“I’m at a bit of a loss, I admit.” I didn’t know how to say how I felt. It was more than lost; paralyzed, perhaps, stuck in time. Unable to move.
“She’ll insist. I’m just warning you.” He smiled again, crookedly, like a kid. He was nothing like the sort of sour businessmen I met in New York; with a pang I realized he was more like Arthur the politician, friendly and sincere. Young. Ambitious probably. I didn’t doubt he had political ambitions in mind.
I said, “I would hate to disappoint her. I could stand it, but I don’t know about Milo.”
“He’s kind of a quiet type, isn’t he?” He lifted an elbow, as if to nudge me, but stopped himself. “You’ll protect him. I see that you already do.”
I nodded, sipped my sweet drink. A feeling of deep regard filled me, about Milo. I had never felt so close to anyone before, certainly not my own brother, not even Arthur, or Philip. I knew I would never let anything bad happen to Milo, and I knew he felt the same way about me.
We protect each other.
1
Loretta didn’t mention anything about the party for the rest of the week. Milo and I didn’t see much of the Purfoys, as Dennis vanished to his offices at the Water and Power Department downtown and Loretta had early calls every morning at the studio. I existed in a quiet, warm ennui, lying beside the pool, falling into a daily dose of Dr. Liu’s Health & Happiness Tonic, while Milo disappeared for hours, walking, walking.
Merlin seemed to have been assigned to see to our every need. A tray was brought to my room in the mornings, a bath drawn for me. My clothes were laundered and pressed, hung neatly in the closet. Since the morning of my breakfast with Dennis Purfoy I never saw any other servant than Merlin, although I knew there was a cook and a housekeeper.
Merlin was never very far away. It seemed that all I had to do was think of something, and it would appear, a glass of tea, the morning paper, a vase stuffed with sunflowers. Two days into this strange isolation, a chair and little table appeared on the patio, paper and pencils neatly laid out.
My feet bare in the warm morning, I sat at this little table, looking at the ivory-colored sheet, the charcoal pencils. A walk led from the patio and pool into a little ravine, the Canyon, Loretta had named it, where a creek bed ran under scrawny twisted oaks. Beyond this I could see spines of hills running off into a fine haze, and to the south tidy rows of orange groves.
But nothing inspired me. I had no desire to draw, remembering my lost sketches, drowned in Leopardo, lost in the bloody mess of war.
And I didn’t feel altogether hale and hearty. I slept long into the mornings, and even then fell into an afternoon nap. My appetite fell away; food seemed repulsive somehow, but I forced myself to eat.
Evenings were another matter. Even though Loretta and Dennis promised us quiet and rest and for the first few days this was the case. One evening before dinner a car appeared in the driveway.
And so Dennis and Loretta’s true lifestyle was shown to us.
Milo was the smart one. He met the guests then disappeared, and Loretta embroidered his behavior for him, a recluse, she’d say, traumatized by his weeks with the rebels. He must have his solitude.
And for myself, I tried to follow his example, but I found myself drawn in, because now, after the two deceptive days of promised recuperative solitude, there was a party. Different guests each night, perhaps, but nonetheless a party.
These were Loretta’s guests, I coul
d easily see. Dennis stood to one side in a casual linen suit, collarless shirt, blond hair combed forward to lie over his wide forehead, and several women surrounding him.
Loretta performed. Each night she did not appear until the guests had arrived and she could make her entrance in green chiffon or a red satin mandarin robe or man’s yellow velvet tux and tails. Everyone murmured over her bobbed hair.
The centerpiece of the gathering was the pool with candles floating, or the water dyed red. Entertainment could be a coterie of Chinese acrobats, Polynesian dancing girls, vaudeville comedians.
Cheeks flushed, eyes bright with colors ranging from green to blue, Loretta would inevitably find me, take me by the hand, introduce me to actresses and actors, Los Angeles politicians, writers, artists, designers. Their faces floated near me, awed, asking questions: What were they like, the rebels? Were you tortured? What did you say your name was? Oh my, I love your hair. Why did they let you go? Did they have their way with you?
There was never time to answer. There was always another question or an interruption or a giving of opinion. And then they would move on. I was a minor novelty to them, a flash in news and time. After the flurry of introductions and hands and touching and the odors of perfume and rum, laughter and voices loud, orchestra music to dance to, I would be left alone. I found myself standing near Dennis, protected, in a way, by the women who flocked to him, even as they studiously ignored me.
This was my chance to I slip away, if I wanted. But I never did. I already knew I loved this place, rustic and casual, bright and light. If a young cameraman or cowboy actor or script writer asked me to dance, I refused. I yearned for champagne, but it was not to be found. For now, it was enough to be a spectator. I had, the last several months, had all too much attention.
After a week of this, at a party smaller than usual and during a game of charades, one of the women who orbited Dennis sat beside me. Chairs and divans had been arranged in a circle for the game. I chose one a little behind the others. Normally I loved charades but I felt tired and achy and unable to perform.