by Camille Eide
She looked her sister in the eye. “I thought we were discussing me.”
Kit-Cat’s ticking—which suddenly seemed louder—filled the room.
Rats, the time! Eliza needed to call her former employers again, now that people were getting home from work. Best not to do that with Betty hovering nearby. “The drive to Richmond Heights must be a real bear, especially at this time of day.”
Betty gasped at her watch. “Oh, for pity’s sake, Ed will be home in two hours, and I don’t have meat thawing. I wouldn’t have come here if I’d known I’d have to wait so long for you to show up. We’ll talk soon, hon.” She pecked the air with a kiss and left.
As soon as Betty was gone, Eliza took the bundles of food from her handbag and tucked them between the coffee pot and hot plate. Her stomach piqued a sudden interest in the grapes. But until she got paid again, she needed to make the food last.
A buzz sounded at the door.
Expecting to hear one more piece of sisterly advice, she opened the door, but it was Ivy from across the hall.
“There’s a call on the line asking for Mrs. Saunderson.” Ivy peered beyond Eliza as if looking for someone. “Sounds official.”
“Thank you.” Eliza stepped out and closed the door behind her, forcing Ivy and her curiosity to step back on the landing, and dashed downstairs. It had to be the agency. It had to.
“Hello, this is Mrs. Saunderson,” Eliza said into the receiver, hoping she sounded confident.
It was the agency. The receptionist told her about an interview for an opening. “However,” she said, “the job doesn’t fully suit your qualifications.”
Eliza frowned. “But you said the job is for an editorial assistant with typing and shorthand skills. I have extensive experience in all three. It’s on my profile. Why do you say I’m not qualified?”
The receptionist apologized. “What I meant was it doesn’t match your specifications. But I know you’re eager for work, so I thought you might want to hear about it anyway.”
“Yes, please.” What specifications had she listed on her profile?
“The job is a long-term project requiring strong editorial skills.”
“Yes, I understand that.”
“And it pays very well.”
A shiver of excitement raced down her back. “But …?”
“But the employer is … a single male, and the job is at his private home.”
Ah. Her rule on that item was non-negotiable. “I’m sorry, I don’t think—wait, how much does it pay?”
The woman gave her a figure.
“Per month?” It wasn’t heaps more than what she’d made on her last freelance job, but was still worth considering.
“No, that’s per week.”
Eliza gasped. “Per week? Are you sure?” She could earn six times her rent in a month. But working for a man in his home? It just wasn’t smart. “I’m sorry, but I—”
The super lumbered past in his usual untucked, grease-stained work shirt—ironic, since he never actually worked on anything. When he saw Eliza, he rubbed his fingertips together and gave her that leering look of his. The one that reminded her that the further she got behind on rent, the less pleasant he could be.
Eliza shivered. “Yes, I will take the interview.”
Even if people wanted to forget the kind of man I once was, they couldn’t. The tabloids made certain of that.
~The Devine Truth: A Memoir
2
The bus left downtown Berkeley and climbed into the east hills. The neighborhoods north of the University campus differed from the rest of the city. The homes here were larger, finer, and set farther apart. But what stood out most was how vastly different each home was from the others in design and character, nothing at all like the uniformity of her east Oakland neighborhood.
The bus let her off at Beechwood Lane. It was a good ten-minute walk to the address the agency had given her, which turned out to be the last home on the dead-end, tree-lined street. At least, she assumed it was a house, since she couldn’t see any part of a building. A hedge of evergreens formed a tall screen along the front of the property and ended at two thick stone columns supporting a barred, metal gate.
Eliza tugged the hem of her jacket, smoothed her skirt, and pushed the call button. She’d never encountered a locked gate at a residential job before. Tucking a wayward curl behind her ear, she looked over her shoulder at the quiet lane. Only two cars had passed during her walk, another stark contrast to her busy neighborhood. It was almost as if she’d stepped into another world.
The speaker box beside the gate crackled. “Yes?” The female voice was nearly lost in the static.
“Hello,” Eliza said, wincing at the natural softness of her voice. She spoke up. “My name is Mrs. Saunderson. I’m here for an interview.” She pushed her glasses higher and peered closely at the tarnished brass plaque above the speaker box. Vincent.
“Come up to the door and wait,” the tired voice said.
The gate buzzed, then opened slowly with a humming, metallic sound.
Eliza stepped onto a cobbled stone drive.
The gate closed on its own.
She followed the drive as it curved to the right, bordered on either side by an overgrown hedge bursting with white blooms. The sweet fragrance reminded Eliza of her mother. Somehow, the passing years had made Mama’s favorite scent easier to remember than her face.
Still, the blooming hedge was a good sign. Anyone who would surround their home with the scent of gardenias couldn’t be all bad.
Weeping willows obscured Eliza’s view of the dwelling until she rounded another bend in the drive. There, nestled between flowering shrubs and trees, stood a house Eliza could only describe as something from a storybook. Dark, decorative trim adorned the white stucco walls, matching the weathered shakes of the roof. Leaded glass windows made up of small, square panes faced west, and smooth, round stones of varying sizes formed an arch above the door.
What really drew her attention was the turret above the entryway, a column rising from the place where two angled parts of the house met in the center. A cone-shaped roof topped the tower, coming to a point like a witch’s hat. The turret’s narrow window glittered from sunlight hitting the tiny diamond shapes. A small balcony jutted out beneath the window.
Eliza had never seen such a charming villa anywhere but in a book, and certainly not in the middle of a swanky Berkeley suburb. This home looked more like something from The Hobbit. Surely a bearded dwarf would round the corner any minute, and then perhaps a hobbit with a long pipe would throw open the tower window and shout a friendly greeting.
To the right of the house, beyond the drive, the grounds ended at a line of dense trees partially obscuring a stone wall. This homeowner clearly valued his privacy.
She couldn’t really blame him. Who wouldn’t want to keep such an enchanting place tucked away from prying eyes?
From midway along the drive, a moss-entwined stone path cut across the lawn and curved around the left of the house toward a secluded garden, daring Eliza to slip off her pumps and test the cool, green carpet and smooth stone with her stockinged feet. A trellis dripping with clusters of wisteria formed a canopy in the center of the garden, and beneath it, two white, wrought iron chairs and a table beckoned her to come sip tea and spend a leisurely afternoon basking in sweet-scented seclusion.
Hopefully no one was watching her from the house as she paused a moment longer, drinking in the charm with a smile she couldn’t contain.
This would be no ordinary typing job.
She followed the path to the house. On either side of the front door, windows overlooked lemon-scented shrubbery and a shaggy lawn.
The front door opened, and a small, colored woman wearing a starched gray-and-white maid’s uniform stepped out. She peered at Eliza through round glasses. Her sparse gray hair, pulled back from her creased forehead, tufted in places like a fine mist. Without speaking, she looked Eliza up and down.
; “Hello.” Eliza offered her most professional smile. “I’m Mrs. Saunderson. The agency sent me.”
The old woman planted fists on her hips and studied Eliza’s shoes, then her two-piece navy suit—another hand-me-down from Betty, chosen to accentuate Eliza’s dark-blue eyes—then peered up at Eliza with a narrowed gaze. “Ma’am, how old are you?”
Not once had she been asked her age for a typing job. “I’m thirty-three.”
The woman continued her scrutiny. If not for the incredible pay and the amount of borrowed bus fare it had taken to get here, Eliza might have turned around and caught the next bus back to Oakland. But perhaps people who lived in enchanted estates—or at least their help—could be expected to be a bit eccentric.
“Do you … want to know my typing speed or see my portfolio?”
“No, ma’am. I ’spect you type just fine.” The maid studied her face again.
Eliza got the feeling the old woman was trying to decide if she knew her.
Finally, the woman nodded. “All right then, come inside.” Leading the way with a steady hitch in her step, the woman took Eliza through a small sitting room filled with an assortment of antique furnishings, past a narrow, curved staircase with a hallway beside it, and into a long parlor. The room was more of a library, the walls inset with dozens of shelves and papered in gold and crimson. The golden glass and wrought iron sconces and quaint furniture looked like they’d been here for half a century, but were spotless and well-kept.
“Have a seat, ma’am.”
Eliza sat on a velvet settee facing the front windows and the picturesque view of the bay with the silhouette of the Golden Gate in the distance.
The maid peered at her again, hunched shoulders bringing her face nearly level with Eliza’s. “Do you know who live here?”
“I’m afraid I don’t.”
“Well, he be the one you discuss the typin’ with. But before he come, I need to know how you behave around famous folks.”
“Famous? I don’t know if I’ve ever—”
“Last girl didn’t even make it through her first day.” She let out a huff and shook her head. “I knew that red-faced woman gonna be trouble the minute I seen her.”
“So, your employer is … a celebrity?” Eliza scrambled to think of anyone famous with the last name of Vincent.
“That’s right. He been in many pictures, but I ’spect you was just a schoolgirl then.”
“Pictures?” Eliza smiled. “How exciting.”
The maid’s narrowed gaze told Eliza this was the wrong response. “You ever see a celebrity up close?”
Eliza had to think about it. “I saw Eleanor Roosevelt at a press conference once. But I was in a large crowd and didn’t get close enough to speak to her.”
The maid nodded. “I like Miz Roosevelt. She a smart woman.” She studied Eliza as she spoke. “But movie stars is different.”
Eliza’s curiosity was now fully engaged, but she kept it to herself, since the woman clearly took her screening job very seriously. She looked the old woman squarely in the eye. “I can assure you that I will behave as sensibly with your employer as I would with any other.”
“Humph. I be the judge of that.” The woman’s wrinkly face softened. “I’m Millie.”
“I’m pleased to meet you, Millie. Please, call me Eliza.”
A buzzer sounded from somewhere across the library.
“Beg your pardon, ma’am.” Millie shuffled to a doorway at the far end of the room and picked up a telephone receiver. She spoke in low tones for a few moments, then hung up and came back to Eliza.
“He see you shortly.” Millie turned away.
“Oh, wait—before you go, can you tell me who he is?”
Millie shook her head. “No, ma’am. You know soon enough. Besides, I ain’t goin’ nowhere.” Millie tottered to the stone fireplace and stood beside it like a tiny, gray sentinel, her knobby hands clasped in front.
A twinge tingled along Eliza’s nerves. How would she react to meeting a famous movie star face to face? Would she get weak in the knees? Tongue-tied?
If it meant getting the job, she could certainly act calm. Though pretense was despicable, it was, unfortunately, something she’d become quite good at. If she could spend three years pretending to be serene and unaffected while a storm of humiliation and hurt raged within her, she could certainly conceal being a little star-struck.
Had she and Ralph only been together three years before he had left for war? It seemed so much longer—long enough to leave his voice forever ringing in her ears …
A real woman knows how to keep a man happy. And I’m stuck with one who can’t even get one thing right.
Eliza tried to tune out the memory before the last part could—
Should’ve just gotten a dog.
Something thunked against wood.
Eliza shook off the memory and prepared to meet the employer.
The thunking sound grew louder until a tall, dark-haired man in charcoal tweed slacks, a crisp white shirt, and a tie appeared in the parlor doorway.
Eliza gasped in spite of herself and stood, almost too numb to move. Millie was right—there were probably few who wouldn’t recognize Hollywood’s legendary Johnny Devine.
He leaned on a cane, but straightened to a full six-foot-plus when his gaze found Eliza.
Her heart thudded. The silver screen had not done his looks full justice.
“Mr. John,” Millie said from her post. “This is Mrs. Saunderson.”
“How do you do?” Johnny Devine asked in that trademark voice that made far too many sensible women swoon. He eyed Eliza carefully, waiting.
Still numb, Eliza couldn’t answer.
Millie’s description of her employer as “famous” was an understatement. Notorious was more accurate. Louella Parsons’s Hollywood gossip column had been the first to dub him “Devilishly Devine.” From all accounts, Johnny Devine was extremely fond of women—young or old, rich or poor, married or single, loose or chaste. Rumor had it he could seduce anything in a skirt quicker than he could hail a cab.
Johnny turned to Millie, and the old woman gave him a single nod. He returned his attention to Eliza and studied her for a painfully long moment.
“Mrs. Saunderson,” he said finally. “Won’t you please be seated?”
Reminding herself to breathe, Eliza found her seat. He’s just a man. Just a regular man.
While Millie held her place, Johnny Devine limped to the other side of the fireplace and lowered himself onto a chair, squeezing his cane in a white-knuckled grip as he sat. He drew a deep breath and faced Eliza. Then he smiled.
Oh … my … stars … On screen, that smile was a heart stopper. But in person? It could melt the stockings right off a girl.
“I’m writing a book,” he said. “A memoir, actually. It’s under contract with a New York publishing house, Covenant Press. I have the first three chapters here—”
He began to rise, but Millie tut-tutted at him and retrieved a manila envelope from the fireplace mantel. She tottered over and handed it to Eliza.
Memoir? Eliza stared at the tan packet on her lap, wishing she didn’t have to touch it.
“After going over those first few chapters,” he said, pointing at the envelope, “my publisher suggested I hire a typist with strong editorial skills. You can see his marks for yourself. He likes the content but wants me to find someone who can do the edits on those chapters and get the project back on schedule by sorting out any other … grammatical issues that arise as I write the rest.”
Eliza stared at the envelope, thoughts whirling. The last thing she wanted was to read three hundred pages of him boasting about his dressing room adventures, much less fix the grammar. But the pay was so unbelievably good.
And yet there was also the issue of working with him. In his home.
Eliza stole a glance at him. He was surely older than he’d been in his last picture that she’d seen, but every bit as attractive. In fact, he was more
handsome than a man had a right to be.
She stiffened. Of course, this was a man whose good looks, breathtaking smile, and smooth charm had gotten him anything and anyone he wanted. However, she wouldn’t be duped by a sweet-talking liar, no matter how handsome. She’d learned that lesson all too well, thanks to Ralph. “I have extensive editing experience and am confident I can do the work.”
“Tell me about your qualifications,” Johnny said, his deep voice businesslike.
“I have a bachelor’s degree in English.” Eliza resisted the urge to lift her chin. Though she’d worked hard to earn it, the degree had done her little good. “With a minor in Journalism.”
Wincing, Johnny Devine shifted slightly in his seat. “Impressive. And your experience?”
“During the war, I worked in the steno pool at McClellan Air Force Base. Since then, I’ve worked as a freelance editor, writer, typist, and stenographer.” Not steadily enough to make a decent living, but that wasn’t any of his business. Those good-paying base jobs had been given to men returning after the war, leaving Eliza, and many women like her, jobless.
“Excellent,” Johnny said. “Do you have any questions for me?”
“Yes.” Why hadn’t she inherited Papa’s forthright-sounding voice like Betty had instead of Mama’s soft tone? She sat up straighter to bolster her nerve. “Do you intend for us to work alone?”
He frowned. “Alone?” But just as quickly as it appeared, his frown dissolved. He turned and stared out the window, his lips pressed tight. “No. I should have mentioned that at the start. Millie is here every day of the week. And my handyman, Duncan McBride, lives on the property, so he’s always around.”
Millie chuckled. “Well, where else he gonna go? That ol’ leprechaun older than me.”
Swell. Two ancient domestic workers were Eliza’s only guarantee against unwanted attentions. But at least their presence meant she and Mr. Devilishly Devine wouldn’t be completely alone. And she’d be nuts to pass up the money. Betty would sermonize about the man’s reputation, but Eliza was a grown woman. She could manage the consequences of her own decisions just fine.