by Camille Eide
Johnny’s gaze was on the hooked rug at his feet and would not meet hers.
She had better not regret this. “Very well, I would like to be considered for the job. But if you intend to hire me, I need to make one thing clear.”
“And that is?” Johnny asked.
Eliza forced her voice steady, because what she was about to say stretched every one of her nerves taut. “Any funny business and I quit. On the spot.”
Millie’s face bunched up in confusion. “Funny business? What in the world kinda—”
“It’s all right, Millie,” Johnny said quietly.
Eliza lifted her chin and waited, heart racing.
“You will not be insulted in this house,” he said. “You have my word.”
She studied him, heart hammering. “Your word?”
“Yes.” Slowly, Johnny Devine looked up and met her eyes. “Though it may be of little worth to you, I am a man of my word.”
For now, she had no choice but to take him at that word.
For whatever it was worth.
1940 was a record-breaking year in many ways. That year, I put more film in the can and received more awards and nominations than ever before. The line of starlets at my door was longer than Gable’s. And the number of times I got so blind drunk I couldn’t tell you my name also reached a record high.
~The Devine Truth: A Memoir
3
After rising earlier than usual but later than planned, Eliza dressed quickly, gulped down two cups of the blackest coffee, and made it to the corner bus stop just as the bus was pulling in, stirring leaves like yellow confetti in its wake. She thanked her lucky stars as she boarded. Being late the first day of her new job would have been disastrous.
Her window seat offered a distant view of the Golden Gate, the flurry of city traffic, and students milling around the Berkeley campus, things Eliza could normally watch for hours. But today, the city and all its buzz was just a passing blur. Her thoughts were on yesterday’s interview, her mind reliving every word of it to be sure she hadn’t dreamt it. After being in such an enchanting home, who wouldn’t suspect it had only been a dream?
But she had gotten the job, and though such an amazing opportunity was too good not to be shared, she couldn’t tell Betty—not yet, anyway. Eliza wasn’t ready for her sister’s well-meant meddling, at least not until she had socked some money away. And even if it hadn’t been a condition of employment, she wasn’t about to tell the girls from the steno pool or her old classmates that she was working for Johnny Devine, the movie star. She didn’t dare risk losing the job by drawing a squealing mob of swooning fans.
When Millie opened the door, Eliza greeted her with a calm smile. “Hello, Millie. Lovely day, isn’t it?”
The old woman gave Eliza’s shin-length navy skirt, white blouse, and coral scarf a once-over. “Yes, ma’am,” she said, peering at Eliza with the same scrutinizing look she’d given her the day before. With a nod of approval, Millie motioned her inside.
Eliza reminded herself to breathe. No matter what sort of man Johnny was, she couldn’t help but feel awed by the celebrity. She surveyed the front room but saw no sign of him.
Millie took Eliza’s pillbox hat and handbag, then shuffled toward the library. “Mr. John say to tell you he workin’ in the dinin’ room. If you was to have need of him.”
Eliza exhaled her relief and followed Millie.
In the library, a small Queen Anne desk and shiny new Smith-Corona typewriter faced the front window, offering her a charming view of the grounds, as well as the city and bay beyond. Perhaps seeing the view as she worked would help keep her imagination from wandering.
The opening chapters of the memoir were stacked neatly to the left of the typewriter, a ream of clean, white paper to the right.
Eliza sat down and picked up the first page of the original draft. Blue marks from an editor’s pencil covered so much of the sheet that there was little white space left.
Someone had already begun retyping the manuscript. Apparently Eliza’s red-faced predecessor had typed the first page before losing her wits. But did her breakdown have something to do with his story, or was it from being in too close proximity to the movie star?
Ignoring the twisty feeling in her belly, Eliza read the typed preface.
To you, my friend: My sole aim in writing this book is to take you to a place that I pray will, in spite of much ugliness along the way, give you a sense of great hope. This is not an autobiography, though I will share a great deal of my life. If you are expecting Hollywood gossip, you will be disappointed. This book is not an insider’s scoop, but a confessional. With a purpose. To be honest, I don’t relish the idea of traveling back through my life and reliving it. But if doing so will help one person discover what I have found, I will gladly make the journey. I hope you’ll stay with me to the end.
And to You, Gracious Father: I thank You for Your endless patience with me. For Your forgiveness, Your help, and Your mercy—Your unbelievable mercy. The only story worth telling is how You changed my life. Without You, I have no story. For Your sake, and for the sake of those without hope, please help me tell it well.
Baffled, Eliza reread the page, trying to make sense of it. This was not the book anyone would expect from a man like Johnny Devine. But then, her job wasn’t to speculate about the book or its author—it was simply to type it.
Determined to make herself indispensable, she went straight to work. To her surprise, the book began abruptly with a dark, sobering look at his life at the height of his career around 1940—an odd place to begin if he was planning to cover most of his life. Surely his childhood was the logical place to start.
She read over the editor’s marks in the main manuscript, then began the task of retyping the text, noting editorial suggestions and making grammatical changes as she went. But she found phrases that should have been included earlier, requiring her to start over. She slowed her pace and read ahead, making revision notes before she typed. Pencil between her teeth, she read on, typed a little more, then stopped again.
The text needed a transition.
Sunlight poured over the typewriter, warming the gleaming metal. She pressed on.
Pulling out a finished page, Eliza checked the mantel clock. A full hour had passed, and all she had to show for her work was two measly pages. The rising tingle in her spine reminded her that what she accomplished her first day was critical, especially after what had happened to the other woman. Two pages an hour was simply unacceptable. There were plenty of girls ready to snap up this job in a heartbeat.
Eliza willed her nerves to stay calm. Even ten years after Ralph’s death, she still expected to be blamed when anything went wrong. Words could be like nails driven so deeply into the soul that, even when removed, they left a lasting hole.
She looked over the manuscript again with a critical eye. No. It wasn’t her fault, but that of the writing. It alternated between eloquent and incoherent. Sometimes, in spite of the awkward grammar, his writing had a naturally rhythmic, conversational flow, as if he were telling a story directly to Eliza. But other times, the writing was flat or redundant, the thoughts rambling and incomplete.
The tick of the clock marked the passing seconds. She pressed on, determined to fix each line, one by one, if that was what it took. Yet halfway through the third page, Eliza stopped, baffled. She read and reread the page. What was Johnny trying to say? Even his editor had left a giant, blue question mark in the margin, so Eliza wasn’t the only one unable to make sense of it.
She had no choice but to ask him to clarify.
She took the page and went out of the library, then stopped. Where exactly was the dining room?
The front sitting room opened into another room at the other end of the lower level, and to her right was a spiral staircase. Beyond that, a long hallway led toward the rear of the house.
She chose the hallway. The click of her heels echoed like a roomful of clocks, probably alerting every neighbor
and stray cat of her movements. A good thing, since she could probably get lost in this house.
The hall led to a white kitchen with a long row of windows that drew in sunlight through small square panes, casting a patchwork of light on the wall. Millie was drying a mixing bowl, her attention trained on a television set perched on a rolling cart.
“Luuuuuuu-cy!” Ricky Ricardo’s voice thundered. Laughter roared from the TV.
“Lord, have mercy,” Millie said, shaking her head. “She gone and done it again, fool woman.” Millie turned around, saw Eliza, and shook her head again. “The more lies you tell, the more lies you gots to tell to keep it all afloat.” She hung the dishtowel on a bar. “I tell my grandchildren the same thing my granddaddy tell me. A lie come back on you like a whip. Maybe not today, maybe not till Judgment Day, but sooner or later, a lie come back and sting you, every time.”
The idea of Millie’s grandfather making reference to a whip sent a shudder through Eliza. No doubt he’d experienced such ghastly treatment firsthand.
Millie removed a pan of something golden and bubbling from the oven. The rich, sweet scent of apples, sugar, and spices filled the kitchen, rousing Eliza’s hunger. Whatever it was, it smelled heavenly. A deep growl rumbled from her insides.
Millie turned around and gave her a squinty look, head cocked to one side as if she was searching for the source of the ominous sound.
“Can you tell me where I can find Mr. Devine?” Eliza held up the sheet of manuscript as proof of her mission and resisted the urge to fan her burning cheeks with it.
“Mr. John? Yes, ma’am. Follow me.” Millie set the pan down on the stove and led Eliza back along the hallway. They turned and went into the sitting room, then through a doorway and to their left into a dining room.
Dozens of handwritten pages covered one end of the table like leaves scattered by the wind. Tall-backed mahogany chairs surrounded the table. A large window offered a lovely view of the weeping willows that obscured the lower part of the driveway and front gate, the tree branches rippling like long hair in a gentle breeze.
Johnny Devine stood at the window with his back to her.
Eliza cleared her throat. “Mr. Devine?”
Johnny turned with a jolt. “Sorry, I didn’t hear you come in. And please, call me John.”
A prickle of unease gave her pause. First names made things decidedly personal. Most employers would not suggest it.
“If you don’t mind, that is.”
“Of course not,” she lied. She wasn’t about to call him by his first name. “I saw the name ‘Vincent’ on the front gate. Was that a previous owner, or perhaps an alias? Or—I’m sorry, I’m being nosy.”
“Not at all. This was my grandparents’ home. My given name is John David Vincent. I prefer not to use the stage name unless I have to.”
“I see.”
“How is it coming?” He nodded at the paper in her hand.
As Millie excused herself, Eliza gave the page a scrutinizing glance. Perhaps the pause would give her time to make what she had to say easier. “I’m sorry to disturb you, but there’s a passage here that I’m … not sure what you meant to say.” Eliza reminded herself, again, to speak more firmly. Most people didn’t take a soft-spoken woman seriously, and as a female trying to break into a male-dominated literary world, softness was an added disadvantage.
Frowning, he limped closer, took the page, and read it. He towered over her by several inches, even when leaning on a cane. His aftershave gave off a warm, woodsy fragrance. The crease in his brow deepened. “I’ll rewrite it. It may take a little while. I hope you don’t mind.”
“No, not at all.”
He glanced at the bottom of the page and frowned again. “This is only page three.” He turned to her. The amber flecks in his dark eyes set his questioning look ablaze.
“Yes.” Was he upset about her slow progress? But she couldn’t simply retype the manuscript as it was—the writing needed significant revision. Surely he knew that?
Would he blame her anyway? Fire her?
John met her gaze. “I’ll bring it to you when I’m finished.”
Eliza forced a polite smile. “Very good.” She turned and headed back through the front sitting room, passing an inviting display of colorful French tapestries and calming woodwork while her insides clenched tighter with each step.
Was this how working with him would be for the entire book?
Back at her desk, she took up a notepad and continued going over the manuscript, making her revisions in shorthand which she could type later, after he returned the revised page.
She was making steady progress when Millie cleared her throat from the other end of the library. “Lunch be served at twelve thirty, ma’am. I ’spect you’ll take it in here?”
Eliza turned to answer but hesitated. No doubt that streusel-topped apple dish was to die for. But she hadn’t even earned a full day’s pay yet. At the rate things were going, by eating his food, she could end up owing him at the end of the day.
And owing him anything was out of the question.
She swallowed hard. Twice. “No, thank you, I … won’t be needing lunch.”
Frowning, Millie tilted her head and peered around Eliza’s feet and over the desk. “You brought your own, then?”
“I’m quite fine, thank you, Millie.” Eliza’s smile felt too tight. As long as you don’t bring that miraculous apple thing in here.
By the time John came back with his page, she had revised two more pages in shorthand.
He set the new sheet of paper on her desk. “Perhaps this is clearer,” he said, his deep voice almost a grumble. He stared at the page for a moment, then turned and left.
With a wince, Eliza watched his retreating limp. She had heard he’d been injured in the war, but she didn’t know the particulars. Walking seemed painful for him. Forcing herself to focus, she returned to her work.
The rest of the day followed in the same pattern: revision, short bouts of typing, and more interrupting Mr. Devine—or John, which she still couldn’t bring herself to call him—when the writing was unclear. Every time she went to him for clarification, his frustration oozed across the room. It didn’t help that the sound of her shoes on the wood floor alerted him to her approach. She’d never wished for a pair of slippers more.
At five o’clock, Eliza gathered the wads of paper that had missed the waste can and collected her purse and hat from Millie. Mustering her nerve, she went to the dining room.
John was asleep at the table, his dark head resting on folded arms, his jacket slung over the chair behind him.
Should she wake him or wait? Seeing the film star drooling on his sleeve did help make him a little less intimidating. She cleared her throat.
John awoke with a start and sat up. “Mrs. Saunderson.”
“I’m … sorry to disturb you, Mr. De—” Frowning, she bit her lip. What in the world was she going to call him? “I’m leaving now. I will continue retyping your opening chapters tomorrow.”
He grabbed his cane and rose, expression unreadable. “Do you know how long before you can begin typing what I’m writing now?”
“I’m not sure.” Her mind raced for a valid defense. Ralph had never accepted blame for his mistakes. Everything was always twisted into being her fault.
Millie came into the dining room and stood quietly beside the buffet.
Eliza concentrated on keeping her voice as kind as possible. “Because of … the kinds of revisions your publisher requires,” she said carefully, “it’s taking me a bit of time to work through them.” With any luck, she was the only one who could hear the dry click in her throat.
“I see. But that may be a problem. I had four months to turn in a completed manuscript, and I’m a month behind schedule.” His face churned with unreadable thoughts.
If he wanted to fire her and hire someone else, couldn’t he just say so? She forced herself to speak. “I promise to do everything in my power to meet your deadl
ine.”
He studied her carefully, as if sifting her words and weighing each one. “All right, Mrs. Saunderson, you do that,” he said. “And I’ll pray.”
I learned that it didn’t matter how I showed up on the set, only that I did. Breathing and semi-upright. Skills any student of Stanislavski could be proud of.
~The Devine Truth: A Memoir
4
Eliza arrived at the villa the next morning determined to disturb her employer as little as possible. She went to work smoothing out transitions and following the editor’s notes. But she soon came across more phrases and sections she didn’t understand. Who was “Jonesy,” and why had John brought up the name only to never mention the woman—assuming it was a woman—again? Were his readers supposed to know who she was? As teenagers, Eliza and Betty had been strictly sheltered by their old-fashioned parents. Though Eliza had later become familiar with Hollywood gossip, perhaps she was still naïve to things that were common knowledge to the general public.
And what did he mean by the phrase “nameless studio starlets assigned to candy duty”? She read on, but there was no further mention of the phrase. She had her suspicions about what it meant, but the author still needed to explain the term for his readers.
Since she dreaded interrupting him, she marked problem spots and read on. When she had collected a number of things needing to be fixed, she took them to him all at once. Thanks to heels that announced her approach, every time she went to him, John was leaning back in his chair, watching her enter, with a grim look that deepened with each trip. By noon, it was all she could do to make herself walk into that dining room.
The pay is good, she kept reminding herself. And as she worked, Eliza held on to the hope that John was learning from his prior mistakes and was now avoiding them as he wrote. It was a small hope, but she held on to it all the same.