by Camille Eide
John was seated by the fireplace, reading a book. When she came in, he looked up and fell back against his chair as if a gust of wind had pushed him.
“Good morning,” Eliza said.
His dark eyes studied her.
“I wasn’t sure what I should wear to the meeting.” But then, she could have asked Betty. “Is this all right?”
His gaze roamed her outfit, then lingered on her face. He quickly shifted his focus to the framed art on the wall opposite the fireplace. “Yes. Millie isn’t feeling well and took the day off, so I’ve asked Duncan to work inside today. I hope that’s agreeable to you?”
Duncan? Oh. John still thought Eliza didn’t trust him. How she longed to tell him not to worry, that she knew what an honorable man he was. “It’s perfectly fine with me either way.”
John nodded, still studying the wall. Memorizing each picture, apparently. “Shall we get started? We only have about an hour and a half before the cab arrives. Or cabs, that is. I’ve called for two.”
Eliza stared at him. Was he worried about the propriety of traveling together? Or how it would look if they went in and out of a hotel in the same cab?
That was it.
Her face warmed. “You want to safeguard your new reputation. I understand.”
John returned to his book. “It’s not my reputation that needs safeguarding,” he said, almost beneath his breath.
The Claremont Hotel stood long, tall, and bold against the wooded hills overlooking the East Bay. A dazzling sight with its multifaceted architecture and miles of decorative white trim, it looked more like a sprawling, white castle than a hotel.
As her cab made the final ascent to the main entrance, Eliza marveled at the grand structure, soaking it all in. Cinderella couldn’t have been more enthralled upon seeing the prince’s palace. This certainly wasn’t Eliza’s low-rent neighborhood, favorite haunt of spinster writers and stray tomcats.
She entered the lobby, struck instantly by the polished, dark wood floors and thick, round pillars that spanned from floor to lofty ceiling, gleaming white trunks in contrast to the rich moss-green-and-merlot-colored wallpaper.
John met her at the base of a broad staircase. As he escorted her up, she could just imagine what Betty would say if she knew Eliza was dining here. One lunch at a place like this would probably cost more than an entire month of lunches at Lucky’s. With tips.
In the red-velvet dining room, a host wearing crisp white tails and a bow tie escorted John and Eliza to a round table where a stout bald man was seated.
He stood as they approached, then shook John’s hand.
“Fred,” John said, “I’d like you to meet Mrs. Saunderson, author, and collaborator of my book. Mrs. Saunderson, this is Fred Wharton, Senior Editor and soon-to-be Publisher of Covenant Press Publishing.”
Fred took her hand. “Good heavens, Johnny makes me sound like some kind of potentate.” His jowly face stretched into a beaming smile. “How do you do?”
“Very well, Mr. Wharton, thank you.”
“Please, call me Fred. Thank you for joining our meeting. Although I must say you certainly don’t fit in here.” He pulled out a chair for her.
Eliza slid onto the seat, stung by his comment. Surely he was teasing. Even if someone thought she didn’t belong at the Claremont with celebrities and publishing executives, who would actually say it aloud?
Fred gave her chair a polite push and then took his seat.
Eliza fanned her cheeks and glanced across the table at John.
He opened his mouth but hesitated, then turned to his editor. “I wonder, Fred, if you could explain. I’m afraid Mrs. Saunderson may have missed the meaning of your … compliment.”
“What? Oh, so sorry. I only meant you’ve just brightened up this stuffy room like a fresh bouquet, and then you choose to sit with a couple of drab, old duffers like us.”
John looked down to unfold his napkin, a faint smile emerging.
“Oh. Thank you.” Eliza willed her nerves to relax. “But if you two are drab, old duffers, then I’m the Queen of Sheba.”
Fred laughed and winked at John. “Smart and diplomatic.”
After placing their orders, the three of them made polite, easy small talk over the sparkling strains of jazz playing nearby and the hum of dining conversation. A lively trombone solo stood out above the chatter.
John cocked his head as if listening carefully. “Is that who I think it is?” he asked.
Fred closed his eyes. “I believe that is none other than Tommy Dorsey, the Sentimental Gentleman of Swing.”
Eliza used to listen to the Dorsey Brothers on the radio whenever she could. She smiled, tapping her toes to the rhythm. “Too bad Tommy and his brother don’t perform together anymore. I always hoped they’d work it out and play together again.”
Fred shook his head. “It’s really a shame. If brothers can’t get along, then who can?”
John nodded slowly, but by the way the glint in his eyes faded, his thoughts were far away. Perhaps on a different pair of brothers, many years ago.
She didn’t realize how hungry she was until the waiter placed a golden chicken à la king in front of her. As the guest at this meeting, she waited for her host’s cue.
Fred thanked the waiter and inhaled the ribbons of steam rising from a dish of beef bourguignon, then bowed his bald head, eyes closed, and began to pray.
John closed his eyes.
Eliza did the same, offering God the only thing she had—her ever-increasing questions. God, did that woman in the Bible ‘go and sin no more’? How is it that Christ showed her such love, and yet You want people to submit to You? I’ve known tyranny, and there was nothing loving about it. Can You really change people, like You did John Vincent? If You changed him, can You remove the anger from my heart? And remove feelings I have no business feeling for a man who sees me as a bookish nobody, who probably still cares for someone from his own world who is so much more—
An odd silence enveloped her.
Eliza opened her eyes.
Fred and John seemed to be patiently waiting for her.
“Oh. I’m sorry,” she said, cheeks burning. “I’m … new at this.”
John tilted his head and studied her.
“No need to apologize, my dear.” Fred’s voice boomed across the dining room. He looked at his plate with a happy sigh and started shoveling meat and noodles into his mouth with more enthusiasm than she’d seen in a long time. Apparently New York publishing houses never fed their editors.
Loud whispers and giggling in the far corner of the dining room drew Eliza’s attention.
When John turned to see where the sound was coming from, the giggles turned to muffled squeals. He turned away quickly, but it was too late. He shot a pained glance at Fred.
“Sorry, Johnny,” Fred said. He wiped his mouth. “I hoped that, by choosing the Claremont, we’d avoid this sort of thing.”
Eliza watched from the corner of her eye as two middle-aged women approached the table.
They jostled one another, nearly knocking each other down to reach the table first, and then stopped beside John.
He acknowledged them with a polite nod. “How do you do?”
At the sound of his voice, the taller one went rigid, her eyes instantly round, while the red-faced one fanned herself with a gloved hand and let out another giggle. “Oh, Helen,” she said, never taking her eyes from John. “He’s even more handsome in person!”
Helen only nodded, still wide-eyed.
Fred rested his arms across his ample belly and watched John, making little attempt to hide his amusement.
Still fanning herself, the giggly one leaned closer. “Would you be so kind—?”
“It would be my pleasure,” John said. “Do you have something I could write on?”
“Oh!” The women gasped at each other and fumbled in their handbags.
“Say, what about these paper coasters, Johnny?” Fred said. “I have two that haven’t
been used—”
“Oh, we don’t mind if you’ve used it, do we, Helen?”
Helen stared at John and froze again, her mouth now a fully formed O.
Eliza wasn’t sure Helen was even breathing, which was slightly alarming, because the woman already looked like she was about to have a stroke.
John took the pen and coasters Fred offered. “To Helen,” he said, adding his name. He turned to the other woman. “And to …?”
“Lucille, like Lucille Ball. You know, like I Love Lucy?” She giggled and covered her mouth.
John signed the coaster and handed the autographs to the ladies with a polite smile.
Lucille clasped her friend’s arm and nearly crumpled at the knees.
Eliza could just picture them both fainting right there on John’s steak, and hoped like mad that they wouldn’t.
Fred thanked the ladies and wished them a pleasant day.
John retained his smile as the women collected themselves and teetered back toward their table, squealing like teenyboppers.
Fred wiped his chin and pushed his plate aside. “Well, on that note,” he said brightly, “shall we get to work?”
“It’s your dime, Fred,” John said. “I’m all ears.”
“No, Clark Gable is all ears.” Fred chuckled. “Johnny Devine is all charm. And I don’t care what you say, you’ve still got it.”
John studied the older man, his face laboring the way it did when he was carefully choosing his words. “Thanks, Fred. But that ‘charm’ is one of the things I’d rather forget.” He folded his napkin and pressed it firmly onto the table. “One of many. And I hope you do care about what I have to say, because that’s about all I have left.”
A solemn quiet blanketed the table.
Eliza felt completely out of place—no, worse than that—an eavesdropper.
With a frown at his folded hands, Fred said, “You’re right, Johnny. I was only … you’re right. My apologies.”
John shook his head. “Please, there’s no need for that. You know how much I value your opinion. You understand better than anyone what this book means to me, and I know you’re taking a huge risk with my story. I admire your faith and courage. And I’m honored that you believe in me.”
Eliza tore her gaze from John and studied the spiced apple and mint garnish on her plate, trying to break the magnetic pull of John’s presence. The pure grace of his words warmed her, tugged at her heart with a painfully firm grip.
“Thank you,” Fred said, tone sobering. “John, I love what I’m seeing so far in the manuscript. It’s magnificent work, and I look forward to seeing the finished product, as I’m sure you both are. Now, one of the reasons I’m here is because I’ve learned about an opportunity I think you’ll want to consider. It’s up to you, of course. Your agent tells me our book is drawing some big fish. It seems both Universal and Paramount are nibbling at the movie rights.”
“Movie rights? Sure.” John puffed out a laugh. “You’ve got to be kidding.”
“Not at all. Think about the possibilities, Johnny. We’d get first shot at the screenplay, and you’ve already got a topnotch writer here with a peach of a chance at the contract. And best of all, it’s unlimited exposure for your book. I know how you feel about getting your story out. And I’m behind you all the way. Do yourself a favor and think about it.”
Eliza’s chest fluttered. If John agreed to make his story into a movie, and if she were contracted to write the screenplay, she and John could continue working together.
Fred turned to her. “I’m sorry. Of course, I intended to ask you first, Mrs. Saunderson. What do you say about writing the screenplay?”
“I’d love to, yes. If John is agreeable.”
“Absolutely,” John said. “I appreciate your support, Fred. Can I think about it?”
“Certainly. Besides, you’re on a book deadline now, in case you didn’t know.” Fred winked at Eliza. “How’s it coming, by the way? Are we about ready to fire up the presses?”
“We’re in the home stretch,” John said. “Thanks to a very talented writer who can take my ramblings and make them sound interesting. We’re very fortunate.” With a smile, he met Eliza’s gaze.
For some reason, she couldn’t breathe.
“Didn’t I tell you when you had to keep sacking those other typists that the Lord would provide?” Fred turned to Eliza. “Now, Mrs. Saunderson, in case you thought we dragged you down here only to listen to me jaw about Johnny, I have a question for you too.”
Eliza forced herself to give Fred her full attention.
“I hear you have a couple of manuscripts that made the rounds at some of the other houses without any takers. Do you have a proposal? If so, I’d be willing to take a look.”
Stunned, Eliza gaped at Fred, then at John.
John gave her a single go-ahead nod.
“Well, yes, I do.” She swallowed hard. “Are you … aware of the subject matter of my work?”
Fred nodded. “I can’t promise anything, but I’d like to believe we’re a forward-thinking house. What better time to branch out and explore social issues in the light of God’s plan for mankind? Personally, I love the idea of helping people come together in unity and equal footing. Will you send what you have?”
With a joy she could barely contain, Eliza nodded. “Yes, I will. Thank you.” She turned to John with a smile so wide it almost hurt.
He smiled in return, eyes shining. John didn’t think her writing was a waste of time. He believed in her.
It may have been her imagination, but a ray of honey-colored light broke through the window and warmed her clean through.
Hope was always just out of reach. Like a shadow, I could see it but knew I could never touch it.
~The Devine Truth: A Memoir
18
As John and Eliza waited outside the hotel for their cabs, she heard someone speaking through a megaphone nearby. She looked around to find the source. “Do you hear that?”
John nodded. “Sounds like a rally. That’s typical, this close to campus. Although that one doesn’t look too promising.” He pointed across the hotel lawn. “Pretty thin crowd.”
A woman stood on a bench in front of a building, surrounded by about a dozen people, chanting something about equal rights.
“I’d like to hear what she’s saying. Do you mind?”
“I don’t mind,” he said.
They walked north along the hotel drive. Eliza started across Claremont Avenue, but John touched her arm.
“On second thought, I wouldn’t go over there if I were you,” he said, voice low.
Even through her jacket, her arm tingled where he touched her. “Why not?”
John looked left, then right along the busy street. “Like you, I support the message, but it’s not a good place to be seen. Things are shaky right now, with the all the communist scrutiny, and certain topics—such as equality for minorities—are often marked as communist sympathies.”
Which Eliza knew all too well. She needed to find out the truth about her parents before anyone else did. She needed to protect her parents—as well as herself—from needless suspicion. “So I’ve heard,” she said finally.
“We should probably get out of here,” he said, still looking around. “You never know who’s watching. It’s just smart to be careful. These days it seems they’ll charge anyone on the slightest suspicion—male or female.” He shook his head. “How’s that for equality?”
Eliza tried to smile at the irony but couldn’t. It was too unsettling.
Monday morning, Eliza met Millie at the door with a smile. “I’m glad to see you’re back, Millie. Are you feeling better now?”
“Oh, I’m all right, Miz Eliza.” She took Eliza’s coat and hat. “The good Lord just like to remind me from time to time that I’m gettin’ old, that’s all.” She carried Eliza’s things to the closet in the hall.
Eliza had told Millie several times that she could care for her own effects, certain tha
t the woman had better things to do than to wait on another employee. But Millie refused, saying Eliza had her job, and she had hers. Just wouldn’t be right.
Now that the meeting with John’s editor was past, Eliza faced a new dilemma. In light of what Fred Wharton had said, she saw her work through new eyes. Perhaps she could explore the idea of equality in light of God’s overall plan for mankind—which, unfortunately, she knew nothing about. She needed to talk to Millie about her views on race and gender equality. Her faith and wisdom would lend a very important perspective to the topic.
John met her in the doorway, a book in hand. “Ready?”
Eliza worked at her desk and took dictation from John.
As he spoke, he paced the library, still carrying the book.
Eliza spied the title Miracles when he strolled close enough. Perhaps C. S. Lewis had something in his writings about loved ones finding mercy in their final hour and the possibility of seeing them again.
After lunch, John continued his dictation. “The studios were still sending me scores of scripts. They either didn’t know or didn’t care about the way I was living—showing up on set late, fumbling more lines than I got right. I staggered back and forth between the Roosevelt and the Biltmore, just to keep everyone guessing. The more scripts they sent, the more I drank. I could put down the better part of a fifth without batting an eye. By some miracle, I kept everyone fooled.”
He frowned, studying the book in his hands. “No. Perhaps the miracle wasn’t that people were fooled—because I’m sure they weren’t—but that I had gotten away with it for as long as I had. At the end of that year, Pearl Harbor had been hit and everything changed. The studios weren’t buying my sad act anymore. We were at war, and the government wanted to make sure Hollywood was portraying Americans in the best, most patriotic light. Things got a lot stricter on the sets. People were no longer willing to turn a blind eye to a pathetic drunk who fouled up entire scenes. Early in the filming of The Pride of the Yankees, I was released from my contract. In a word, fired.”