by Camille Eide
There was no telling how far this query would go. “I am a collaborator on a book he is writing.”
“What do you know of Mr. Vincent’s longtime association with the Hollywood Ten?”
“Everything I know about Mr. Vincent’s dealings in Hollywood is included in his book.” Eliza lifted her chin. “It will be available soon. You should buy it. I think you’d really enjoy it.”
Actually, she knew of one Hollywood story that John had left out of the book—the young starlet’s tragic life. Which was simply none of their business. Surely they wouldn’t ask Eliza about Jeanette Lovell … would they?
Please, no questions about her. I can’t do that to John. Please.
“And where do you … collaborate?”
The way one of the men in the middle said it made Eliza’s skin crawl. And was it really necessary for him to ogle her like that? “In Mr. Vincent’s home.”
At once, all four men gave her their full attention. One raked a gaze over Eliza’s skirt. Cheeks burning, she tugged the fabric forward to make it cover as much leg as possible. Betty surely would’ve chosen an ankle-length skirt.
“And while in Mr. Vincent’s home, have you seen anyone coming or going, such as actors, screenwriters, directors?” one agent asked. “Any telephone calls, correspondence, visitors, anything like that? Have you heard him discuss meetings or mention names?”
She kept her expression even. If she hadn’t been so nosy, she would not have noticed the arrival of pink stationery on more than one occasion. But then again, she didn’t actually see a name, and didn’t know for sure if it qualified as correspondence. It could have been tickets to a film premiere. Recipes for Millie. A wedding invitation. How was she to know what was inside?
While she was deciding how to answer, the man on the left spoke. “You are aware that your full cooperation today will go a long way to making our file on you … go away.”
Whether their tactics qualified as bribery or coercion, the idea that they would simply stop investigating her in exchange for information about John stunned her, though she shouldn’t have been surprised. How unethical. A perfect example of injustice and oppression at its worst. She had half a mind to tell them so.
John was right—an entire department was infected with this paranoid insanity. Someone needed to drive the HUAC out of business.
Eliza sighed. “Listen. I don’t know anything about Mr. Vincent’s friends, but what I do know is that he’s not a communist. You’re wasting your time on him.”
Agent Robinson spoke to the others and then, with a nod, he wrote something in the folder.
“Is that my file?” Eliza asked. “What are you writing?”
The agent didn’t bother looking up. “You’re being placed on the hostile witness list.”
29
Eliza wasn’t sure if John was expecting her to come to work after the panel query, but the distance from the Shattuck to his home wasn’t far, and the day was still young. It wouldn’t take long to finalize the manuscript, and, barring anything unexpected, Eliza could have the memoir finished and ready to mail to New York by the end of the day.
As the bus jockeyed its way through the city, Eliza focused on the sights—the vigor of traffic, the milling pedestrians, and the majesty of Sather Tower standing tall against the western horizon of merging sky and shimmering water.
Couldn’t the bus get a flat tire or run out of gas? Even better, couldn’t it turn around and go back in time to the day she first met John?
She let her tired mind wander. What would she do differently if she could go back to that day? If she had known the things she knew now, would she do it again?
Eliza leaned back against the seat. She’d been part of an amazing book that would offer hope to many people. Her heart had been awakened, and she’d known love and friendship. She had grown.
Yes. Even if the outcome was the same, she would do it all again.
The bus left the Berkeley campus and began its winding ascent between the fragrant evergreens lining the route leading to John’s fairytale home. There was no point fantasizing about delaying the end. John was eager to be free of it. And Eliza had no desire to prolong the inevitable.
Yes, I do. I want to drag it out for another week or two, or a hundred and fifty-two.
No. Once the book was done, Eliza was no longer needed.
But he does need me. And I need him.
True or not, it wasn’t up to her. It was up to the man who refused to share the burden of his past with her, a refusal that had kept Eliza awake at night, her heart ripped in half. One half burned in frustration at John’s resolve, while the other half loved him all the more for wanting to protect her.
She didn’t want to be protected. She wanted to love the man.
Maybe it’s not about what you want.
Eliza closed her eyes and waited, listening for any other input from that Voice that was not her own. John had said there was a purpose to their lives that they couldn’t always see, a larger picture, and he was at peace with that. Millie often talked the same way.
Well, if God had a larger purpose for Eliza’s life, it would have to wait. Right now, she needed to catch a break in solving the mystery of her parents, and she desperately needed to clear her name.
Maybe God could help with that.
“You’re here.” John met her at the front door. He looked even more battle-worn than he had the day before. He stepped aside, beckoning her. “I’m sorry, please come in. How did it go?”
“Not well, I’m afraid.” Eliza removed her coat and then gave him a summary of the morning’s inquiry.
John listened without comment.
When she finished, she examined John more closely. He looked pale. “John, what’s wrong?”
“It’s Millie.” He grimaced.
Dread seized her. “What is it?”
“Her grandson Nathaniel called. She’s had a bad spell of some kind.” John met her gaze and held it. “They think it was her heart.”
Eliza could barely breathe. “Oh my goodness, is she—?”
“The last I heard, she was alive.” John’s mouth tightened. “But unfortunately, it took Nathaniel so long to find a hospital that would admit her, it’s hard to say how she will fare.”
Eliza’s handbag fell from her hand and hit the floor. “Oh dear! Poor Millie!” Her eyes filled with tears. She sank onto the nearest chair.
John offered her a handkerchief, which she took absently.
“I should have known,” she whispered. “Yesterday wasn’t the first time.” She shook her head. “I should have taken her to the doctor right away when I found her like that. Oh, why didn’t I—?”
“No. If anyone should have done something, it’s me.” John shook his head. He lowered himself to the chair beside her. “I’ve tried to get her to stop working, but she refused. Said this house was her responsibility, she’d been taking care of it more than half her life. I told her she would have a good pension. She said it wasn’t about the money. I think it was about her pride.”
Eliza dabbed at her eyes. “She told me you two had words over her staying on and she always won.” She glanced around the room at the spotless furnishings. “She’s quite proud of that.”
“If Millie worked herself into a heart attack, I’ll never—”
“No.” She looked into John’s troubled eyes. “You are not to blame. And there’s no point in either of us wishing we could go back and change what’s done.”
He looked around the room. “She’s always been here, a part of this home. A stabilizing force.”
“Yes.”
“Perhaps we could pray for her.”
With a nod, Eliza bowed her head and listened as John placed Millie into God’s care. The sound of his deep voice, rich with compassion and sincerity, warmed her, and her tears flowed again. Somehow, Millie had entwined herself around Eliza’s heart. She didn’t know how or when it had happened, it just had.
In the silence, she r
ealized John was watching her.
She wiped her eyes again and wished she could see Millie’s face. Wished for her comforting arms. Wished she wasn’t walking out of John and Millie’s lives today for what could very well be the last time.
“There’s nothing more we can do now but wait,” John said.
“Yes, I suppose you’re right. I’ve come to finalize your manuscript and send it to New York.”
John stood and offered her a hand. “Yes, of course. Thank you.”
Eliza went to work, and for the next several hours, John kept to another part of the house, which was fine with her since the final touches didn’t require his input. By four o’clock, the manuscript was packaged, addressed, and ready to mail. It seemed such an anticlimactic finale to the weeks of laying John’s soul bare.
Eliza gathered her coat and bag and then waited in the library a moment. Should she wait, ring for John, or go in search of him?
After a few moments, John came in. “You’re finished?”
She nodded, unable to trust her voice.
He stared at the package. “So, that’s it.” He checked the clock on the mantel. “And still enough time to post it today.”
“Yes, I believe so.”
“A tremendous amount of work has gone into this book. I believe it’s only right to give it a proper send-off. I was thinking of celebrating. With dinner.”
She ignored the ridiculous rush of hope his words stirred. “That’s a good idea.”
He set his cane against a chair and buttoned his jacket. “Since it wouldn’t be possible without you, it’s only right that you should celebrate as well. Would you care to join me?” he said, not meeting her eyes.
Her heart clenched. Prolonging her time with him—yes. Prolonging their last goodbye—no. Going out with him in public—well, what did that matter now? It would be the last time.
“Yes. I’ll join you.” Betty would have kittens. In fact, Eliza would have to agree with her sister this time. Dining out with him was foolish and would only make saying goodbye harder.
But how could she resist?
They took a cab and headed for the west side of town, with a brief stop at the North Berkeley post office. That didn’t take long. While Eliza waited, John dealt with the clerk, then turned away from the counter with a shrug. No fanfare. The book was out of his hands, that was that.
By the time they reached a restaurant near Fisherman’s Wharf, the parking lot was full, surprising for a Thursday. Though the sky was growing dark, the lights of the city sent a golden shimmer across the rippling bay. Inside, the host led them to a dimly lit corner table at a window overlooking the water. Partially enclosed by dark wooden lattice draped with ivy, the table was set for two with a tapered candle casting a mild glow over deep-red linens.
John swept a guarded glance around the room and then pulled out Eliza’s chair.
“Thank you,” she said.
John seemed especially quiet, which was odd, since it was his idea to celebrate. He was probably thinking of Millie.
Thoughts of Millie had tugged at Eliza all day.
A phonograph played Billie Holiday’s “The Very Thought of You.”
Swell. Nothing like a romantic love song to awaken hushed longings.
When the maître d’ came with a bottle of wine, John declined with a wave and a “No, thanks,” but as soon as the waiter left, John turned to Eliza. “I’m sorry, force of habit. I didn’t think to ask if you wanted wine. Do you?”
She smiled. “No, thank you.” No telling what effect even a little wine would have, and it was best to keep her tongue and her wits about her tonight. Eliza studied her menu, but the items were not connecting with her brain.
John was handsome to distraction in his black coat and tie. Of course, the man would be handsome in old coveralls and a ratty fishing hat. The picture brought a faint smile to her lips—a welcome diversion. She needed something to get her mind off the finality of the day and the uncertainty about Millie.
A shadow fell over her menu.
“Hello, there.” Oscar Silva smiled down at them. “I saw you two from across the room and figured I’d better pop over and get an autograph.”
“Hello,” Eliza said. What an odd coincidence that Oscar was here.
John rose from his seat and shook Oscar’s hand.
“Congratulations on finishing the book.”
How did he know? John must have telephoned him. Which meant his appearance here was no coincidence after all.
Oscar gave John’s shoulder a clap, and then leaned down close to Eliza. “You think I’m kidding, but I really do want your autograph.” He offered her a pen and a paper. “Would you mind?”
Eliza smiled. “How exciting, my first. And probably my last,” she added with a chuckle. “And to whom shall I make it out?”
Oscar laughed. “To Oscar, the second best agent on the planet.”
She humored him, cheeks aflame. People were staring now. Maybe that was Oscar’s plan. He was probably getting a head start on generating press for John’s book.
“Oscar, mind if I have a word with you?” John gave Oscar a pointed look and turned to Eliza. “If you’ll excuse us.”
Eliza nodded, not sure what to think of this odd exchange.
The two men walked around a corner and out of sight.
Above the dining room chatter, Nat King Cole sang “Almost Like Being in Love.” If the next title was his “There Goes My Heart,” she would have to ask the waiter to play something else.
While the two men were gone, Eliza received curious glances from several of the diners. Ignoring them, she tried to study her menu again, but nothing sounded appealing.
How badly had Millie suffered? Would she recover?
When the men returned, John avoided Eliza’s curious gaze and took his seat.
Oscar gave her a gallant bow and spied her autograph. “Ah, yes, I can’t leave without that. This is going to be worth a mint when that book hits the bestseller list.” He kissed Eliza’s hand, gave John’s hand another firm shake, and then left.
When the waiter came for their order, Eliza chose clam chowder, hoping it would tempt her appetite. John handed over his unopened menu and asked for whatever the chef recommended.
A woman approached the table for an autograph.
John was polite but wrote quickly and bid her a good evening, barely short of shooing her away. Then he met Eliza’s gaze with a wince. “Sorry. I’m used to this sort of thing, but for you, it’s probably—”
“Hiya,” a middle-aged woman said, voice breathless. She beamed a giddy smile at John, then at Eliza. “Can I have your autograph?”
John signed the back of her coaster.
Then the woman turned to Eliza. “And yours?”
Eliza opened her mouth but couldn’t think of a thing to say.
John rested his chin in one hand, hiding a smile.
“Thank you, but I’m afraid I …” Eliza scrambled to think of how to let the woman down gently.
“Oh, and I’m sorry to intrude on your meal, but could you tell me which picture was your favorite to make?”
The woman was looking at her, not John.
Eliza’s eyes widened. “Picture?”
“Oh yes, I’m your biggest fan. Just ask my husband, he’ll tell you. I’ve seen every Gene Tierney film.”
Eliza looked to John for help, but he was sipping his water—and taking a very long time to swallow. A smile curled beyond the edges of his glass.
What should she say? The woman would be mortified if Eliza corrected her now. She turned to the woman and smiled. “What is your name?”
“Evelyn.” Her shoulders nearly touched her ears as she clasped her hands.
“Evelyn, what a lovely name. Tell me, what’s your favorite film?”
“Oh! Gracious, there are so many!” She turned and whispered loudly at the man behind her. “Oh, I know,” she said, turning back. “Leave Her To Heaven. That was breathtaking! And if you don�
�t mind my saying, they really should have given you the Oscar.”
Eliza avoided John’s face. “To Evelyn, with love,” Eliza said as she wrote the message, then signed a loopy signature that she hoped no one would ever be able to read.
“Thank you!” Evelyn smashed the autograph to her bosom and grinned at John as if she’d just won a jackpot, then returned to her seat.
Unfolding her napkin, Eliza shot a furtive glance around the room and hoped no one else was getting the same idea. Then she caught John’s smile. She dropped her gaze to keep from laughing.
John signed four more autographs by the time their meal arrived, leaving them little time for conversation. Not that either of them were feeling talkative.
A nagging foreboding about Millie had returned. When the chowder came, Eliza’s stomach rebelled at the thought of eating. She stirred the soup, then set her spoon down.
John poked at his Lobster Thermidor. He nodded at Eliza’s bowl. “You don’t like it?”
“I’m sorry. I probably shouldn’t have come. You wanted to celebrate, and I’m no help.”
“Are you not feeling well?”
“I’m fine, I just can’t stop thinking about Millie. It’s so unsettling, knowing how she must be suffering and not knowing what’s happening and whether or not …”
“You’re right.” He stared at his hardly touched meal. “I can’t very well celebrate while Millie might be lying somewhere holding on by a thread.”
“I wish there was a way to know.”
John placed his napkin on the table, then grabbed his cane and stood. “There may be. If you’ll excuse me.”
Eliza watched him go, sorry that she had ruined his celebration dinner but grateful that he understood.
Ten minutes later, John returned, looking more optimistic than when he left. “I phoned Nathaniel’s house and spoke to a neighbor who is staying with his children. She’s at St. Luke’s Hospital.”
“How is she?”
“The neighbor didn’t know.”
Millie was alive, at least. But in what condition?
John rose and offered her his hand. “Come, our cab is waiting.”
She stared at his outstretched hand. So that was it, the evening was over. “I’m sorry to have ruined your—”