by Denise Dietz
“I don’t understand. Is it because I’m not wearing clothes and you think I’d be shamed? Make my eyes brown and my hair yellow.” She grinned. “Chop off six inches, run a clothes press—”
“Hush. I love you the way you are, and I wouldn’t want your likeness hanging in some fat old man’s office.”
“Is it fat old men who buy your paintings?”
“I suppose. Sandy says he’s sold plenty to the new wealth out in California, the ones you’re always reading about. Producers and directors and actors. Your Charles Chaplin bought a painting of Dumas.”
“Why didn’t you tell me? May we take down the Bellows lithograph and put a sketch of Dumas next to Mr. Chaplin?”
“Do you need my permission? You’ll do it anyway. Just like you keep cumulating pets.”
“I let them go when their wounds heal. That reminds me. I want to pick some flowers for Brooksie’s grave. She was a wonderful dog, and I miss her so much.”
“If pets were worth their weight in gold, we’d be rich as Midas, and I could paint my circles and cubes.”
“You said your agent sold to fat old men,” she said, deciding a change of subject might be prudent. “Charles Chaplin isn’t fat and he’s not old.”
“My canvas of Myers Avenue was bought by Edward Lytton, a rich Denver businessman. I don’t know if he’s fat, but he’s old, and Sandy says he’d pay dear for a painting of you. Sandy went and showed Lytton a charcoal sketch of you atop Dumas.”
“Edward Lytton? Do they call him Ned?”
“Not that I know of. What’s the matter, honey? Are you all right?”
“I’m fine. Ned is sometimes a nickname for Edward, that’s all. But you said he was old. Wait a minute! You said earlier that you were old. How old is Edward Lytton?”
“We’ve never met. Sixty, maybe more. Why?”
Flo smiled to erase Jack’s worried frown. She had never discussed her father with anybody. Jack believed her Minta’s daughter. Everybody did. Many had figured Minta LaRue’s legal name was Smith. Since Robin’s demise, only Irish Mary, Jasmine the Brit, Leo the Lion, and one mortician knew the truth.
“Why don’t you sell some paintings of me, Jack? That way you can paint your circles and squares?”
“I’ll think about it.” He placed Flo’s magazines on the table. “As long as we’re inside the cabin and Sandy’s due this afternoon, we’ll skip the posing. Sit on the rocker and hide your eyes.”
“Why?”
“I have a surprise, a birthday present.”
“My birthday was last month and you gave me that brand-new book of poetry.”
“I wanted to give you a pretty dress but I can’t reckon your size anymore. Then yesterday I went shopping for groceries—”
“And forgot the sugar.”
“And forgot the sugar. But I found you the best birthday present. Sit and hide your eyes.”
Curled up in the rocker, Flo covered her eyes but peeked between her fingers.
Jack ducked behind the screen. When he emerged again, he carried a newspaper.
Abandoning all pretense, she dropped her hands.
“This paper is dated May sixth,” he said. “It’s from Colorado Springs, and there are three gifts inside.”
“Three gifts?” Doubtfully, she eyed the flat pages.
He spread the newspaper across her lap and pointed toward an illustration that depicted a woman in a feathered hat.
“The Colorado Springs Dry Goods Company,” she said, puzzled. “Lace drawers are half price. Is it drawers you plan to give me?”
“I like the bird on the hat better. Choose a dress, Flo. They’ve got them in dimity, mull, crepe, and other sheer fabrics.”
“They cost so much, all the way up to fourteen ninety-five. The thinner the material, the more they cost. I’ll choose a dress from the four ninety-five group.”
“Sandy’s due any moment. He’s bringing payment for the Myers painting, a draft signed by Edward Lytton. It should be more than enough for a dozen store-bought dresses, a hat, shoes and gloves.”
She looked up into his face. “Truly, Jack? You’re not funning? But that’s four gifts.”
“No. Only one.” He turned a few pages. “Here’s the second.”
She glanced down at a boxed advertisement for the Princess Theatre and the words LES MISERABLES practically screamed at her from the page.
NINE REELS; THE BIGGEST SHOW ON EARTH, the advertisement continued.
General admission was twenty-five cents, but that included all the single reels of pictures that would be shown before the big show started.
Her gaze traveled to the very top of the bold announcement. THE ADVENTURES OF KATHLYN it said in large letters. Gosh, that would be Kathlyn’s tenth serial story, subtitled THE WARRIOR MAID.
“We’re going to the movies, Jack? Oh, my! Kathlyn Williams is my favorite actress. I must be dreaming.”
“Here’s another dream.” He turned the page.
“Colorado Springs is to be the home of a real movie company,” she read out loud. “Romaine Fielding, recognized as one of the most popular stars of the motion picture world—oh, my gosh!”
“Mr. Fielding,” Jack continued, “will make a trip to the Garden of the Gods today with the view of selecting a location for an outdoor studio. He will maintain offices at the Antlers. When interviewed last night, the star said, ‘Nothing will budge me from this spot until the snow begins to fly next winter.’ ”
“Did you know that Romaine Fielding writes and directs all his films and takes the lead in each reel?”
“I do now.”
“Romaine Fielding won first prize for a popularity contest in Motion Picture Story magazine. Are we really going to meet him, Jack? Is that my third gift?”
“I can’t promise we’ll get close enough to shake his hand, but we’ll try. Today’s the tenth. We’ll leave tomorrow. Romaine Fielding plans to stay six months, so he should be there, even if we shop for your new clothes and watch that big picture show at the Princess.”
* * * * *
Upon reaching Colorado Springs, Jack decided they’d stay at the Antlers Hotel, a twin-towered structure whose five floors boasted bright green and white awnings at every window. A grand piazza ran across the front of the building, and ten loggias opened on to spectacular views of the park and mountains.
“Maybe we’ll bump into Romaine Fielding,” Jack said.
“Can we afford this?”
“We won’t get suites, but two rooms are well within our budget. Breakfast is included, and we can eat lunch for a dollar at the hotel’s café. Let’s check in and go shopping.”
Much to Flo’s dismay, the new spring suit cost twenty-four fifty. But her white gloves, Colonial shoes, stockings and embroidered drawers were all half-price. Jack bought the hat depicted in the newspaper, the one with the stuffed bird on its brim. Flo didn’t want to hurt his feelings but she hated the hat. The bird’s glassy eyes and bright feathers looked so real, so dead.
They left their packages with the hotel doorman and stood in line in front of the Princess Theatre, both enjoying huge scoops of ice cream from a paper cup.
Then they stood in line again for the second show.
“That’s enough,” Jack said, after they emerged from the theater. “We skipped lunch. Aren’t you hungry?”
“I’ll never eat again. I want to be as slender as Kathlyn Williams. I loved Les Miserables. I think I’ll name my next horse Hugo, after Victor Hugo. Maybe I can find a used copy of the book.” She sighed blissfully. “There’s another movie at the Empire Theatre. I read the poster while you went looking for a water closet, and I learned what it’s about. Do you want to hear?”
“Would it make any difference if I said no?”
“Battle of the Sexes,” she said from memory. “Or The Single Standard for Men and Women, which is wonderfully expounded in this film, is the great conflict of modern society. It is the war of opinion over the question of the single standard of moral responsibil
ity for men and women. This powerful and sympathetic photodrama demonstrates the utter degradation of any theory justifying the husband in conduct contrary to the marriage vow. Oh, how I wish I could have shown that poster to the girls at Little Heaven.”
“Let’s eat.”
“Don’t you want to see the battle of the sexes, Jack?”
“I’ll take you to that movie when your hair turns yellow, Fools Gold!”
* * * * *
Flo stood by Jack’s open window. “Wake up, sleepyhead. It’s a beautiful day.”
“How can you tell? The sun’s not risen yet.”
“I was afraid there’d be rain, but it’s clear as can be, a perfect day to meet Romaine Fielding.”
“Romaine who?”
“Don’t close your eyes again. What a slugabed. Please get up. The dining room’s open for breakfast.”
Flo watched Jack consume every bite of his bacon, eggs, toast and grits. “You’re a big old bear. You fill your belly during spring and summer, and live off the food all winter.”
“Old bear? Yesterday you said I wasn’t old.”
“Growly bear, then. Why are you so crusty? Does it have anything to do with Romaine Fielding?”
“I guess I’m scared he’ll take one look at you and star you in his next movie, and I’ll lose my favorite model.”
“Don’t be silly.” She blushed, thinking how her blush mirrored the color of her new spring suit. Like Minta, Flo adored different shades of red, and her suit was a soft pink, trimmed around the edges with bright amethyst silk, which Jack said brought out the purple in her eyes.
She had copied Kathlyn Williams by braiding her hair into a bun, then fluffing out the strands in front like a halo. Her new white gloves provided the finishing touch, hiding the nails she still bit, and Flo knew she looked nice. But nice enough to catch Romaine Fielding’s eye?
“Grab your hat and let’s be on our way,” Jack said. “The hotel clerk told me they’re not filming at Garden of the Gods. In fact, Fielding has rented the Glen Eyrie estates. He’s paying a thousand dollars a month. Can you imagine?”
“Are we going to Glen Eyrie?”
“No. Today they’re using a studio on North Cascade Avenue. That’s just a few streets from here.”
After stepping through the hotel’s entrance into sunshine, Flo saw that others had the same idea. Men, women and children headed for the movie site while automobiles had to move over to the side of the road. One motorbike zigzagged down the street, and Flo heard somebody shout, “That’s Romaine Fielding!”
“Hurry, Jack.”
“We can’t make much progress in this sea of humanity, Flo. The men are practically trampling women under their boots. This is your real battle of the sexes.”
Eventually they reached North Cascade Avenue. Ropes kept spectators separated from the busy crew and actors. A stage was under construction. In one corner, furniture had been placed to represent a drawing room.
“I didn’t know they filmed inside outside,” Jack said.
“Most people think inside scenes are acted in real houses, but the cameraman could never get enough light to make a shadow on the film.”
“Did you read that in one of your magazines?”
“Yes. Romaine Fielding said it. ‘We set our scenes on the big stage and when the pictures are flashed on the screen, the audience will never know but that the interior before them is a sure-enough house.’ Oh, look! There’s his motorbike leaning against a tree. Mr. Fielding must be here.”
“Of course he is. All we have to do is—”
“Jack! Oh, my gosh! It’s him!”
“Romaine Fielding?”
“No. Cat McDonald.”
Twenty-Four
Cat McDonald sweated bullets. Damn sun! Or maybe Peggy Bliss, another bit player, was making him sweat. Gazing past Peggy’s suggestive shoulder, Cat saw Fools Gold.
The parlor house child stood between an old lady and a man with a beard.
Child? Cat grinned. The gangly filly had become a sleek thoroughbred. Her pink skirt promised a tiny waist, slender hips and long legs. Her full breasts slanted upwards. Right now her face was all eyes, but he could still admire her dark-winged brows, fanciful nose and full lower lip. Her hair was a fluffy cloud, the color of Colorado coal dust. She wore an ugly hat.
A spectator pushed his way forward, jostling Fools Gold, and the bearded fellow placed his arm protectively around her shoulders.
Cat wondered how many “protectors” Fools Gold had satisfied during the last five years. Had she settled into a fashionable house, entertaining a different gent every night until she found one who suited her needs?
Just looking at Fools Gold brought back memories. Cripple Creek. Divide. Lazy days on the ranch. The comfort of Tonna’s love and Black Percy’s friendship.
He should have wed Bridgida and settled down, handed Ruthie some money and sent her to California, whupped Luke into a fear of ever touching Bridgida again. Dimity would have kept her mouth shut, and Cat could have gone on playing the part of John McDonald’s son.
Because of his damnfool pride, Bridgida was dead. His fault. He had tried to die too, by joining up with Dick Stanley’s Wild West Show. He had dogged bulls and ridden through hoops of fire. He had taken lots of spills, none fatal. Then came God’s practical joke. Dick Stanley died. Rodeo star Jack Hoxie took over and the troupe played out their contracts until they reached Los Angeles—city of the angels.
For the next two years Cat worked as a bit player. He couldn’t get a meeting with Colonel Selig. Telephone calls were intercepted and his letters came back unopened. He had a feeling Claude DuBois was interfering in his life again. Doors were slammed in Ruthie’s face.
Jack Hoxie, now starring in films as Hartford Hoxie, managed to get Cat a tryout for his latest movie. The movie’s supporting actor sometimes arrived on the set drunk. Sometimes he didn’t show at all. Hoxie persuaded his director to try Cat in a difficult scene, just in case their alcoholic actor disappeared for good.
The loose script called for a drifting cowboy to ride across the desert, knock on Hoxie’s door, and collapse from exhaustion. Cat didn’t eat or sleep. Entering the studio, avoiding the crew and players, he wet his face and patted it with dirt, then walked briskly over the lot for three hours until his body begged for food and rest. The cameras rolled. Hoxie answered the knock and watched an exhausted Cat sway and begin to fall. Hoxie reached out for his friend. Cat was only a few inches from the ground when Hoxie caught him. “If you want to shoot a close-up of this, make it quick!” Hoxie shouted, turning Cat’s nose away from the dirt. “You’ll never get it again.”
The alcoholic actor heard about Cat’s tryout and managed to remain sober, but Cat was offered a small part in Romaine Fielding’s new movie, and here he was, with Ruthie Adams, back in Colorado where his journey had begun.
Fools Gold had seen him. Should he pretend he didn’t remember her? Peggy stood there, waiting impatiently for instructions regarding tonight’s rendezvous. Why stir the hornet’s nest?
He walked a few steps away, turned, walked toward Fools Gold. “Hello,” he said, lifting the rope so she could duck underneath. The bearded man followed. “We seem to meet in the strangest places. Would you care for a glass of lemonade?”
She smiled, remembering. “No, thank you. Cat, this is Jack Gottlieb. Jack, Cat McDonald.”
“My name’s John Chinook now. I changed it just before I played the rodeo circuit. Cowboys are superstitious, and cats are bad luck.”
“I wondered why I never saw you in Cripple—” She paused, her cheeks apple-red. “Have you been a rodeo star these last five years?”
“Yep. I see you’re doing fine, Fools Gold. You look swell.”
“Thank you.” She smiled again. “It’s my new clothes. Jack bought them for me. We’re staying at a fancy hotel, the Antlers, and I saw a movie at the Princess . . .”
She looked like a woman but talked like a child, thought Cat. Maybe it
was an act. Maybe the gent who bought her clothes and paid her bills wanted her to behave that way.
It might be fun to steal her away for one night. How many young men would pay for her services when there was a field of flowers out there, free for the picking.
Still, Fools Gold was one of the most beautiful flowers Cat had ever seen. He’d cotton to feel those long legs twisted about his body. Surely she’d learned a few beguiling skills in five years, although Cat doubted any woman could bring him pleasure. Ruthie performed from habit. Other willing ladies provided comfort, but Cat’s delight was in the pursuit, not the conquest.
“And it ended with Kathlyn in mortal danger,” Flo said breathlessly. “I know she’s going to escape, but I couldn’t reckon how.”
Cat shrugged. “They’ll manage to twist the plot. I’ve heard some directors will even place crocodiles on the streets of California. How long are you planning to stay in Colorado Springs?”
“There’s a train out early tomorrow morning,” said Gottlieb. “Flo was hoping to meet Romaine Fielding. She admires his work.”
“You’ve seen Romaine’s films?”
“I’ve read about them in my movie magazines. Will we be reading about you soon, Cat?”
Her voice was a caress, her blue eyes full of promise. Cat wanted to stroke her smooth cheek and lick the cleft in her chin, but he’d be subtle. He couldn’t afford to anger her protector and acquire yet another concubina.
“Why should you read about me when I’m here in person, Fools Gold? Would you consider joining me for a picnic tonight?”
“I wish I could, but we’re eating in the Antlers’ grand dining room. I’ve never tasted mutton with caper sauce. You could join us. Is that all right, Jack?”
“Of course, honey.”
Cat turned away to hide his scowl. That hadn’t been what he’d meant and she knew it, though her innocent act was rather intriguing.
He turned again, facing Gottlieb. “Would you do me a favor, sir? See that pretty brown-haired woman who is looking daggers at me? Would you tell her I’ll be delayed a while?”
“Certainly. I’d like to wander about the set and see what paintings they’ve selected for their inside-outside walls.”