As for the groom, that was a whole other can of worms. From under the veil of her hat, Margo stole a glimpse at Dane standing beside her. In his crisp dark suit with his appropriately somber expression, he looked perfectly cast in the role of the devoted and solicitous fiancé of a grieving daughter.
But is that what he is? He’d arrived just an hour before the funeral via Olympus-chartered train from the Sierra Nevadas, where he was shooting that mountaineering picture the studio had put him on as soon as the honeymoon had been canceled. Margo had hardly had time to accept a chaste kiss hello, let alone ask him the burning questions that occupied her mind even now: Are we still getting married? Are you still in love with me? Were you ever? Maybe it was the shock. Maybe now that the pressure of the wedding had lifted everything would go back to the way it had been before. But somehow, Margo couldn’t help but feel as if something, something she couldn’t quite name, were being buried today along with her mother.
No one else from Margo’s world was in attendance. Lowell Frobisher had been unable to refuse Dane, who was, at least in a technical sense, almost family, but he had drawn the line at suffering the presence of a bunch of Hollywood types at an occasion as solemn as the interment of his wife. “I’m not going to have a bunch of Jews, Commies, homos, and gypsies leering down at Helen’s coffin,” he had declared, dribbling brandy down the front of his shirt. “It’s the least I can do for her.”
No, the least he could have done was to keep his mistress away from the funeral. There she was, on the other side of the bier, so far away that Margo doubted she would’ve been able to make out her face even if the woman hadn’t been wearing the kind of heavy dark veil normally seen on the mysterious women who prostrated themselves at the tomb of Rudolph Valentino at the Hollywood Memorial Park Cemetery every year on the anniversary of his death. Clearly, she was trying to keep a respectful distance, perhaps even pass herself off as an unrelated mourner at some other person’s grave.
She might have succeeded if not for the stipulation in Helen’s will that the funeral be kept private. The woman who had set such store by appearances had liberated herself from them in death. There wasn’t a Gamble, a McKendrick, a Winthrop, or a Nesbit in sight.
Just her father, looking older than she remembered and more bored than was seemly, flanked by a couple of ancient pallbearers in dusty suits Margo was sure had been hired directly from the funeral home. Two or three ladies she thought she remembered seeing play bridge in her mother’s living room. Emmeline, of course, with a faraway look on her face that could have betrayed either a deep and profound grief at the death of her employer or a deep and profound concern over whether her stacks of premade sandwiches would still be fresh by the time everyone got back to the house for the funeral luncheon.
At least there were plenty of flowers adorning the casket, albeit sent mainly by the Jews, Communists, and homosexuals who had been forbidden to attend. A small wreath of Christmas roses—in red, of course—from Harry Gordon, which was awfully sweet and unexpected of him. A vast blanket of pale chrysanthemums—God knew where they’d come from, this time of year—from Leo Karp and family. The biggest, most lavish arrangement of all came with the simplest message: “Regards from Diana Chesterfield.”
Easter lilies. Margo sniffed. Mother would have preferred callas.
“ ‘Come, ye blessed of my Father, inherit this kingdom prepared for you from the foundation of the world.’ ” Reverend Atkinson was gearing up for the big finish. “ ‘Grant this, O Father, for the sake of the same, for thy son Jesus Christ, our only Mediator and Advocate. Amen.’ ”
“Amen,” Margo whispered.
No sooner had the reverend snapped shut his well-worn edition of The Book of Common Prayer than two cemetery attendants in coveralls sprang toward the casket, carefully clearing off the flowers and preparing them for transport. The rest of the assembled mourners were already making their way toward the line of black cars at the bottom of the hill.
Dane looked incredulous. “Aren’t they even going to stay and watch the casket go into the ground?”
“Why should they?” Margo smiled sadly. “Why be sentimental when there’s egg salad and gin waiting at home?”
Dane laughed.
“Are you …” Margo bit her lip. “You’re not coming back to the house, are you?”
Dane looked apologetic. “The studio has a car waiting for me. I have to get back to the set. We’re supposed to shoot night for day tonight.”
“Oh. I see.”
“Margo …” There was so much left unspoken in the way he murmured her name; so much that might, in fact, be unsayable. He leaned toward her, his clear green eyes burning into hers like they had when she’d first met him. “Will you be all right?”
Margo squared her shoulders. “Me? Sure. I mean, what choice do I have?”
Dane caught her in his arms. She pushed her face hard against his solid shoulder, letting the scratchy wool fabric of his jacket sponge away the tears before they could fall. He pressed his warm lips against the top of her head just long enough for her to entertain a single, desperate hope that he might never let her go.
But then he was gone.
Margo turned back to the casket. It looked oddly naked now, divested of its blanket of flowers, balanced precariously over the grave on a hammock of canvas straps, like a suitcase on a luggage rack.
“Well, Mother,” she whispered, “I guess you got what you wanted. You’re all by yourself now.”
But Margo wasn’t. The mysterious woman in the dark veil was still there, closer than ever, lingering beside a marble statue of an angel with her arms outstretched. She wants to talk to me, Margo thought with horror, and she’s not going away until she does.
Better to get it over with. “What is it?” Margo called, trying to make her voice sound as haughty and unappealing as possible. “Is there something you want?”
Lifting her veil, the woman came closer. She was older than Margo had assumed, but still a beauty: bright blue eyes, a warm, inviting smile. The only thing that marred her appearance was a faint pink line, like an old scar, running down the side of one delicately sculpted cheek.
“Margaret,” the woman breathed, almost as though she were speaking to herself. “It’s Margaret, isn’t it?”
“Yes. And who are you?”
The woman ignored her. “You’re even more beautiful than I imagined, my dear. Truly, your pictures don’t do you justice.”
“If you’re looking for my father,” Margo said coldly, “I believe he’s already gone home. If you want to attend the lunch, I suppose I can’t stop you, although I can’t say I approve.”
The woman hid a smile. “I don’t think that would be a very good idea. Although I can’t say I’m not curious. I haven’t seen Lowell Frobisher for … God, it must be close to twenty years.”
Twenty years? Margo sputtered. “You mean … you aren’t … ?”
“A lady friend of your father’s? Goodness, no. Although it certainly would have made things easier at times, wouldn’t it?” What things? Margo wanted to ask. How? “Oh my,” the woman continued, leaning closer, “what a lovely pin.”
Margo’s hand flew up to cover the little gold-and-pearl pin fastened to the collar of her black mourning dress. She’d pinned it on this morning almost as an afterthought, but once she had, she couldn’t believe she hadn’t thought to put it on sooner. It was the perfect occasion for it. A symbol of her mother, and of a life that was gone. “Thank you.”
“I’m so pleased to see it on you. You haven’t been wearing it lately, have you?”
“How … how did you know?”
“Certainly you know you’re pictured quite often in the picture magazines,” the woman said pleasantly. “That’s how I keep tabs on you, you know, I imagine in much the same way as your other fans. Besides, it could hardly fail to catch my eye. It’s quite unusual, is
n’t it? And it suits you so well. Such a sweet signature.”
“It’s sort of a family heirloom.”
“Oh, I know. You see, I used to have one just like it.”
Margo felt every drop of blood drain from her face and plummet, one by one, into the pit of her stomach. “But you don’t anymore.”
“Of course not, dear.” She paused for a moment, fiddling with the fine white handkerchief tucked into the cuff of her sleeve. “I sent it to you.”
To me. The memories came back to Margo in a mad rush. The envelope left on the doorstep of the bungalow. The mysterious note signed only with the letter M. The overwhelming relief she had felt at the return of the precious object, as if someone were returning a piece of her.
Except it was never really mine at all. “Who are you?” Margo demanded.
The woman smiled. “Now, now. I think you’ve experienced more than enough emotion for one day. I know I have. In a few days, when you’ve gotten some rest, you’ll come and see me and I’ll tell you all about it.”
“But how? How will I find you?”
“Simple, my dear. Ask any of your friends. Ask Dane Forrest or Amanda Farraday or Larry Julius or even dear old Leo Karp. Any of them can tell you where to find Olive Moore.”
She pressed her cool hand against Margo’s cheek with an expression of infinite tenderness. “Only don’t wait too long, will you, darling? I’ve waited so long to see you, and I’ve got such an awful lot to say.”
She looks at me like she loves me, Margo thought. Almost like a mother.
And all alone at the graveside, for the first time in a long time, Margo Frobisher began to cry.
Epilogue
So many stars, Gabby thought, staring out the window. You never see this many real stars in Hollywood. There was too much sparkling chaos in Hollywood. When you looked up, you couldn’t tell what was real and what wasn’t.
But were these real? These stars, scattered like a handful of loose diamonds across the midnight-blue velvet of the night sky, were nothing but the reflected light of the real stars a million miles away, too far to ever be reached, too far to know whether they even existed. Maybe these stars were no more real that the painted ones on the ceiling of the Cocoanut Grove, twinkling down on the very different kind of stars below.
Maybe those were the real stars. Or maybe, just maybe, there was no such thing as “real” at all.
“I hope you’ll enjoy your stay here, Miss Preston,” the woman in the white uniform—Morisco, someone had called her—was saying. A couple of porters, also all curiously dressed in white, were making short work of the two small suitcases, hastily packed by Viola, that Gabby had been allowed to bring with her. A funny kind of hotel that limits your luggage, she had thought. “If there’s anything we can get you to make you more comfortable, you just let us know.”
“A record player,” Gabby said instantly.
The Morisco woman—was she some sort of housekeeper?—stopped smiling. “A record player?”
“Yes. With an all-in-one radio. If you don’t have one here, maybe you can send one of the porters to pick up my unit from home.”
“Well, I’ll have to talk to Dr. Allenby about that.”
“Who on earth is Dr. Allenby?”
“He’s the director here.”
A director! Gabby brightened. “Then he’ll understand. I have to have music.”
The woman straightened her white cap. “We’ll see. For now, I think it’s most important that you have a nice long rest, don’t you agree?”
Gabby was suddenly very tired. She looked around the room. The walls were apricot, like the carpet in her bedroom in the house on Fountain Street. The lace curtains were like a gauzy bridal veil around the face of the sky. “Yes,” she said, more to herself than to the woman. “A rest sounds nice.”
What a good idea this was. A little vacation, and no mothers or dance instructors or selfish friends or faithless lovers around to ruin it.
Morisco tucked the cool, crisp sheets around her as Gabby settled back onto the pillow, singing softly to herself. “You made me love you,” Gabby sang. “I didn’t want to do it, I didn’t want to do it. …” If she couldn’t have music yet, she’d just have to make her own. Who can do it better than me?
She’d have a nice long rest. And when she went back, Hollywood had better watch out.
Because when Gabby Preston got back, she was going to shine so brightly she’d make those stars in the sky look like painted dots on an old tin ceiling.
They might not want to love me. But I’m going to make them.
Acknowledgments
So many people to thank, and no band to play me off! But for the sake of paper and ink, I’ll try to be brief.
As always, gratitude goes first and foremost to my glorious agent, Rebecca Friedman, and my fabulous editor, Wendy Loggia, who are the best in the business.
Huge thanks also to Lauren Donovan, Krista Vitola, Dominique Cimina, and the whole gang at Delacorte Press for all their hard work and their belief in this project. Gratitude beyond gratitude to Joseph Papa, Bob Morris, Ira Silverberg, Dana Borowitz, Ember Truesdell, Jillian Larkin, Anna Godbersen, and of course to Michael Schulman, Lauren Marks, Suzanne Marks and Tony Nino, Peter Cook, Colin Shepherd, Alex Block, Laurie Henzel, Mike Edison, Judy McGuire, Billy Zavelson, Ben Rimalower, Dan Fortune, Nick Jones, Ariel Shukert and Jeff Wienir, and Aveva and Marty Shukert.
And to Ben, of course, who puts up with all of this nonsense.
About the Author
Rachel Shukert is the author of Everything Is Going to Be Great, Have You No Shame?, and the Starstruck novels. She has been fascinated by the Golden Age of Hollywood since she was a girl, when she used to stay up all night watching old movies and fall asleep the next day at school. Rachel grew up in Omaha, Nebraska, and graduated from New York University. She lives in New York City with her husband. Visit her at rachelshukert.com.
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