Her mind was already three steps ahead—she would be the sole participant, unless Carol wanted to join. She could easily find artists willing to build the diorama—Santa Cruz was filled with artists. And the timeline would have to be tight, before the destruction of the gazebo, so beachgoers and locals could witness the history of what was going to be destroyed. She’d have to get it done before August, in time to put her diorama on display during the Centennial Celebration.
Mari rubbed her temples. Would she be able to pull it off? Heck, she was waitressing, working weekends, and plus, she was a single mom. But she thrived under pressure. She could do this. Lily sighed in her sleep, and Mari admired how her daughter’s dark eyelashes lay perfectly against her soft cheeks. Didn’t she want to make her daughter proud? Every time Lily told her preschool friends that Mommy was a waitress, it stung. Mari had meant to be so much more.
Carefully setting her laptop aside, Mari opened the lid of her grandfather’s leather trunk, which she’d hauled down from the attic. Reaching inside, she scraped along the bottom, removing a stack of photographs and postcards. She lifted a black-and-white photo to the light. Abuelo stood in front of a Beach Boardwalk diner with the sign MARY’S CHICKEN SHACK. He looked very young, perhaps no more than sixteen.
Grinning, he had his arms around two pretty girls in waitress uniforms. Mari brought her hand to her mouth. That face. She lifted the photograph closer, squinting at the girl on the right. She wasn’t just pretty—she was beautiful. And suddenly Mari knew who she was: Violet Harcourt, the young beauty queen who had committed suicide.
Chapter 9
Violet Harcourt
1940
My heart swelled as I looked over the balcony of the Pink Flamingo Motel. Girls in two-piece swimsuits lounged under striped umbrellas by the kidney-shaped swimming pool. The pink and yellow motel walls shone bright in the California sunshine, and rows of palm trees stretched for miles. Wearing oversize sunglasses on a bright Los Angeles morning, I felt like a movie star.
“Hey,” Harry called, waving at me from down below, dressed in Bermuda shorts and a straw hat. “I’d invite you for a dip, but I’m set to meet with my contact from RKO in an hour. You want to tag along?”
I curled my hands around the railing. Did I ever!
“You betcha,” I called out. “Let me make myself decent.”
One of the Big Five movie studios! RKO Pictures had brought Ginger Rogers and Fred Astaire to fame, producing some of my favorite musicals.
Though I’d only slept a few hours since we’d arrived, I felt as though I could take on the world. Retreating into the cool motel room, I shut the door behind me. The place was a bit shabby, but clean. Harry had gotten us a room with two twin beds, and thankfully he hadn’t tried any funny business.
I reached into my clutch, counting the dollar bills I’d pilfered from Charles. It would be enough for a short time . . . maybe a week at most. I closed my eyes, praying for my big break. Opening them, I practiced a winning smile in the hotel mirror—like I had for the Miss California beauty pageant. Charles wasn’t here to hold me back, and doggone it, now was my time to shine.
WITH HARRY DRIVING us down Sunset Boulevard, I gawped at the colorful billboards and neon signs. Passing Grauman’s Chinese Theatre, I nearly squealed with delight. The new nightclubs along this strip teemed with the rich and famous. Though supposedly the gangsters Mickey Cohen and Bugsy Siegel owned the places, I’d die to rub elbows with Judy Garland, Greta Garbo and Clark Gable. Mickey Rooney came to play golf at the Oceano once, but Charles commanded me to stay home that day.
I shuddered, picturing Charles waking up to an empty bed. What would he do? I rubbed the back of my neck. Would he call the police? It wouldn’t take long for someone to say they’d spotted me at the bowling alley. But no one other than Ricky had seen me get into Harry’s car. My stomach clenched, fearing what Charles could do to him. My friend had worked his way out of far worse pickles. Still—I feared I’d placed him in an awful predicament.
As we passed Sunset Tower, I shielded my eyes from the sun, gazing up at the Art Deco structure. Harry grinned at me. “Howard Hughes lives up there in the penthouse. Did you know he rents a bunch of other apartments in the same building for his mistresses? Can you imagine ’em running into each other?”
I pulled my cardigan more tightly around my shoulders. Plenty of girls used their feminine wiles to sleep their way into a picture. I hoped a film producer would sign me for my talent—and not for something else.
“I’ve heard he’s handsome,” I offered. “Maybe they don’t mind sharing.”
Harry guffawed. “Goodness Violet, you’re a spitfire today.”
I felt different here. Perhaps it was the air, or the freedom of my hand out the window of Harry’s Oldsmobile. The old Violet was gone. I would do anything for a taste of fame. Once my star began to rise, Charles would never lay a hand on me again. But until then, I needed to be cautious. If Charles were to somehow find me and phone the motel, Harry would tell him everything. It wouldn’t be wise to stay with Harry for long.
“WHERE ARE WE?” I asked, looking around at the expanse of flatland before me. We’d driven for nearly an hour, though traffic had slowed our progress.
“Culver City,” Harry answered, swerving into a large parking lot. “This is the RKO back lot, otherwise known as the back forty.”
“The what?”
“It’s forty acres. All of the buildings from Gone with the Wind are here. You’ll find Atlanta in the heart of California.”
I covered my mouth. “This is where Tara is?”
“That’s right. My buddy is a set designer. He invited me to come on down so I could have a chat with the boss. David O. Selznick might be here today.”
Pulling my compact from my purse, I checked myself in the mirror. My crimson lipstick hadn’t smudged, and pins held my auburn waves. If I were to meet the powerful producer today, I’d only have one chance to impress him.
Going to the movie palaces had been my escape from the looming threats of war. Watching the beautiful people on-screen while laughing along with a comedy or singing the tune of a musical transported me to another world. And entering the RKO lot felt like a dream I didn’t want to wake up from. I pressed my face to the glass as the structures of Gone with the Wind came into view.
“There’s the courthouse and the bank. And there’s the train depot! Oh, isn’t it wonderful?”
Harry chuckled. “It sure is.”
As Harry parked his car, I crossed my fingers for luck. This was the home of Ginger Rogers, Katharine Hepburn and Fred Astaire. Fred Astaire had been balding in his thirties and a nobody. But Mr. Selznick had seen his charm. If I could attract the interest of even an assistant director, today could be my lucky break.
Stepping out of the car into the sunshine, I followed Harry across the parking lot and through the doors of the RKO Pictures building. The open and cavernous space felt like an airplane hangar. A ladder had been propped on the right side, and studio lights shone against the walls of the empty room.
“What is this place?” I asked.
“It’s a soundstage,” Harry answered. “Fully soundproof, so dialogue can be recorded here.”
“Well, hello there! You made it.”
I turned around to see a short, shiny-faced man strolling toward Harry. He’d combed his greasy hair back to hide a bald spot, but the pink skin shone through his thinning strands. He wore a plaid suit over his portly frame.
“Johnny!”
The two men embraced, slapping each other on the back. Johnny’s eyes fixed on mine, then traveled down my legs and up again, resting on my décolletage. I shivered, wishing I could avert his gaze.
“Look at the gams on you. What’s your name, sweetheart?”
“Violet,” I said, forcing a smile.
“You here for a screen test too?”
I blushed. “Well, actually, I was hoping . . .”
Johnny laughed. “No need to be shy, sweetheart. I
f Harry thinks he can get his ugly mug on screen, you sure have a chance with a face like that.”
Harry grinned. “Is the big boss here?”
Johnny shook his head. “Selznick’s not in. But his assistant director is.” He turned to me with a sleazy smile. “You heard of Rebecca?”
“The film? Of course.”
The Gothic tale had been directed by Alfred Hitchcock and produced by David O. Selznick. I’d found it quite sad, and a bit frightening.
“Eric Stacey was one of the assistant directors. Now he’s looking to cast the part of Selznick’s next big film. We’ve got a handful of gals here for the reading.”
“Oh,” I said, standing up straighter. “Swell. Shall I join them?”
He placed a hand on my shoulder, and I tensed, wishing I could swat it away. Instead, I allowed Johnny to guide me from the soundstage into a dimly lit hallway. Ten or so girls sat on the floor waiting there, some whispering in pairs, others reading. A few looked up, eyeing me warily. I offered a shy smile, but no one returned it.
“Wait here,” Johnny said. He turned to Harry. “Come with me. I want you to meet my buddy from the sound department. He knows a great Hollywood agent looking for a comedian for his next film.”
“Break a leg,” Harry called, waving at me.
I waved back, then took a deep breath. Was I supposed to have prepared a monologue? My eyes darted to the other girls with their reading material. I racked my brain, trying to recall a scene I had used in a previous audition.
“Nerves gettin’ to ya?”
The girl who’d spoken was a bottle blonde, her voluptuous body nearly spilling out of a satin dress, so tight it looked sewn on. A faux-fur wrap hung about her shoulders. Heavy makeup made her striking features appear a little harsh. Yet perhaps that much rouge was needed to stand out on-screen.
I smiled. “Yes, afraid so.”
She extended her hand. “I’m Roxy Marlow.”
“Violet Sweeting,” I said, taken aback by her firm grip.
“You’re new in town?”
“Can you tell?”
Roxy chuckled. “You’ve got that wide-eyed look about you. I’ve been trying to get more than a bit part for years, still haven’t caught my lucky break.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” I said, fidgeting with my clutch. “Say, are we meant to have prepared a monologue?”
Roxy shook her head. “It’s a cold reading. Someone else will read the dialogue with you. The assistant director wants to see how you play off the other person.”
“Oh,” I said, the tension between my shoulders lessening a little. “Thank you.”
Fluffing her curls, Roxy grinned. “I always know the scoop. Word on the street is that Joan Fontaine has already been cast as the lead, but they’re looking for a girl to play a nightclub singer. Do you sing?”
“Yes. It was my talent in the . . . ,” I trailed off, afraid to give away my identity as Mrs. Charles Harcourt, “beauty pageant I entered.”
“Aw shucks,” Roxy said, tilting her head. “Another Miss Pretty-face, trying to strike it big in Hollywood. Listen, doll, this town is cutthroat.” She lowered her voice. “You see those girls?”
I nodded, glancing at the others.
“Most of ’em won’t make it. Some will end up finding their meal ticket dating some bigwig bozo, and if they’re lucky, getting a year’s contract at Columbia. But if you have an affair with a studio boss, it will always be all about him.”
“I don’t expect to have any type of affair—”
“You don’t now,” Roxy said, looking me in the eye. “But if you fall on hard times, you’d be surprised what you’re willing to do. A girl’s got to eat.”
I swallowed.
Roxy smiled coyly. “I’m a cigarette girl at Tropical Gardens Nightclub. Lots of bigwigs meet there. It’s where I hear all the Hollywood gossip.”
“Really? How exciting.”
“We’re looking for a new lounge singer, if you’re interested. The last girl quit as soon as she got a ring on her finger. You ain’t married, are you?”
My palms began to sweat as Roxy’s eyes darted to my bare finger. I’d left my diamond solitaire and wedding band in a jewelry box on my nightstand in Santa Cruz. Instead, I’d brought my diamond and sapphire earrings that had belonged to my grandmother. My left hand felt strangely barren without the large rock. Divorce. I hated the sound of it. But what choice did I have? I needed to find a lawyer.
“Not married,” I said, fighting the tightness in my throat.
“Ladies!” a voice boomed. The girls sitting on the floor scrambled to attention, some dropping their papers as they stood. I smoothed my hands against my green dress, praying to stand out from the crowd of pretty faces.
A handsome man in khakis and a white shirt stood before us, his eyes appraising. Unlike Johnny’s, his gaze didn’t linger on my legs or my face. Perhaps in Hollywood I wasn’t such hot stuff after all. Every gal here looked like a knockout.
“My name’s Ed. Mr. Stacey is at the soundstage, awaiting your auditions. Line up, single file. I don’t got all day.”
My stomach dropped, like the time I’d ridden the Giant Dipper roller coaster. I stood behind Roxy, second in line.
Removing her faux-fur stole, Roxy winked at me. “Good luck, doll. Say, where are you staying?”
“The Pink Flamingo Motel.”
“I know the place,” Roxy said. “I live at the Tropicana, on the other end of Sunset Boulevard. It’s a bit of a dive, but the rent is cheap. Come by sometime. I’m in room one-thirteen. I can help you get on your feet.”
“Thank you,” I said, as Roxy walked away with an exaggerated sway of her hips. “And good luck!”
Roxy laughed, calling over her shoulder, “My luck ran out a long time ago. If I get this part, it will be thanks to five years of waiting tables and selling cigarettes. This town will knock the stars right out of your eyes.”
I resisted the urge to bite my cuticles while Roxy departed for her screen test. One of the other girls whispered in line behind me, “Did you know hundreds of actresses tested for the role of Scarlett O’Hara? The director found something wrong with every one of them. Too young, too beefy, you name it.”
I smiled politely. “The leading lady needed to be just right for such an iconic role.”
We locked eyes on each other. Unlike Roxy, this girl had lustrous dark hair, dark brows and a fresh, dewy face. I felt the heat of jealousy creep up my neck. Minutes passed like hours. I tried not to fidget.
“Next! Who’s next?”
I nearly jumped out of my skin as Ed returned with his clipboard.
“I am,” I said, raising my hand.
“Hurry along, then.”
My heels clicked against the floor as I followed him to the soundstage. I looked around for Roxy, but she was nowhere to be seen.
A dark-haired man sat at a table in the corner, his chiseled features so similar to Charles’s that my heart nearly skipped a beat.
“What’sa matter?” Ed asked. “Nerves getting to you already? Sit down. This is Jimmy. You’ll be reading a scene from The Wizard of Oz. Your script is on the table.”
“Thank you,” I said, trying to hide the quiver in my voice. I looked over Jimmy’s shoulder to catch a glimpse of the man sitting in a director’s chair nearby. He wore spectacles and appeared to be in his midthirties. I put on my winning smile, but his face remained impassive. The knot in my stomach began to feel like a rock.
“Three, two, one, action!”
“Oh,” I whispered. Was there no warning before we began?
“I haven’t got a brain,” Jimmy said, “only straw.”
Quickly, I recovered. “How can you talk if you haven’t got a brain?”
“I don’t know . . . But some people without brains do an awful lot of talking . . . don’t they?”
I projected sweetness into my voice. “Yes, I guess you’re right.”
“Cut!”
I looked
up at the spectacled director. He’d yelled so loudly I’d cringed in fright. I tried not to pay any mind to the camera filming me, but it was difficult not to.
“Do it once more,” the director commanded, his accent distinctly British. “More gently, more quietly, more mood.”
“Right,” I said.
After a second read through, the director cut me off, this time standing from his chair in frustration.
“Once more. Your face is so hard.”
Heat rushed to my cheeks. “Is it?”
With my nerves rattled, I read again. Only this time I flubbed my lines more than once. “Oh nuts. I’m sorry.”
The director dismissed me, and I held in my tears as I walked off the soundstage. Roxy’s words rang in my ears. This town would knock the stars right out of my eyes.
Chapter 10
Marisol Cruz
2007
Lily stuck out her bottom lip as she walked hand in hand with Mari down the tree-lined street toward Green Frog Preschool.
“Anna went with her daddy to his work. And she said he works in a big, shiny building. Anna said her daddy is very important.”
Mari smiled. “That’s nice.”
Lily’s green eyes grew serious. “Mom, where does my daddy work?”
“I don’t know where he works,” Mari said, her jaw tightening. “But we can visit Abuelo at his work. Would you like that?”
Lily shook her head. “No! It’s noisy and boring.”
Mari’s father owned a small construction firm, specializing in helping Santa Cruz families make their homes more eco-friendly. She felt proud of him for giving undocumented immigrants good jobs while making his customers happy. But the job sites often were noisy, and Lily had never shown much interest in the forklifts or cranes. She preferred her tiaras and baby dolls.
Tugging Mari by the arm, Lily picked up her pace. “Ellie’s mom has a boyfriend and he’s in a band. She brought him to show-and-tell and he played guitar.”
Mari lifted an eyebrow. “She brought a boyfriend to show-and-tell?”
“He was funny and knew all of the songs. Why don’t you have a boyfriend?”
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