Boardwalk Summer

by Meredith Jaeger

  Two months prior to her death, Harcourt, recently crowned Miss California, withdrew from the Miss America pageant, admitting her marital status rendered her ineligible to compete. Runner-up Evelyn Hastings took her place.

  Not only would Evelyn be a good candidate for Mari’s grant project, but also she might have been a friend of Violet’s. Mari definitely had questions she wanted answered, like how Abuelo and Violet knew each other.

  Opening another tab, Mari searched for “Evelyn Hastings, Santa Cruz.” A result popped up from the white pages:

  Evelyn L Hastings

  Age 88

  Lives in San Jose, CA

  Used to live in Santa Cruz, CA

  Related to Karen E. Smith, Ronald F. Hastings

  Mari Googled “Karen E. Smith” and found a professional profile. Karen worked in nearby Capitola as a real estate agent. Finding Karen’s professional website, Mari composed a quick email, explaining her grant project and asking Karen if she might make an introduction to Evelyn. Hopefully Evelyn was still in good health. Who better to record memories of the Beach Boardwalk than a former beauty queen?

  Turning her attention back to her browser, Mari read the text from Louella Parson’s gossip column.

  At a soiree at the home of a famous Hollywood director, known for giving his films a special “touch,” a notorious lothario screenwriter and a former Miss California were necking in the garden. The pretty redhead was spotted at Don the Beachcomber with our young screenwriter a few nights previous. She donned a pair of diamond and sapphire swirl clip earrings, perhaps a gift from a wealthy suitor.

  With the lothario’s advances thwarted, the famous director came to the rescue, pulling the aspiring actress from the grass, the hem of her gown trampled and scratches on her skin! He may appear gentle but this foreign-born director is a knight in shining armor, giving the party-crashing screenwriter the boot. As for our damsel in distress? Her time in Hollywood is finished. No one recovers from that kind of mishap unscathed.

  Mari brought her fingers to her lips. The date of the Hollywood gossip blind item was August 10, 1940. That fell within the timeline of when Violet was in Hollywood. She typed in another quick search, and then found the line she was looking for, describing Violet’s bridal attire.

  She wore custom diamond and sapphire swirl clip earrings as her “something blue.”

  The earrings matched the description. And Violet’s obituary had described her as an auburn-haired beauty. She had to be the Miss California mentioned in this gossip column. Had Violet been sexually assaulted in the garden by a young screenwriter? What an awful introduction to Hollywood.

  Ernst Lubitsch was a director from Germany, known for giving his films “the Lubitsch Touch.” Mari typed “Lubitsch Hollywood Parties” to see if she could find anything. Sure enough, there were articles describing parties with midnight swimming, croquet and Ping-Pong, with elaborate floral displays and candles, along with images of the dark-haired director on set with various actresses.

  It wasn’t too much of a stretch to believe Violet had once been to his home. If Louella Parsons was convinced an encounter like that would ruin Violet’s reputation, how intensely must Violet have felt the shame of what happened?

  Maybe this negative experience convinced her to return to Charles. Mari shivered, thinking of the kind of man Charles Harcourt appeared to be. Possessive. Powerful. Louella Parsons painted a dark picture for Violet.

  No one recovers from that kind of mishap unscathed.

  Chapter 19

  Violet Harcourt

  1940

  You’ve got a call on the front desk phone.”

  Roxy glared at me with a face so sour, she could’ve swallowed a lemon. Since the Benny Bronstein incident, we’d hardly spoken. She’d left me alone in the motel room to work her shift at the Tropical Gardens, and while I had a few hours to myself, I lay in bed rereading Charles’s telegram.

  “Who is it?” I asked, my heart pounding.

  “A second assistant director,” she said, wrinkling her nose.

  That explained the sour face. Hopping out of bed, I slipped on my sandals, tied my robe tightly around my midsection and scurried down to the hotel lobby.

  The desk girl handed me the phone, and I brought it to my ear with a trembling hand. “This is Violet Sweeting.”

  “Miss Sweeting. This is Bill Chase. I’m the second assistant director at Paramount. I work under John Huston. I’m calling you in regard to your recent audition.”

  “Yes?” I replied, clutching the telephone cord.

  “We liked what we saw. You’ve got a certain look about you. We’d like you to come back tomorrow to begin filming.”

  I brought my hand to my lips. “Did I get the part?”

  “A speaking part? No. You’ll be cast as an extra. But you can call yourself a supporting actor if you like.”

  “Oh,” I said, my stomach sinking. “Is it paid?”

  “Not as much as a speaking role, but you’ll get free lunch on set and a steady paycheck for every day that you film.”

  “Well,” I said, my smile returning. “That’s marvelous. What time should I arrive?”

  “Call time is at eight in the morning, sharp. Walk to soundstage eight on the Paramount lot. You’ll see the trailers and buses.”

  “Thank you. I’ll be there tomorrow.”

  I hung up the phone, squealing as I pushed the phone back toward the receptionist. She smiled at me.

  “Got a part?”

  “As an extra. It’s not much, but it’s a start.”

  “That’s the spirit,” she said, patting my arm. I wondered how many girls she’d seen over the course of her time working at this motel, hoping for their lucky break. I breathed a sigh of relief. Things were looking up.

  I COUGHED, BREATHING in gasoline fumes as I sat in the back of the crowded bus. Shiny, luxury Airstream trailers had been parked around stage eight on the Paramount lot, but this old, battered Greyhound bus was reserved for extras.

  My vision of the glamorous life of a film actor had dimmed when I was ushered away from the main stage and into this decrepit automobile. Occasionally members of the crew would come aboard to handpick extras for particular scenes. I waited, holding my breath, only to watch the stagehands choose another girl. It felt awful, much like being picked last in gym class. I’d never been the sporty type, and my teenage insecurities came rushing back to me all over again.

  A freckled brunette sitting beside me opened up her knapsack, removing an apron, a knife and fork, a plate, a checkered cloth napkin and a bread roll. She caught me looking and smiled, her blue eyes twinkling.

  “Everything but the kitchen sink, right?”

  “You do have quite a lot in there.”

  She extended her hand. “Vera Stanley.”

  “Violet Sweeting,” I replied, shaking it.

  “The longer you work as an extra, the more you’ll learn. For instance, if you’re wearing period clothing, an apron is a must. You can’t let crumbs dirty a medieval gown, or Wardrobe will have your head!”

  I laughed. “Have you been in Hollywood a long time?”

  “Two years,” she said, spreading the napkin across her lap and slicing into the bread roll. “I was a stage actress in Rhode Island, but I wanted to come out west.”

  A ripple of nausea rose to my throat. I took a deep breath, fighting the feeling. No one could suspect I was pregnant, or I’d be truly finished. The encounter with Benny Bronstein at Ernst Lubitsch’s house had been mortifying enough, but he was only one director. Hopefully John Huston hadn’t caught word of anything.

  “How has it been?” I asked, looking at Vera’s sweet face. She appeared to be an openhearted person. She hardly wore a stitch of makeup and didn’t seem like the type to command attention, but she had a certain pale prettiness, like an English rose.

  Vera shrugged. “Hard at times. I’d hoped to get a speaking role by now. But working as an extra is consistent. It pays the rent. And the
food on set is quite good.”

  “Yet you brought your own?”

  She tore off a piece of the bun. “We don’t break for lunch until after noon. Trust me, you’ll be starving by then.”

  “Thank you,” I said, grateful for the soft bread. Chewing it helped to settle my stomach, the bland flavor inoffensive.

  “Besides,” she said. “Working as an extra isn’t all bad. You can talk to a writer on set and perhaps get an audition out of it. You never know what’s going to happen.”

  I cringed, thinking of Benny. To hell with screenwriters.

  “Oh look,” she said, setting down her bread. “A stagehand is back.”

  We straightened our posture as he climbed aboard the bus, his eyes scanning the sea of faces. He cleared his throat.

  “Next up, we need a beautiful young woman. This is a prime shot, the vixen at the bar. Ladies, here’s your chance at the spotlight.”

  My heart began to pound as I silently prayed he would pick me. What if I were sitting too far back to be noticed?

  He pointed at two girls in the front of the bus. “You, you . . .” Then his eyes locked on mine. “And you. Come this way.”

  Me!

  Vera squeezed my hand. “Good luck. I hope your scene doesn’t get cut. This could be big for you.”

  I smoothed my dress. “Is that common?”

  “Unfortunately. Some of my best work didn’t make it to film.”

  “I see.”

  “Don’t mind me,” she said, smiling. “I didn’t mean to rain on your parade. Try to remain cautiously optimistic. That’s the best advice I can give.”

  “Thank you,” I said, standing and following the other two girls down the narrow bus aisle. “I will.”

  We disembarked, crossed the Paramount lot and passed the shiny Airstream trailers. Suddenly, I felt the urge to use the loo.

  “Is there a lavatory inside?” I asked. The stagehand shot me a look. “The toilets inside are only for the actors. Extras use the porta pottys out back.”

  “Oh,” I said, surprised. Perhaps it would be wise to get accustomed to feeling like a second-class citizen, or I might earn the reputation of being difficult.

  I held it, following the other girls into a room in a large hangar-like building. Racks and racks of clothing stood against the wall on wheeled carts. I felt giddy, glimpsing the assortment of gowns. The stagehand pointed to two women working the costume department. “Fay and Rita here will help you get dressed, then we’ll call each one of you on set.”

  He disappeared, and we were told to disrobe. I eyed the other girls, envious of their creamy, unblemished skin and slim physiques. I felt acutely aware of my bloated belly. But my breasts swelled rather nicely, and would fill out any bodice.

  One of the women, Rita, handed me a bloodred gown on a velvet hanger. It had a deep V-neck and cap sleeves. I shimmied into it, smiling when it zipped all the way up, a perfect fit. One of the other girls wore a green, strapless gown that gapped in the bosom. She tugged it upward. I noticed all three of us were redheads, about the same age.

  “She looks like a scarecrow,” Fay said to Rita, as if the girl weren’t standing right in front of them. “The bust is a terrible fit. Take it off.”

  Rita nodded, unzipping the dress as if the girl were a set prop. The girl looked like she was going to cry. The poor dear! Next she tried on a floor-length blue velvet gown with a dramatic open back. But Fay shook her head dismissively. “She’s not going to work.”

  I bit my lip as the redhead was dismissed, blinking back tears as she walked away.

  The other gal managed to appease both costume department employees when she zipped into a black cocktail gown. She looked rather lovely in it, her hair parted to one side and auburn waves falling over her bare shoulders. I clenched my hands nervously. Would she land the part?

  “This one could use a bit more makeup,” Fay said. Then I realized she was talking about me. Rita nodded, her eyes meeting mine. “Do you have a compact with you? Put on another coat of lipstick and a bit more rouge.”

  I nodded. “I do.”

  Pulling my compact from my purse, I flipped open the little mirror. My dark blue eyes stared back at me, pools of sadness. I coated my lips again, the dark crimson striking against my pale skin. I didn’t recognize myself—this haunted woman. I’d given up so much for the price of fame, and at what cost?

  I shivered, placing my compact back in my purse. I didn’t know what the future held . . . but this baby was coming, whether I was ready or not.

  “Your turn,” Rita said, pointing toward the set.

  “Thank you,” I said, gathering my courage.

  When I stepped onto the soundstage, I couldn’t believe the transformation. It had been decorated like a luxurious lounge, with a marble bar and dark wood-paneled walls. How magnificent that such a building could be created inside an aircraft hangar. I felt as though I were in a glamorous New York hotel.

  “Stand here,” a stagehand said to me. He ran back to his post, and then adjusted the light so it shone on my face. “Perfect, like that.”

  My heart fluttered as I saw Humphrey Bogart walk into the room. My stars! I hadn’t known who’d been cast in the lead role, but now the cat was out of the bag. I’d seen him play the gangster in Angels with Dirty Faces. He was quite handsome.

  “On your marks,” the director called, rising from his chair. He was a gentleman in his mid-thirties with dark hair and hooded eyes. So that was John Huston? I didn’t recognize the male actor with Humphrey Bogart, but both stood at the bar, drinks in hand. Swallowing, I wondered if any of them had paid me any mind.

  “Here,” a stagehand said, pushing a glass of gin toward me.

  “You,” John Huston said, addressing me.

  I shot to attention. “Yes, sir?”

  “Stare into that gin glass. Portray her sadness with your eyes. All right? We’ll begin filming in three, two, one . . .”

  Feeling the soft glow of the light overhead, I stared into my gin glass as Humphrey Bogart began to speak.

  “What’sa guy gotta do to catch a break in this town?”

  “Dunno,” the other actor answered. “These are tough times.”

  “Everybody’s gotta make a living.” Bogart glanced over at me. “What’s her story?”

  I stared at the ice cubes in my glass. What was my story? I’d come here to chase my dreams, left my husband and my entire life behind. Now I was pregnant and alone. So very alone. I felt my eyes prick with tears.

  “Who knows?” the actor said. “You ain’t got time to chase after dames. We’re meeting Bobby at the docks in an hour. Bottoms up.”

  “Cut!”

  I looked up, the faces of the film crew hardly visible in the darkened room. Stagehands adjusted lights and sound equipment. Humphrey Bogart stood at ease, chatting with his male costar.

  “We’ve got it,” John Huston announced. “Fantastic!”

  “That’s your cue to go,” the stagehand whispered.

  I looked around, waiting for some kind of recognition from somebody—anybody—but there was no one there to share my joy. Had I captured what the director was looking for in only one take?

  After using the portable toilet, I returned to the Greyhound bus. A bell sounded on set, and soon everyone was queuing up for lunch. The smell of beef hit me, but instead of making me feel sick, my stomach rumbled with a craving for meat.

  “How did you do?” Vera asked, coming up beside me.

  “I think I did well. The director said we had the take.”

  “Violet, that’s wonderful! And I heard today’s meal is roast beef and mashed potatoes. Smells delicious, doesn’t it?”

  “It does,” I said, picking up a plastic tray.

  “You’re going to want to borrow my apron,” Vera said, giggling. “You’re still wearing your gown from Wardrobe.”

  “Oh heavens, I am.”

  “Were the women in the costume department awful? Sometimes I feel like a prop, the
way they talk about me like I’m not there.”

  I suppressed a smile. “One wasn’t so bad. She told me to apply more makeup before shooting.”

  “She didn’t pretend you were a coat hanger? Well, she sounds like a winner.”

  I laughed, the knot in my stomach loosening. Today had gone splendidly. And with a little luck, soon I would be watching myself on the silver screen.

  THE SUNSET PAINTED the sky pink and orange as I walked down Hollywood Boulevard toward the Tropicana motel. It stood in silhouette against the darkening twilight, palm trees framing its blockish shape. Though Roxy and I hadn’t been on the greatest terms lately, I felt excited to tell her about my day. Perhaps we could move past our spat and go out for drinks together.

  I’d walked another ten paces when I recognized the shiny black Cadillac parked out front. I stopped dead in my tracks. Charles. My heart stopped beating, and then started again, pounding furiously. Time seemed to move in slow motion as he opened the driver’s side door and stepped out of the car. His eyes met mine.

  Electricity shot through me. He looked so handsome in his suit, his dark hair parted to the side. But his expression—I couldn’t read it. He’d come for me, even though I hadn’t asked him to yet. How? I recalled the other night, telling Harry the name of my motel. Charles must have gotten in touch with him.

  With my lip trembling, I walked toward my husband, longing to feel his warm embrace. In his telegram, he’d told me he loved me. He’d apologized for his actions. He could change. My leaving for Hollywood had shown him what it would be like to lose me. And now that he knew that pain, he would treat me better. I could give him another chance and give our child a loving father.

  A lump rose in my throat as I reached for my husband’s hand. “Oh Charles, I received your telegram . . .”

  Pulling me tightly against him, he kissed my forehead. I closed my eyes, drinking in the scent of his cologne. He opened the passenger door to his car and guided me toward it. My stomach clenched with a rush of nerves. What if he were to hurt me again? Something in my gut told me not to get in the car.

  Yet I sat down in the passenger seat. Shutting the car door with a heavy thump, he walked around to the driver’s side and opened his door. I breathed in the familiar scent of the leather, my stomach knotting uncomfortably.