“That’s not fair, Dave.” Kathy looked close to tears. “You talk as though my father is unreasonable.”
“Try working for him.”
“Maybe if you’d try to understand what he’s going through . . .”
“Good night!” Dave disappeared down the hall.
Kathy glanced at Joshua. “He’s been waiting for you to come. He said you’re the only friend he trusts.” She looked crushed. “And he’s wrong about my father. My mom died two years ago and . . .” Her expression beseeched him. “I hope you’ll make up your own mind when you meet him tomorrow.”
“I’m looking forward to meeting him.”
Joshua sat on the edge of the double bed in the guest room, head bowed. He’d always known the job was a secondary reason for coming south. He’d really come to find Abra. Now it seemed he had four more reasons for being here.
Abra wasn’t the only lamb lost in the wilderness.
Abra came out into the sunshine, Franklin at her side, talking. She was too tired to pay attention. The day had gone well, the dance sequences all finished. Ben Hastings, the star of Ladies and Gents, was a professional hoofer and a perfectionist. He had taught her to tap-dance on set, drilling her harder than Franklin ever had in acting. She knew the steps so well, she danced them in her sleep. Today had been the last and most difficult and evocative dance he’d choreographed, and she’d kept up with him right to the last step.
The director called, “Cut!” and came out of his seat, he was so excited. “That was better than Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers!” Ben grabbed and hugged her tight and called her a trouper. She should have felt triumphant. Instead, she’d felt relief it was over, finally over. She’d fought tears, desperate to escape. She wanted to get out of the studio and breathe fresh air. She wanted to be away from the lights and the cameras that followed her every move. How many little mistakes would show up on the big screen? What would the critics say? What would the audience feel? She felt like a fraud, always playing a part, always being someone other than herself. The problem was she didn’t know herself anymore, what she wanted, where she belonged. She became whatever persona Franklin wanted, what the script and director demanded.
What had become of Abra?
Franklin’s hand tightened at her elbow. Perhaps he sensed she wasn’t really listening. He always wanted her undivided attention. “I’m sending you to the salon for a pedicure.” He never asked, and she didn’t have the strength or courage to tell him she wanted to go back to the apartment and sleep for a week. “We’re going to a party tonight. Billy Wilder will be there. Rumor has it he’s going to do a courtroom drama. I want you polished and ready.” She wondered if she could stand—let alone walk—in a pair of heels after the day she’d had. Franklin kissed her cheek and opened the back door of the limo. “You did well today. I’m proud of you.”
“Proud enough to give me an evening off?”
“Don’t be cute.”
The driver slid into the front seat and gave her a quick smile and greeting before starting the Cadillac. When he asked her a question, she answered politely, then asked him to turn on the radio. He took the hint. She didn’t want to talk. Unfortunately, the station he chose was playing “The Great Pretender” by the Platters. Sighing, she closed her eyes and rested her head against the seat. Would there ever be a time when she didn’t have to pretend? Was there anything in her life right now that was real?
She still felt queasy whenever a camera started to roll, knowing the director was watching every move she made, every expression on her face, listening to every word and nuance she spoke, always looking for a flaw, a mistake that would mean more rehearsing and another take, and then another.
Franklin was keeping his word. He was getting her bigger and better parts. He’d warned her from the start that it would be hard work. She learned her lines. She knew her marks. She listened and did exactly what the director told her to do. She found it easier to play the parts in a movie than to be Lena Scott. She had to remember to play that part no matter where she was, especially in the apartment when only Franklin’s eyes were on her. Whenever Abra slipped through, Franklin gave her that look. You’re not that girl anymore. You’re Lena Scott now. Don’t forget. How long before the role became natural and she, Abra, ceased to exist? And would it matter to anyone if she did?
Abra relaxed as soon as she entered Murray’s. It was the one place Franklin let her go by herself. And there was something peaceful about these rooms, something beyond the hair dying, the manicures, the pedicures. “You’re looking beautiful, Miss Scott.” The receptionist beamed a smile. “I’ll let Mary Ellen know you’ve arrived.”
Afraid if she sat she wouldn’t be able to get up, Abra stood until Mary Ellen came up front. Her brown eyes were as warm and bright as a puppy’s. She showed Abra to a quiet, private room. The lights were low and classical music played softly. Abra moaned as she sank into the comfortable chair. Her thigh and calf muscles ached. How long before they cramped? Bending over, she bit her lip as she tried to work off one pump.
“Rest back, Miss Scott. I’ll do that for you.” Mary Ellen knelt and slipped the shoe off Abra’s foot. “Oh!” She gasped at what she saw. “What have you been doing?” Her tone was full of sympathy.
“Tap-dancing.” She sucked in her breath as Mary Ellen carefully removed the other shoe. Her heels throbbed and burned with pain. The tape Franklin had wrapped around her toes that morning had bunched and was tinged pink with blood.
Mary Ellen carefully cut away the tape, murmuring in sympathy when she peeled it back and exposed raw skin where blisters had burst. “A nice long soak to start.” She prepared a basin with some salts. “It’s going to burn a little in the beginning, but it will disinfect and soothe, too.” Abra gasped as she slipped her feet one at a time into the water. “I’m so sorry, Lena.” Mary Ellen looked distressed.
“It’s fine.” After a moment, the pain subsided and Abra relaxed with a sigh.
Mary Ellen sat in front of her, hands folded, looking troubled. “Will you have to do more dancing?”
“Not for this movie, and not if Franklin manages to get me into a courtroom drama.” Billy Wilder was no fool. He would take one look at her and know she wasn’t the caliber of actress he would want in one of his movies. She could hope, anyway. Ladies and Gents was no Singin’ in the Rain. She had her doubts it would be a hit, but Franklin said nothing succeeded in Hollywood like repetition.
“My husband and I haven’t been to the movies in a while.” Mary Ellen knelt on a cushion and began to gently knead Abra’s aching calves. “Our neighbors sold us their television set before they moved. They were worried it would get broken and be a complete loss. We watch The Ed Sullivan Show and Cheyenne. I love Perry Como’s show. My husband stays up for Gunsmoke, but I’m usually too tired. And we watch the news every evening after dinner.”
“I’ve been told television is the future.” Not the future Franklin envisioned for Lena Scott.
“I love movies, but it’s so easy to turn on the television and it’s such a constant flow of entertainment. The advertisements are annoying, but I suppose they have to run them to pay for the shows.”
Franklin said every home in America would have a television in their living room soon. The networks had to mass-produce shows. They came up with new material every week, week after week. Working on a movie set was hard enough. She had met television actors who worked six days a week, starting at six in the morning, sometimes not leaving the set until ten at night. They had studio contracts and spent up to seven years living like indentured servants. They might become rich and famous, but were more likely to be canceled and released, or locked down and waiting to be cast in a situation comedy or have a part in Dick Powell’s Zane Grey Theater.
The movie industry was hot. Some studios designed posters before writing a script. All they had to have was a good idea to get financial backing. She’d met a dozen girls in the last few months who could sing and dance circles around her, and yet
they ended up giving a half-hour private lap show in some studio exec’s office. At least Franklin had saved her from that. But things could change quickly if she didn’t hold up her side of the bargain and play her part. Every time she was awake in the night and stared out the bank of plate-glass windows in the silent living room, she saw Hollywood was one long boulevard of broken dreams.
Mary Ellen lifted Abra’s foot carefully from the water. She used small, sharp scissors to cut away the torn skin. “I hope I’m not hurting you.”
“I’m fine.”
“You say that a lot.”
“Do I?”
Hands still, Mary Ellen raised her head. “Are you?”
Abra looked into her eyes and knew she could be honest. “I don’t know what I am anymore.”
Mary Ellen’s expression softened. “Well, the Lord knows who you are and what He meant you to be.”
Abra had become used to the way Mary Ellen always managed to bring God into every conversation, as though He were another person in the room she wanted to include. Like Mitzi, Mary Ellen centered her life around Jesus. She talked about Him the way she would a beloved father, a good friend she trusted, someone she wanted to share. Talking about God made Abra uncomfortable. Talking about Jesus reminded her of Joshua and Pastor Zeke and Peter and Priscilla and Mitzi, and it filled her with homesickness.
She might be a rising screen star, but she was lonely. The pain in her feet was minuscule compared to the pain in her heart. She didn’t think she could bear more today, so she wrapped herself in a protective armor of disdain. “The way He wanted you to be a manicurist, I suppose.” She heard the derisive tone of her voice and felt ashamed.
Mary Ellen met her eyes with a smile. “For now.”
Words came unbidden. “I wish I knew what He wanted from me.”
“Oh, that’s easy enough. He wants you to love Him.”
“Well, then, I don’t know what He wants me to do.”
“Ask Him.”
Abra let out a breathy, mocking laugh. “He might send me to Africa.”
“I suppose He could, but if He did, you’d end up happy you’d gone.” She gently applied salve to Abra’s foot. “A missionary came to visit last Sunday. I wish you’d been there to hear her.” Mary Ellen had invited Abra to church a dozen times at least, never giving up hope. “She grew up in our church. She said her mother dragged her to a Sunday night service to hear a missionary from Africa. On the way home, she told her mother there were two things she would never, ever be: a nurse or a missionary in Africa. Take a guess what God did?” She laughed. “He made her a nurse and sent her to Africa. And she said she’s never been happier or more fulfilled. She’s been out in the bush country managing a hospital for twenty-five years and plans to stay until God takes her home.”
“Then, I guess He never intended me to be an actress.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because I hate being someone else all the time. I hate pretending everything is wonderful and I’m happy. I hate—” Her voice broke. She bit her lip and shook her head. When she could breathe again, she spoke. “Pay no attention to me. I’m just having a bad day.”
“Is that all it is?” Mary Ellen waited.
Abra leaned back and closed her eyes, hoping that would end the conversation. Mary Ellen finished with the salve and wrapped a warm towel around Abra’s right foot before she lifted, dried, and began working gently on Abra’s left. They didn’t speak. Feet mended and wrapped in warm towels, Mary Ellen massaged Abra’s sore calves again. She hummed another familiar hymn that made tears prick behind Abra’s lids. She could have sat at the piano and played the Fanny Crosby hymn straight through without a mistake. It had been one of Mitzi’s favorites, along with dozens of others, added to the hymns of Isaac Watts and Charles Wesley. Melodies and words ran through her mind.
“Jesus is tenderly calling you home . . .”
Abra tried to shut out the memories by making a mental list of her sins. There was no going back and undoing the past. She’d have to carry the guilt forever. The weight of it pulled her down deeper into the shadows where she lived. She wanted to curl up in a dark corner where God couldn’t see her. She only had to look at where her life had begun to know God had never loved her. She’d always been a castaway, an outsider, an interloper. She remembered Pastor Zeke standing at the gate in the dark of night and felt the same wrenching pain she had felt as she watched him walk away.
She raised her hand and pressed it hard against her chest.
Mary Ellen’s hands stilled. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
“I’m fine.” Abra winced. There was the lie again, so quick to her lips. She fought tears. I’m fine? “It’s nothing you’ve said or done, Mary Ellen.”
“Then what is it, Lena? How can I help you? Please. Let me help you.”
Abra shook her head and looked away.
The truth was, she hated being Lena Scott. But she didn’t know where to find Abra anymore.
CHAPTER 13
The serpent deceived me.
EVE’S EXCUSE
ZEKE STOPPED BY for a trim at Hair Today Gone Tomorrow on the corner of the square. Javier Estrada’s barbershop was slow on Monday mornings, and Zeke would have the opportunity for immediate service and plenty of time to talk baseball. Javier kept up with players and stats. Next, Zeke stopped in at the Vassa Bakery for a loaf of Swedish rye and a short visit with Klaus and Anna Johnson. They had a passel of children who’d all worked in the bakery at one time or another, but who were now scattered north and south, establishing family businesses of their own.
It was a nice morning for sitting in the square. People always stopped by to chat or just said hello in passing. Zeke liked to be out among the people. He ate a piece of fresh rye bread, enjoying the sunlight that shone through the redwood and maple trees, splashes of light moving like dancers on the sidewalk. It had been a busy week. Mitzi had wanted a ride, and he’d taken her with him to visit several families outside of town. She knew how to make people laugh, even when they were determined not to crack so much as a smile. He’d had a memorial service on Friday and a wedding on Saturday. He’d gone home right after church on Sunday, changed into more casual wear before heading out for dinner at the MacPhersons’. He’d been at Bessie’s at six thirty this morning. Susan served him at the counter, but hardly spoke. He’d stop in later and see if she felt more like talking.
As though his thoughts had tapped her on the shoulder, he heard the distant jangle of the old bell over Bessie’s front door. Susan came out and crossed the street. She’d cut her hair. The new pageboy suited her. She was heading straight for him like a pigeon to its roost, and she looked decidedly grim.
“I’m on break, Zeke, so I’ve only got a few minutes to talk with you.”
“Sit. Please.” He’d been preaching a series on the book of Romans. She was sure to have a question that would challenge him. He frowned when she remained standing, glancing around nervously. “I don’t think Bessie will fire you if you’re out here for a few minutes.”
“Bessie would love it if I stayed out here with you all day.” She sat, leaving plenty of room between them on the bench.
She looked around again. The square was empty. Everyone was at work. “Bessie said Joshua left town.” Why the worried expression? “Did you two have a fight or something? I mean, I know it’s none of my business, but . . .”
Ah. “Joshua was offered a job in Southern California.”
“That’s a long way from home, Zeke.”
“There was an opportunity he couldn’t pass up.”
Susan smoothed her skirt over her knees. She seemed upset about something, and Zeke knew it had little to do with Joshua’s departure. “What’s on your mind, Susan?”
She let out a sharp breath as though she’d been holding it a long time. “People have been asking if I knew anything, as though I should know what was going on in your home. I keep telling them I don’t know any more than anyone else, bu
t they . . .” She pressed her lips together. He could see emotions flitting across her face.
“Persist.”
“Yes.” She frowned and returned to her first question. “You two are so close. Why would Joshua want to go to Southern California? It’s a world away from Haven.”
“There’s a time for all things, Susan. Just because he’s gone now doesn’t mean he’ll be gone forever.”
“It doesn’t bother you that he’s so far away?”
“We’re still in touch.” Joshua had called to let him know he’d arrived safely and to ask for prayer for Dave and Kathy. He didn’t offer specifics, but God would know what they needed.
Susan relaxed a little. “It’s nice out here, in the fresh air.” She folded her hands, but didn’t lean back. She still sat on the edge of the bench. Zeke knew she had something else on her mind. She sighed, eyes fixed on her hands. “I’ve been here long enough. I think I should go.”
Zeke had the feeling she didn’t mean back to Bessie’s. “What’s troubling you, Susan?”
She cleared her throat. “People are speculating.” Her knuckles whitened. “About us.”
Was she just beginning to realize that? “And that bothers you.”
Susan blushed. “Yes. It does.”
He felt a sharp jab in his chest. He wasn’t quite sure how to apologize. He’d felt drawn to her from the beginning, wanted to be her friend.
She bit her lip, worrying it before she spoke. “Cole Thurman said people see you come into the café almost every day and know you’re coming in to see me.”
The implication had an unsavory quality about it. Understandable, considering the source. “I didn’t know you knew Cole Thurman.”
“He comes in now and then and asks me out. I always say no. He thinks I’ll change my mind. That’ll be the day hell freezes over.” She grimaced. “I’ve known men like him all my life and want nothing to do with him.” She looked at Zeke. “I couldn’t care less about him, but I am concerned about you.”
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