A Touch of Stardust (18 page)

After taking care of the necessary details—Andy telegraphed the announcement of the wedding to the MGM publicity department,
and Carole made sure to send a separate telegram to Louella Parsons—the four of them climbed back into Andy’s DeSoto coupe and headed, weary but exuberant, for home. “Louella will hate me for not tipping her off.” Carole sighed. “But she’ll get over it, I hope.”

They made one stop, at a Harvey House restaurant, for their wedding dinner, surprising a roomful of customers. Murmurings as they were recognized rippled from table to table, with small cries of astonishment and scattered clapping. They sat at the lunch counter, and Clark ordered steaks for everybody in the room.

A young waitress in her Harvey House uniform—crisp white bow on her head, and an immaculate white apron over her black dress—was the first to approach Carole. She was so nervous, the bow on her head wobbled. “Miss Lombard, could I have your autograph?” she asked timidly.

“With pleasure,” Carole replied. And, flourishing the pen so dramatically Julie feared she would splatter ink on her wedding clothes, Carole scrawled on a proffered menu, “Carole Gable.”

They reached Lombard’s home close to three in the morning, almost twenty-four hours from the time they had left. MGM had policemen already standing guard, and several dozen reporters were trampling the lawn. Julie thought some of them looked tired enough to be the same crew to whom they gave the slip last night.

“Okay, a press conference,” Carole said sleepily, suppressing a yawn.

“Miss Lombard!” yelled one of the reporters. “Are you married?”

“Yes!” she yelled.

Louella, the formidable Louella, broke from the pack and marched up to Carole, glowering. “Why didn’t you tell me?” she demanded.

“Oh, don’t be angry, this felt so private,” Carole responded soothingly.

“My dear, you made a mistake.”

Carole was too happy to take the columnist seriously. And the same demand was coming from the other reporters now, as they shouted over each other.

“Why didn’t you tell us? Gotta say, you’ve disappointed Hollywood!” bellowed one. “Where’s the drama in a plain little elopement like this?” yelled another.

“I’ve got all the drama I need,” she said cheerfully. “I’m married to the guy I adore, and that’s all that matters. Whoopee for love!”

Even the reporters had to laugh. Julie looked around for Andy, wanting to share the excitement, but he had moved away from the crowd. Her stomach flipped a little when she saw him standing under an orange tree by the side of the house. Next to him was Doris Finch. Whatever it was about, the two of them had their heads together, talking animatedly.

She had no interest in feeling closed out again. Shoulders back, she walked over. “Anything wrong?” she asked.

Doris seemed delighted to be bringing a new round of bad news. “There’s trouble with Fleming now,” she announced. “This time, it’s Vivien who’s ready to quit.”

“Why?”

Doris was pleased to enlighten her. “He told her she wasn’t playing Scarlett bitchy enough; Vivien said she
couldn’t
be a bitch, and he said—wait until you hear this—‘Miss Leigh, you can stick this script up your royal British ass.’ ” Doris began to laugh.

“Is this serious?” Julie asked.

Doris laughed harder; Andy joined her.

“The whole project will lurch on,” he said. “Julie, don’t let a frown wrinkle your pretty face—none of this matters; it’s all part of the game.”

He spread out his arms, taking in with one sweeping gesture everything around them. The trampled grass, the swarming reporters, the flashbulbs exploding, Carole in Gable’s arms, one slender leg lifted for the cameras. Soon the sun would come up; paperboys would be out in the streets, shouting about the magical marriage of glamour to glamour for the edification of ordinary people drinking
their morning coffee and heading to ordinary jobs—wistful for the perfection of celebrity, for the lives of Hollywood’s reigning king and queen.

And Julie hoped, fleetingly, that all of what they felt for each other would stay real, and never become just part of the game.

The weeks passed quietly, the California sun making its way through the usual milky haze that draped itself like a blanket over Los Angeles each morning, shining brightly through the afternoon, and sinking promptly when it was supposed to. Carole was on a publicity tour for
Made for Each Other
. Andy and Clark were engrossed in the daily ups and downs of
Gone with the Wind
. This gave Julie hours of free time to work on her script, and she could hardly pull herself away from the old Corona typewriter that no one else seemed interested in using. Her story had a structure now—it was growing; it was getting better. She loved the work, the discipline. Every word had to be carefully chosen, had to carry forward the characters and the plot. Some nights she was excited; then, when day rolled around again, she would find herself seeing all the faults, all the stupid words, and she would tear the latest draft to pieces.

She mentioned this to Carole in a low moment.

“Nothing bad about that,” Carole said with a bright smile. “You’ll throw away garbage that you first thought was profound, and on you’ll toil until you create something decent.” She started laughing. “Honey, that’s the way it works for all of us.”

Sometimes Julie was able to go on set and watch the filming of the movie that anchored all of their lives. It was a chance to see Andy work, which helped her understand why he seemed more tense these days. She wondered what had been sacrificed by firing
Cukor. Fleming seemed constantly distraught—especially when he found out Selznick had planted a spy, the continuity girl. Her job was to report any deviation from Selznick’s blitz of daily orders, but everyone knew who she was. She looked like a gray mouse trying to hide in the baseboards as she scuttled around the set.

Andy shrugged it off on the infrequent nights when he was free for dinner, but the tension didn’t leave his face. “Selznick is up to his old tricks, complaining about everything, sending instructions to Fleming. He doesn’t like the color quality of the takes; Fleming says it’s those damn Technicolor cameras, can’t get good angles using them. Doesn’t matter—he’s stuck with them.”

“Do you actually like your boss, or not?” Julie asked. “I’m never quite sure.”

Andy seemed surprised at the question. “Sometimes I do and sometimes I don’t,” he said. “But I respect him. And he’s taught me a lot.”

“Not to be an egomaniac, I hope,” she said.

He raised a hand and gently tweaked her ear. “What do you think, kid?”

She laughed. They were at his house, in the kitchen, spooning spaghetti and meatballs into crockery bowls. To her surprise, she had found that Andy actually liked to cook. At some point, she should confess to him how much she hated dicing and chopping and reading recipes; she should admit that she always forgot something essential, like garlic, or even onion. It wasn’t a character flaw a woman was supposed to admit to, but there it was. Confession would come later; right now, she was contentedly—and safely—slicing a loaf of French bread.

“Look, I know I’ve been pretty absent lately, but I’ve got a place I want to take you,” he said. “Somewhere special.”

“Don’t tell me, let me guess—a movie premiere? A Hollywood party?” she teased.

“The new ballpark. I’ve got great tickets. Want to come?”

“For what?”

“Baseball, of course,” he said, looking slightly surprised at her ignorance. “Don’t you like baseball?”

She started to nod her head, and saw the sly gleam in his eye. “Absolutely,” she said promptly. “I know what a home run is, and I know three strikes mean you’re out. After that, what is there?”

The gleam in his eye spread to a full grin. “Good, you’re not pretending. Listen, come with me. It’s more than a Saturday game; it’s the first time the Stars play in that ballpark.” He was suddenly earnest. “There’s nothing like it, Julie.”

If she had hated the game, her answer would be no different. “Sure, I’ll go,” she said.

Saturday morning. Andy grabbed her hand, nodding toward the streetcar tracks. “Okay, kid, let’s run like hell,” he muttered.

They ran. Julie was grateful for the tennis shoes borrowed from Rose, which allowed her to keep up, jumping over curbs, dodging a few cars, gasping as they got closer and closer to the big red streetcar on the tracks ahead. They managed to scramble aboard the car, already jammed with jovial, shouting passengers, just as the bell clanged and the driver began slowly pulling out, to clatter and bump through the streets of Los Angeles to the newly opened Gilmore Field.

“If we’d missed this car, we would’ve missed the start of the game, which would be a disaster,” Andy said with an excited laugh, pulling a handkerchief out of his pocket to wipe his forehead as they hung on to the overhead straps.

“No disasters today,” Julie yelled over the clamor of the crowded streetcar.

“Not here anyway.” Andy leaned over at that moment and kissed her on the lips.

So familiar now, the taste and feel of his mouth on hers. She swayed with the streetcar, inhaling the smoke and laughter all around her, glad she was here. Andy seemed to have shrugged off care. He was like a boy today, and she loved it.

Twenty minutes later, the streetcar bell clanged loudly, and the driver lurched to a stop. Andy bent down to peer out the window.

“We here yet?” Andy called to the driver.

“You better believe it, buddy!” yelled a man up near the door. “Look at that ballpark!”

“Let’s go.” Andy took Julie by the hand, and they made their way down the streetcar steps with all the other baseball fans. She could see the Farmers Market, just off of Fairfax Avenue. She had once wandered around its array of tiny stalls with their bright canvas covers, inhaling the smells of fresh oranges, taffy candy, and enchiladas, amazed to find a market of such simple, rural nature in Los Angeles. Even now, she would have been tempted to suggest they stop for ice cream at one of the stalls, but that was before she looked up and saw the new stadium ahead of them. Who couldn’t be impressed? It gleamed white, its walls rising high, and she imagined it beckoning seductively to the hordes hurrying toward its interior. She glanced at Andy. His face was open and expectant as he tugged her along, slipping them both expertly through the swelling crowd, turning one way, then another, to get inside faster. By the time they reached a ticket stall, the line of people filing into the ballpark was huge.

“Do you know what you’re going to be seeing first?” he asked.

“Tell me,” she said.

“Wait until we walk up the ramp—the one ahead?” He pointed. His face glowed with pleasure. “I love the moment just before I see any baseball field. It’s wonderful. You hear the voices, feel the excitement.…” By this time they were walking up the ramp. “Now, watch,” he said, his voice almost reverent.

Two more steps, and she saw. The shadows cast by the bleachers parted like heavy theatrical drapes, presenting the field in all its dazzling glory: a richly vibrant hue, as green as the finest emerald. White baselines cut crisply across the field, turning it into a Mondrian painting. The stands were filling with people, music was playing, vendors of beer and hot dogs were hawking their wares. All this, under a bright sun in a clear blue sky that seemed to touch the field with a kiss.