A Touch of Stardust (27 page)

But from here, in the dark screening room, those concerns seemed inconsequential. The images of Rhett and Scarlett filled the room. Julie almost had to remind herself who these two people were. Yes, that was Clark up there inside that ruffled shirt—Clark,
the man whose wife teased him for his big ears. And that was Vivien, who raged daily against the indignity of having her breasts taped together.

… Scarlett has been discovered embracing Ashley in the lumber mill, threatening a scandal. She defiantly refuses to go to his birthday party that night, even though her absence would raise more suspicion. Rhett tells her she must attend. They argue; he wins.…

The scene faded. The room stayed quiet, so quiet you could hear the whirr of the projector. They all waited; there would be more.

Julie didn’t want to move. Andy’s breathing, calm and rhythmic, seemed bound to hers. The warmth of his body flowed so close it rattled her. The plan had been to share her news and then leave, asking nothing, expecting nothing. But here he was, so very close.

“Take a look at this one.” Fleming’s voice cut into the silence. “Clark added a little juice to the scene. We’ve shot the alternative, but thought you’d enjoy this, L.B.” He chuckled and glanced nervously at the diminutive, stolid Mayer. Placating him seemed to be a universal goal.

… Clark, in a velvet jacket, smoking a cheroot, is celebrating the birth of Bonnie Blue, his child with Scarlett. Triumphant, he offers a glass of sherry to the comfortably rotund, smiling Mammy, who is delighted to celebrate with him. Shyly she accepts, reaching for the glass. Rhett grins.…

… And then, suddenly, Mammy—no, now it is Hattie McDaniel—spits out the liquid, looking totally surprised. Loosening his Rhett swagger, Clark begins to laugh.

A collective guffaw from the crowd watching. “That’s Clark, always the practical jokester,” said Fleming, slapping his thigh. “He threw out the tea and snuck real whiskey into that glass. Hilarious. Hattie’s a good sport.”

She barely heard his words, for Andy’s hand had settled over
hers. Not holding, not stroking. Just resting. He didn’t turn his head; she didn’t turn hers. Slowly she moved her fingers, then shifted her hand palm-up. Their fingers intertwined.

He had asked, and she was answering.

It was another ten minutes before the lights went up, this time on a reasonably jovial group. The rushes today were good; Selznick was not demanding retakes. Julie slipped her hand from Andy’s, and saw in his eyes something she had missed terribly.

“Dinner tonight?” His lips curved; this smile was genuine.

She nodded. Those two words—they were able to undo the heartache and uncertainty in an instant.

“What were you starting to tell me when you came in?”

“I’ve got a writing job,” she said eagerly. “MGM hired me; it’s a six-week tryout.”

“Your script? It sold?” He couldn’t hide his surprise, which rankled a bit, but she saw his eyes brighten, too.

“Well, no. But they said they like it. I’ll be included in story conferences, maybe offering ideas, hopefully writing dialogue.”

“Who hired you?”

“Abe Goldman. Frances Marion set it up.”

People were standing, putting on jackets, putting out cigarettes in the ashtrays at each seat. Andy at first just stood there, gazing at her. Then he smiled. “I know that guy,” he said. “You’ve got quite a ride ahead of you.” He shrugged his shoulders. “Well, you’re hooked now.”

“Anything more to say than that?” She wasn’t going to let herself get anxious.

“I’m happy for you; you’ve wanted this, and I know you’ll work hard. Don’t mind me—you know my sour views.” He reached out, hinting at an embrace, but stopped and turned his gesture into a touch of her shoulder. This was enough to unleash her tongue.

“I’ve missed you,” she said.

Someone was calling his name. He glanced in the direction of the voice, then back to her.

“Julie.” His voice was an exhale, something between a sigh and a groan. Then he gave a deep breath. “Will you come home with me?”

She nodded. He flashed a quick smile and turned away.

She stood alone, wondering. If happy endings only existed onscreen, as Andy would say, maybe she needed to be careful. Maybe she was writing the story she wanted in sand. But maybe, for God’s sake, Andy was wrong and just didn’t know it yet.

Early summer in Los Angeles was hard to identify; it was so much like the rest of the year. That was the standard line to newcomers, always good for a roll of the eyes or a laugh. You looked for seasonal changes in the clothes on the mannequins in the windows of the May Company and Bullocks, and little shops with jaunty names—like Sporty Knit—on Hollywood Boulevard. It actually wasn’t true, Julie thought as she settled into the passenger seat of Andy’s car and unrolled a window, the better to breathe in the golden air of early evening. She felt the delicious change of seasons on her face, in her hair. Everywhere.

Andy made no attempt to head for one of the restaurants they usually frequented. They headed first for Julie’s rooming house, where—without discussion—she hastily packed a bag. Then, back into the car. Andy turned off of Sunset and drove up the narrow, twisting road that led to his house, so discreetly tucked into a hillside. Their silence was comfortable. Anticipatory.

The car turned into the driveway, its tires crunching gravel. Andy flicked off the ignition and sat still for a moment, not looking at her. His hands rested on the wheel. She examined them. These were the
very same hands that by now knew the private terrain of her body very well.

He opened his door; she opened hers. He fingered the house key on his ring, turned the lock of the highly lacquered black front door, and pushed it open. In the front hall, they stood close, not moving at first, just looking into the sleekly furnished living room and beyond.

“The first time you brought me here, you said you felt exposed—that your house would tell secrets you preferred to keep.”

He smiled, still not looking at her.

“What are they?”

“Just one.” His voice sounded as gravelly as the driveway.

“What is it?”

“That I’m a lonely man.”

She turned to him. Gently, he pulled her close, then buried his lips in her neck and kissed her with an intensity that took her breath away. No tentativeness; no courting; just a hungry joy that came from him and was soon inside of her, moving through every nerve, tensing every muscle.

“Oh God, I love you,” he whispered. He started to pick her up, but her legs crumbled, and soon they were in a heap on the floor, fumbling, unbuttoning, unzipping.

Had she heard right? Had she heard what he said, was it the truth? His hands were everywhere. She arched her back, all banal concerns such as words and what they meant evaporating from her brain.

The flick of a lighter; a spark of fire; then darkness again. They had never bothered to turn on a lamp. Andy leaned back, inhaling. “Are you hungry? I can scramble some eggs,” he said.

She lay in the crook of his arm, somewhere between consciousness and a creamy form of sleep. “Hope you have some decent cheese to put in,” she murmured.

“For God’s sake, what kind of cook do you think I am? Of course I put good cheese in.”

“Velveeta?”

“Never.” He was kissing her neck again, licking her ear. “Tell me more about this new job of yours.”

She regaled him with an account of the strange meeting at MGM she had joined as a bewildered participant, describing the room, Abe Goldman, and the others. What they wore, what they said; how they were talking about anything and everything except the script she had put before them like some orphan baby, watching it shiver on the steps of the great MGM.

He laughed—threw his head back and laughed. It was infectious. She found she could laugh, too. “I really don’t know what I’m supposed to do, but, Andy, it is exciting, isn’t it?”

He ruffled her hair and pulled himself up on one elbow. “Of course it is. You’ll have a good run. Now, here is what I predict: Monday, they’re going to assign you to some gangster-movie rewrite.”

“That’s crazy,” she protested.

“Enjoy, kid.” He paused, casting her a questioning glance. “Is it okay if every now and then I call you that?”

He could have called her a walrus on this wonderful evening and she wouldn’t have cared. “Just as long as it doesn’t get to be a habit,” she said.

“Good.” He leaned back. “I’m ready for a drink, aren’t you?”

She winced. “Not quite yet, actually.”

“Mind getting me one?”

“Nope.” She kissed his cheek and stood up, walked naked over to the bar, aware that his eyes were following her all the way. The door to the liquor cabinet was ajar. She opened it. Inside wasn’t just the usual bottles of wine; there was also a large bottle of bourbon, half full.

“Been having some parties?” she asked as lightly as she could.

“No,” he said. “And no women, either, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Looks like you’ve upped your consumption of bourbon.” She laughed, giving assurance that she was just joking.

“Yeah, I think I’ve been pushing it lately.” He didn’t laugh. He sat up, ground his cigarette into a glass ashtray, and reached to the end table by the sofa for his pack of Lucky Strikes. He quickly lit another cigarette. “Yeah, it’s been different.”

She pulled out the bourbon and poured him a glass. “Tell me about your grandparents,” she asked, handing it to him.

“I like you walking around naked,” he said, taking the glass. “Don’t get dressed yet, okay?”

He pulled himself onto the sofa, and she sat down next to him, tucking her legs beneath her. She liked it, too. It was freedom. Where had the modest Julie from Fort Wayne gone? What would the teachers in high-necked navy-blue serge at Smith think of her now?

“Tell me,” she said.

He took a deep gulp; she could hear him swallow. “You’ll get bored in two minutes.”

“Oh, shut up and talk.”

“Is that Julie talking?” He grinned faintly. “Pretty assertive kid these days.”

And then, in a ruminative tone that was new, he told her about his grandparents. “For me, they never can be just old people with white hair, hobbling around,” he said. His grandfather taught history and wrote textbooks, and his grandmother—who loved reading—worked as a secretary in the local high school library. These were the two people he loved more than any, he said. He told of their home in a sleepy, neighborly borough of Berlin, where he had spent much of his childhood. Of the luxuriant fat maple trees that lined the streets. About a shallow river that ran through a meadow in back of their home. “I would take my grandfather’s fishing gear and go try to catch dinner for the three of us.” He smiled. “Never managed to catch a fish, but they never stopped me from trying. I caught on that there were none in that river when I was about ten.”