A Touch of Stardust (33 page)

“Thank you!” Carole swooped up the box and looked at its design as if she had never seen the ubiquitous brand in her life. “How lovely! Come, sit down. Scotch or bourbon?” She turned her head and yelled, “Clark!”

From the porch, Clark Gable poked his head around the door, a big grin on his face. “Hi there,” he said, waving a pair of tongs. “We’re having steaks and burgers tonight. Anybody want a drink?”

“I’m way ahead of you, Pa,” Carole said. “I think we’ve got a bourbon man here—right, Jerome?” She winked at Julie’s father, who didn’t smile, just nodded crisply as Clark, who, wearing a suspiciously clean white apron over khaki pants, swooped in and started mixing drinks.

Julie could have hugged her friends, right there; they were going to make this a Midwestern night with all of their acting skills. They were out to prove Julie had not fallen victim to the falsities of Hollywood.

She could tell immediately it was working with her mother. Within a few minutes, she was chatting with Carole about the variety of designer labels at Bullocks Wilshire. Her father seemed determined not to be taken in by anything; she could see that. But he stood more stiffly than usual, looking around, blinking, nodding formally when Clark handed him a glass of his favorite brand of bourbon.

“Want to check out dinner with me?” Clark said, nodding toward the porch. Jerome Crawford, still looking around with feigned lack of interest, followed Clark back out to the porch, where a servant was carefully placing hamburger patties on the barbecue grill. Julie could hear their voices.

“I turn ’em,” Clark said with cheer. “You cook the burgers at your house?”

“Edith manages all the kitchen work,” Jerome answered as he sipped his drink and stared out past the balcony at nothing.

Clark tried again. “I find them easier to eat than steak,” he said.

Jerome shot him a glance and swirled the ice cubes in his glass a few times. “Why is that?”

“My plate. It gets loose.”

“You wear a plate?”

“Sure. Lots of people do. Do you?”

Jerome paused, as if to consider whether this was an outrageous or a friendly question. “I do.”

“Ever have problems with the damn contraption?”

“From time to time.” The words came out like a forced confession.

“Yep, same here,” said Clark. “Have to keep pushing mine back into place.” He put his hand up to his mouth. There was an audible click. “That’s better,” he said. “Hate the damn thing, but I sure wouldn’t be playing Rhett Butler without it.”

Julie wasn’t sure what to expect next as the two men walked together back into the dining room. Then she realized she was hearing her father laughing. Well, sort of. More like chuckling. A sound more relaxed from him than she had heard in years.

The kitchen crew worked silently and artfully as Carole went back and forth through the swinging door, kicking it with her foot, carrying in each platter of food herself. “I’m very good at scrambled eggs, but not much more,” she said cheerfully as she passed around fat baked potatoes and a heaping bowl of peas. “Don’t stint on the sour cream or butter—we’ve got plenty.”

When it was time for dessert—apple pie à la mode—Carole shot Julie a wide smile. “Hey, hon, can you help me a minute in the kitchen?”

A bit baffled, Julie followed Carole through the kitchen and onto the side porch.

Carole put her hands on Julie’s shoulders. “I hope you won’t hate me for what is about to happen,” she said quietly. “I thought you deserved a second chance.”

“Me?”

The doorbell rang.

“I’ll answer it,” Carole yelled. She moved toward the front door. Slowly, Julie walked back into the dining room, stood behind her chair, and waited.

He looked achingly perfect: his shirt crisp and clean, his face shaven, his eyes seeking hers immediately, his expression searching but noncommittal.

“Edith and Jerome, meet a pal of ours. He works for Selznick—just stopping by to give me a package. Andy Weinstein, meet my friend Julie’s parents; they’re visiting from Fort Wayne, just here for a couple of days. Thanks for dropping this by.…” Carole spoke rapidly, too rapidly.

It was the first time Julie had ever seen Carole nervous. Yes, a second chance, not for Andy. For Julie herself. A second chance to stand up for herself and her choices, for the man who reflected the changing bits and pieces of who she was.

“That’s okay, Carole,” she said, walking around the table and reaching for Andy’s hand. “Mother, Dad, Andy is my friend, too—my very good friend—and I’m delighted he can meet you and you can meet him.”

His fingers touched hers, warming everything inside of her. She wasn’t going to leave anything out. “He was on the set this morning, and I should have introduced you all then.”

“I was working and traveling all night—sorry, not too presentable. But it’s a pleasure to meet you both,” Andy said calmly.

“Will you stay for apple pie?” a relieved Carole said.

He shook his head and smiled. “Not tonight; we’re still looking at dailies. More trouble with Mayer: he wants expanded production control. But I’m glad I had a chance to meet you, Mr. and Mrs. Crawford,” he said. He spoke warmly, confidently, and when he looked back at her, Julie felt a sturdiness building between them.

His visit lasted five minutes. Or maybe it was ten. “May I call you tomorrow?” he asked quietly as he prepared to leave.

“If you don’t, I will be devastated,” she said. She kissed him quickly, not caring if her parents could see them from the dining room.

And as the door closed behind him, and she thought of what this must have cost him, of the risk he took, of all he fought against, of the challenge he was presenting, of all of this, she almost didn’t hear Carole’s whisper.

“Julie.” Carole was beckoning her into the kitchen.

She approached, standing still as Carole put a hand on hers. Julie had never seen her friend look so serious.

“Okay, I’m taking a chance, but here it goes,” Carole said carefully. “I fought for Clark and I fought for my career. And I’m telling you, if you wait for everything to be just right in your life, you’ll never get any happiness. You have to fight for it. And the minute you start fighting for something, you’ve won. The end doesn’t matter.”

Julie felt confused. “Are you talking about Andy?” she asked.

“I’m talking about
everything
. Are you listening?”

Julie nodded. She walked back into the dining room, slightly dazed, in time to hear her father’s question.

“Weinstein, is it? Is he Jewish?”

She looked at him, her voice firm. “Of course he is, Dad. Most of the smart people here are.”

For a few seconds, no one said anything.

And then Edith Crawford, her chin quivering a little but her head bravely up, said: “A very nice man, dear. I hear they are very good to their wives.”

They faced each other the next morning, the Crawfords, over a breakfast of eggs served sunny-side up, crisp toast, and sausage, in a small diner near Julie’s boarding house where the waitresses wore tiny starched caps and sensible shoes. Jerome and Edith sat on one side of the booth, Julie on the other.

It was early; Julie had to report to work this morning. But with her help, Jerome and Edith were already packed up and checked out of their hotel. Edith had hinted at the possibility of staying a little longer, but Jerome was a man who stuck firmly to his plans, and he declined to consider another deviation—the plan was to leave for home on a noon plane, and they would be on it.

Julie was positive he held in his wallet a third ticket. No more waiting.

“I’m sure you both know by now that I am not coming back with you,” she said, feeling very calm. She sipped her coffee, hand quite steady.

“Well, we understand you might not be ready
yet
,” her mother said quickly.

“No, Mother, I mean not at all.”

“That’s not acceptable,” her father said. His authority reverberated across the table like an electrical pulse. “This is not a place for a young woman like you. And you know I am right.”

“You might be, Dad. But you know what? I’m going to try to
make it my place.” Another sip of coffee. Hand still steady. “Look, I love you both. I will visit—of course I will—and I hope you will come back and visit me. But I’m an adult now, or at least on my way to being whatever that is, and I’m going to do my best to make a mark here, and if I don’t, I’ll decide from there.” It sounded good; she had rehearsed it all night, and she meant it. She’d spent hours staring at the ceiling, reflecting. Dawn had brought a steadiness to her thoughts, and even a major idea for a script. She couldn’t wait to get to the grubby writers’ room at MGM.

Her mother began crying.

“There will be no more money from us,” her father said. He was white-faced.

“Then I’ve got to prove I can make a living on my own,” Julie replied. “And if I can’t, I’ll get a job in a restaurant like this and keep trying.” How strange it was to be looking steadily into her father’s eyes without blinking.

“You can’t possibly think your fallback position is marrying that Weinstein fellow,” he said.

“You mean the talented, handsome Jew I’m dating?”

Her mother fumbled frantically for a handkerchief. “Jerome, don’t you think you should eat your breakfast? The eggs are getting cold. Here, I’ll butter your toast—”

Jerome Crawford reared back, shocked. He didn’t look at his wife. He spoke very slowly, in that same deep voice that only a few years ago had signaled final parental authority. “I never thought I would have a daughter who would defy her parents and her values as flagrantly as you seem to be planning to do.”

Anyone else, and she would say: How can you speak like this? Don’t you know you can’t veil bigotry by invoking values, it shows through? She deliberately had spoken the word “Jew.” It wasn’t quite like “cancer,” the word always whispered. It was worse—a blunt word that said more up front than people like her father wanted it to. Better to slide into “Jewish,” which took away the one-syllable harshness that made it all too obviously disapproving.

Her father, whom she loved. If only she could say it clean and
clear. Root it out, look at it, turn it around: Dad, don’t you know what is going on in the world? Don’t you see the narrowness of our lives? Haven’t you ever wanted to separate values from fear and rigidity? No, she couldn’t say any of those things, not to her father. Not yet.

For now, it was up to her to give him a way out.

“Dad”—she reached across the table and took his hand—“I’m not trying to hurt or defy you. If I am dating Andy, it is because he is a good person. I know what I want to do, and you’ll have to let me go sometime.”

“It’s too soon.”

“It will always be too soon.”

“You’ll always be my little girl.”

She must convince him to stop hanging on so tightly. “Will you settle for me being your big girl?” she parried.

His eyes—were they watering slightly?

Well, damn, hers sure were. And so were her mother’s.

“I’ll see you at Christmas,” she said.

If the waitress in the starched cap and oxford shoes clearing dishes at the next table noticed the three people with red faces and moist eyes by the window, their food before them as pristine as when she had placed it there ten minutes ago, she might have wondered: Were they mourning or celebrating?