All for a Sister
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All for a Sister
Copyright © 2014 by Allison Pittman. All rights reserved.
Cover photographs of woman copyright © Olena Zaskochenko/Shutterstock. All rights reserved.
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Cover car & driver photograph copyright © DaZo Vintage Stock Photos/Images.com/Corbis. All rights reserved.
Cover pattern copyright © Sergey Titov/Shutterstock. All rights reserved.
Cover photograph of sky copyright © altanaka/Shutterstock. All rights reserved.
Cover photograph of foothills copyright © Vidu Gunaratna/Shutterstock. All rights reserved.
Back cover photograph of flowers copyright © Irina Mosina/Shutterstock. All rights reserved.
Designed by Ron Kaufmann
Edited by Kathryn S. Olson
Published in association with William K. Jensen Literary Agency, 119 Bampton Court, Eugene, Oregon 97404.
Unless otherwise indicated, all Scripture quotations are taken from the
Holy Bible
, King James Version.
Scripture quotations marked NLT are taken from the
Holy Bible
, New Living Translation, copyright © 1996, 2004, 2007, 2013 by Tyndale House Foundation. Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc., Carol Stream, Illinois 60188. All rights reserved.
All for a Sister
is a work of fiction. Where real people, events, establishments, organizations, or locales appear, they are used fictitiously. All other elements of the novel are drawn from the author’s imagination.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Pittman, Allison.
All for a sister / Allison Pittman.
pages cm
ISBN 978-1-4143-6682-1 (sc)
1. Heirs—History—20th century—Fiction. 2. Inheritance and succession—Fiction. 3. Hollywood (Los Angeles, Calif.)—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3616.I885A77 2014
813'.6—dc23 2014005565
ISBN 978-1-4143-9608-8 (ePub); ISBN 978-1-4143-8466-5 (Kindle); ISBN 978-1-4143-9609-5 (Apple)
Build: 2014-05-19 11:55:41
CONTENTS
Acknowledgments
Chapter 1: Celeste, age 20
Chapter 2: The written confession of Marguerite DuFrane, pages 1–12
Chapter 3: Dana visits the offices of Rolling Arts Entertainment
Chapter 4
Chapter 5: Celeste, age 5
Chapter 6: Dana goes for a drive and learns to hold on to her hat
Chapter 7
Chapter 8: Celeste, age 6
Chapter 9: The written confession of Marguerite DuFrane, pages 13–24
Chapter 10: Dana goes to Warner Brothers
Chapter 11
Chapter 12: The written confession of Marguerite DuFrane, pages 25–38
Chapter 13: Celeste, age 9
Chapter 14: Dana sees stars
Chapter 15
Chapter 16: The written confession of Marguerite DuFrane, pages 39–53
Chapter 17: Celeste, age 10
Chapter 18: The written confession of Marguerite DuFrane, pages 67–79
Chapter 19: Dana plays hostess on the patio
Chapter 20
Chapter 21: The written confession of Marguerite DuFrane, pages 54–58 and 80–85
Chapter 22: Celeste, age (nearly) 13
Chapter 23: Dana goes to the beach
Chapter 24: The written confession of Marguerite DuFrane, pages 86–91
Chapter 25
Chapter 26: Celeste, age 14
Chapter 27: Dana visits the law offices of Christopher Parker, Esq.
Chapter 28
Chapter 29: The written confession of Marguerite DuFrane, pages 92–102
Chapter 30: Celeste, age 20
Chapter 31: The written confession of Marguerite DuFrane, pages 59–66
Chapter 32: Dana finds a family
A Note from the Author
Discussion Questions
About the Author
I cannot say enough about the fabulous people at Tyndale, who continue to let me follow the story trails wherever they lead. Nor can I ever express how grateful I am for my agent, Bill Jensen, a font of wisdom in all questions great and small.
Thank you, family—Mikey and the boys—for being so supportive and, more important, self-sufficient!
And here you are . . . my Monday Night Group and the PITT crew . . . reading first words for the first time. It’s only because of your amazing love and support that I finally felt strong enough to go this one “alone.” But not alone, really. Because above all else I must honor my Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ, and the Holy Spirit who sustains me.
L
ORD
, you alone are my inheritance, my cup of blessing.
You guard all that is mine.
The land you have given me is a pleasant land.
What a wonderful inheritance!
PSALM 16:5-6 (NLT)
CELESTE, AGE 20
LOS ANGELES
1925
CELESTE WALKED BACKWARD
through the house, a lifetime of poise and confidence in every step.
“Perhaps something here? On the stairs?” She ascended four steps, then turned, striking a dramatic pose along the banister, one leg stretched provocatively from her fringed skirt.
“That’s a nice one, Miss DuFrane.” The photographer, Jimmy from
Photoplay
, seemed more indulging than enthusiastic. “But I think we’re looking for something to bring out more of the ingenue, you know what I’m sayin’? A little more starlet, little less ‘Jazz Baby.’”
Celeste frowned—really more of a pout, and really rather pretty. “I don’t want to come across as another Mary Pickford.”
“Well, you ain’t no Clara Bow, neither. Why don’t we think about goin’ outside? Some fresh-face-in-the-garden action?”
She dropped her pose and clomped down the stairs. “Is that what Mr. Lundi requested?” Indeed, it sounded exactly like something Roland Lundi would say.
Jimmy pushed his hat back, revealing a rapidly receding hairline. “Look, he’s your agent. I just got the memo. ‘Meet the untold story of Celeste DuFrane.’ Already sounds like a headline, don’t it?”
It did, but not one she relished. There was a reason the story hadn’t been told—not even to her. Besides, it wasn’t Celeste’s untold story; it was her mother’s, kept in the shadows until the reading of her will. Celeste’s story was simple: a beautiful little girl wants to be a movie star . . . and she is. No rise from poverty, no brave tale of immigration, no miraculous discovery in a mundane talent show.
“Follow me, then.” She brushed past Jimmy and walked with a measured, swaying step, leading the way through the kitchen, where Graciela’s warm, welcoming face looked up from the ever-growing pile of colorful sliced vegetables on the counter.
“Will your guest be joining us for lunch, Miss Celeste?” She spoke with an exaggerated deferential tone, her accent almost comically pronounced, the way she did when she meant to play the maid.
“Él no es un invitado,”
Celeste said, her Spanish as perfect as Graciela’s English. She grabbed a slice of sweet red pepper and bit into its crispness without ever breaking her stride, continuing toward the double French doors leading to the patio, where she stopped short and allowed Jimmy to be a gentleman.
“That part of the mystery?” he said, holding the door wide. “Are you the maid’s secret daughter?”
“You got me.” Her voice dripped with uncharacteristic sarcasm, but it built up the wall Roland told her to build. She wasn’t to say a word until he arrived. With the mystery woman.
Jimmy took the hint and said nothing more until they were standing in the middle of the garden, surrounded by Graciela’s perfectly tended roses, their feet resting on the pink cobblestones that intersected the velvet-green grass. It was a day that carried the ocean on the breeze, and Celeste lifted her face to it, breathing deep.
“Aw, that’s beautiful,” Jimmy said on cue. She knew her blonde
hair, freshly styled, shone in the sunlight, and when she closed her eyes, her carefully applied makeup was its own work of art.
Soon enough, Celeste heard the sound of the shutter, and she opened her eyes.
“Look, you’re a beautiful girl, but I’m not seein’ a story, you know what I mean?”
“How can you say that?”
“California princess. You wanted your own house. You got your own house. You wanted to be in the movies. You’re in the movies. Maybe if you were a star—”
“I have a film premiere next week.”
“You the star?”
“Third lead.”
He touched the rim of his rumpled hat in mock salute. “Have Lundi give me a call when you’re playing Chaplin’s lover, and we’ll talk. Meanwhile—” he hoisted up his camera—“if this turns out any good, maybe I’ll put something together about our California girls. Homegrown, not like the Swede I’m shooting later.”
Celeste worked her face into a smile and balled her fist as if that could keep
Photoplay
from slipping through her fingers. “I understand.”
Rather than leading him back through the house, Celeste pointed Jimmy toward the side gate, where the sad-looking jalopy she’d spotted upon greeting him waited at the edge of the drive to take him away.
Back in the kitchen, Graciela was arranging a platter with slices from a fresh-baked chicken. She glanced up, then looked around expectantly.
“He left,” Celeste said, leaning against the counter and picking at the carcass with delicate fingers. “He said there wasn’t a story.”