Dreams Are Not Enough (7 page)

But as far as he was concerned, a Sunday away from the dreadful room was one notch below paradise.

Newport curves along a narrow spit of land across from Balboa: the paired resort towns cuddle around a large, boat-filled bay. During the summer Angelenos flock down, clogging traffic for miles. In mid November the roads weren’t jammed, but nevertheless Barry concentrated on his driving. This morning they’d had their first spat. Barry had suggested Alicia wear shorts, but since she owned only the Taylor girl’s hand-me-down white ones, ancient and mended, a too graphic reminder of the Henry Lopez incident, she’d put on her red sundress with the stole. Barry had not commented, he had simply remained silent. Since then he had responded to her attempts at conversation monosyllabically. She was anxious enough about an entire day with his sister and those rich cousins, and his silence made her stomach twitch.

In Newport, Barry turned left, crossing a short, humpbacked bridge.

“Lido Isle,” he announced.

“The most exclusive of the exclusive.”

“It’s nice,” she said, grateful that he had spoken, yet unsure why these houses jammed so close together were considered special.

Barry parked, leading the way to a two-story, white-shingled Cape Cod.

As they walked along the side path, Alicia realized how deceptive the frontages were. The Zaffarano house went back at least a hundred feet.

In the bright noon sunlight, the acres of fresh white paint gleamed, blurring in front of her eyes. She reached for Barry’s hand. His fingers dangled, limply unresponsive.

They turned a corner, emerging onto a planked deck. A brisk breeze shimmered whitecaps across the azure bay. The big Chris-Craft with the royal blue canvas cover that matched the house’s royal blue shutters bobbled and banged its bumpers against the swaying dock. The deck was protected by high glass walls, and in the still warmth, PD, Hap and Maxim were stretched out sunbathing. Beth, fiddling with a camera, wore a sleeveless yellow blouse and matching shorts.

Barry called, “Hi, guys.”

The others looked up.

Alicia, acutely conscious of the tightness other sundress top, and of the black patent shoes with the killing pointed toes and stiletto heels, formed a smile.

PD pushed to his feet. His compact, well-muscled, dark-tanned body agleam with Coppertone, he strode toward them.

“Welcome,” he said, smiling.

“So you finally made it.”

Maxim raised up on one long, thin arm, giving Barry and Alicia his acid smile.

“Hell, PD, you know these horny honeymooners, they probably pulled over for a quickie.”

Beth held up her finger, smiling.

“Hold it.” Bending her smooth head, she aimed her camera at PD, who was standing between Barry and Alicia.

After the click, Hap moved into the group. Alicia, who even in her heels was nearly a head shorter, couldn’t help noting that the curly blond hairs covering his chest became brown as they cut in a narrow line down to his navel, turning almost black where the line disappeared beneath his faded madras trunks.

Hap punched at Barry’s shoulder in greeting before he kissed Alicia’s cheek. The light touch of his lips caused a surprising tingle of pleasure and her sense of being on enemy territory dwindled.

“Beth’s made guacamole,” PD said.

“Her one big specialty.”

“Yeah,” Maxim added, “and the bitch refused to serve it up until her twinnie-twin-twin arrived. So hurry and suit up before we starve.”

Barry glanced down, his lips pulling into a line that wasn’t quite a smile, an expression that Alicia had come to dread: it meant she had somehow embarrassed him.

She said quickly, “I forgot to bring a suit.” Actually she didn’t own one, and hadn’t been able to sneak off for an hour to buy one at any of the intimidatingly smart little boutiques lining San Vincente Boulevard.

“No sweat,” PD said.

“Mom keeps a slew in the dressing room for all sizes and shapes.”

On the other side of the house were twin doors with bright brass silhouettes designating the sex of the users. Alicia found herself in a kind of sitting room approximately twice as large as their cottage and furnished with wicker and bright plaids. A row of swimsuits hung from wooden pegs. Three cotton-ruffled numbers for little girls. Two out sizes with skirts to cover dimpled, matronly thighs. She tried on the remaining four. The red and the pink bikini were both far too loose. The black one-piece knit was too tight on top. The white Lastex, also one-piece, fitted to perfection. It dipped to a deep V between her breasts, while cutouts revealed the curves where her waist met her hips. Turning this way and that on her bare feet to view her image in the mirror, she had to admit that the suit was a knockout on her. Then she frowned uncertainly. Would Barry get that embarrassed little smile when she emerged?

A rap sounded on the door.

“It’s me, Hap. I was getting worried. You decent?”

“I’m not quite sure.”

He came in, staring at her.

“Hey,” he whispered.

“Hey.”

“It’s okay on me?” She could feel herself coloring. The intensity of his gaze embarrassed her, yet at the same time she felt a delightful melting in the pit of her stomach.

“Spectacular.” His voice was husky, and he seemed incapable of looking away from her.

“Yes, but am I … you know … cheap?”

“You’re incredible is all. Liz Taylor, only younger and more gorgeous.

Take it from me, Dad’d sign you right away. “

“Sometimes Barry” -She stopped abruptly, before she could say anything that would imply disloyalty.

“I really don’t know anything about style.”

Hap’s head tilted, and his gray eyes were no longer crinkled into a smile. He had very dark lashes for somebody with such light hair.

Alone in the room with him, she was acutely conscious of how his suit bared him, the odor of salt and tanning lotion on him, and how large and muscular he was. Barry’s narrow height did not make her feel diminutive like this, or fragile and weak.

“You’re nervous, aren’t you?” he asked quietly.

“Me? Why should I be shook? Because I’ve never been in a house like this? Or because PD’s father is a famous director? Or because your father owns Magnum”

“He works for Magnum,” Hap interrupted.

“He’s vice president in charge of production. It’s a job like anyone else’s.”

“Yes. Except he runs a big studio.”

Hap sat in one of the chairs, apparently unconcerned about the effects of suntan oil on the plaid fabric.

“He didn’t always.”

“No, he was a boy. A rich boy.”

“Is that what Barry told you?”

“We don’t talk much about families.” The way Barry kept silent about his made it clear that questions on the subject were off limits:

the sum total of her knowledge about her husband’s background was that his Jewish grandparents had disowned his mother for marrying Tim Cordiner.

Hap’s thoughtful gaze seemed to go with his size, and maybe for that reason the way his gray eyes remained on her, rather than draining her limited supply of self-confidence infused her with more of the commodity. She sat on a wicker ottoman.

“But I’m interested in knowing.”

“My grandparents left Hungary when Dad was a few months old,” Hap said.

“The name, incidentally, wasn’t Cordiner, but some unpronounceable mouthful that the immigration official wrote down as Cordiner. They were starving—the local baron had sold the two fields where they grew rye out from under them. Grandpa became a contract laborer at a Pennsylvania steel mill” — “Contract laborer?”

“In those days the mills paid the passage for cheap foreign labor. In return grandfather agreed to work seven years for a pittance. The only hitch was that the mill owned the town. Rents and prices were exorbitant and Grandpa never did work his way out of debt. There was no money for luxuries like medicine or doctors. Grandma had nine children. Only Dad, Aunt Lily and Uncle Tim survived.”

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“It gets worse.” The gray eyes were somber.

“Grandpa was drowned—or boiled maybe—in tons of molten metal. This was a couple of weeks before Aunt Lily was born. It goes without saying there were no widows’ pensions or free rent. They moved to Pittsburgh. Dad—he was ten at the time—ran errands at a cheap whorehouse. His tips supported the family. And, by the time he was sixteen, he’d saved enough for fares to Los Angeles. Here, he lugged heavy props at Magnum, which Art Garrison had just started. Within a year he was producing two-reelers and had gone into hock for a big house for the family in the Wilshire District. He has a reputation for being cutthroat in business, Dad, but he’s a terrific family man. Anyway, you can see the Cordiners aren’t exactly quality folk.”

Alicia nodded. The reassurance of Hap’s person, rather than his story, had calmed her. The horrors of another generation were historical events, and the Cordiners were quality now, rich and important.

“Thank you, Hap,” she said.

“For what? Telling you about your new family?”

He reached out as if to touch her bare shoulder reassuringly. She knew from the heat in her cheeks that she was flushing. His hand dropped to his side, and his voice was again huskily deep as he said, “Don’t worry about the suit, it’s great on you.”

“It’s not like there was any choice,” Alicia said.

“This is the only one that halfway fit me.”

It was just after one. The others were inside changing to go out for lunch.

“Halfway is the crucial word,” Barry said tightly.

“Oh, Barry, don’t ruin the day.”

“Thank God Beth’s finding you a shift to wear over it. Otherwise they’d never let you in the Crab Cooker,” he said. Then, realizing that his embarrassment over the explicit lushness of his wife’s body had led him into gratuitous unkindness, he added in a conciliatory tone, “What were you and Hap doing down there anyway?”

“Talking.”

“About what?”

She realized that Barry wasn’t questioning her out of jealousy but curiosity. She also understood that although her husband resented his role of poor relation, his pride was intricately tethered to being part of the shining Cordiner galaxy. He would not care for Hap’s dimming the family glow.

“Oh, just stuff,” she said lightly.

“Nothing special.”

Alicia had been anticipating a formal, stiff restaurant like the one in Las Vegas, but eating at the Crab Cooker was as casual as a picnic.

The chowder came in Styrofoam bowls, and seafood main courses were served on paper plates. Amid the smells of barbecuing fish, the rush of tanned young waitresses, the laughter of casually clad people, Alicia, wearing the flowered shift Beth had found in a guest closet, traded quips with Our Own Gang. Afterward, the six of them crowded back into PD’s open Chrysler convertible, the salty breeze blowing away their loud rendition of “Itsy Bitsy Teenie Weenie Polka Dot Bikini” as they drove back to the house.

A large black Rolls-Royce was parked imperially to block the Zaffaranos’ three-car garage.

“Jesus, that’s Dad’s car,” Hap said.

“What’s Uncle Desmond doing here?” Barry asked. He was blinking rapidly, as if a bug had caught in his eye.

“Who knows?” PD said.

“Maybe he got his weekends mixed up.”

“Dad?”

Maxim said.

“PD, you weasel, try again. Why is he here?”

“Okay,” PD said agreeably.

“He asked me to get Barry and Alicia down so he could settle this crap between Barry and his folks.”

“You’re a shit, PD,” Barry said, his voice clenched yet frightened.

“And my marriage and my parents’ reactions to it are nobody’s concern but my own.”

“Evidently, pais an Uncle Desmond doesn’t agree,” PD replied equably.

The casual ease with which Desmond Cordiner lounged against the dock rail would convince a stranger that he was the proprietor of the big Chris-Craft and Cape Cod beach house. In his slip-on loafers with discreet gold buckles, well-tailored gray slacks and open, gray-striped sport shirt with a paisley ascot tucked in, he was infinitely distinguished. The two wings of silver in his thick, recently barbered black hair appeared placed there by aristocratic heredity. His tall, well-toned body—at sixty thickened a bit around the belt line—gave no hint of childhood deprivation. Neither did his face offer a clue to his peasant origins. The grooved forehead was high, the nose long and narrow, and in relaxation, the mouth showed a quirk of superiority.

In the seven years since Art Garrison, the near-dwarf founder of Magnum Pictures, had died and Desmond Cordiner had taken over as studio chief, the Magnum publicity department had been planting items linking the current boss with world-class celebrities. Desmond Cordiner had been on the cover of Life in a golf cart with President Elsenhower, and visited Hyannisport to spend a weekend with Senator Kennedy, who was currently campaigning to get the Democratic nomination for the presidency. A much televised strip of film showed him relaxing aboard HMS Britannia with Her Majesty and Prince Philip.

A recent issue of Forbes devoted to an in-depth article on Magnum Pictures pointed out that Desmond Cordiner was no vulgarian like his dead boss, Art Garrison; no crude Harry Cohn; no mala prop making Louis B. Mayer; no arriviste Skouras or Zanuck: here was one movie mogul capable of holding his own with the patrician New York bankers who financed films.

As his sons, his nephews and niece came into sight, he showed his slightly oversized white teeth in a fond smile, moving up the steps, greeting them indulgently.

Barry mumbled, “Uncle Desmond, this is my wife, Alicia.”

Desmond Cordiner took off his sunglasses; his dark eyes fixed on her.

She had never seen eyes quite like this. As he stared at her they seemed to turn to black glass, depthless and flat. The worldly gentleman faded and there were only the coldly assessing eyes probing into her flesh, her skull, her guts, her ovaries.

“So you’re the hot little number who’s caused all the fuss.”

Alicia hid her trepidation in the usual way, with bravado.

“Guilty,” she said blithely.

“Well, you do have something. Even in a town of pretty girls, I have to admit you have something. Maybe the eyes, maybe the skin….” He shrugged as if reminding himself he wasn’t in his office considering some young actress’s physical attributes.