Strangers in the Night, page 4
“Don’t get me wrong,” she said. “I have nothing against self-improvement. In fact, I’m grateful to Artie for that. I learned so much from him. But in the end, I still didn’t fit his imaginary view of who I should be.” Her southern drawl emerged more and more as the night wore on and the drinks kept coming. “I’m nothing but a poor southern girl from rural North Carolina. I ran around barefoot, chasing my big brothers and their friends, or teasing my older sisters. I haven’t been a lady a single day of my life.”
“You’re the best kind of lady, if you ask me,” I said, my voice going soft. “A real looker, but you’ve got a curious mind, too. I’d say that’s about the most important quality in life.”
She smiled at that, and I held up my glass in a toast. We drank and a comfortable silence fell between us a moment before she began again.
“I do like to read, and to explore new places,” she said.
“Me, too,” I replied. “I read everything I can get my hands on.”
“Tell me about your childhood,” she said, her voice soft.
“I’m from Hoboken, New Jersey. Ran around with a pack of hooligans, beating up on each other in the city streets. Some of us stole things and cheated at cards. It was crowded and dirty, but I can’t complain. My parents owned a bar, and Ma was in politics. Still is, really. Pop was a prizefighter turned fireman, so we had enough money to move to a real house a few blocks away from the worst of it. Wear decent clothes.”
“You’re an only child?” she asked.
I nodded. What I didn’t say aloud was how often I’d yearned to be more like the other Italian families on the block. Large and loud and a whole lot of fun. “What about you?” I asked.
“I’m the youngest of seven. I was completely feral until I turned about fifteen.”
“That explains a few things,” I said, winking.
“Like what?” she demanded, a look of mock outrage on her face.
“The youngest is forgotten as often as they are put on a pedestal, at least from what I’ve seen.”
“Well, that’s true,” she admitted. “Everyone treated me like a princess or completely ignored me—nothing in between. Were you always just Frank or is it short for something?”
“It’s short for Francis.”
“Francis.” She smiled. “I like that.”
I told her a few stories about my childhood friends, and she did the same, and the next thing we knew, it was late but neither of us paid heed to the time. At a lull in the conversation, she got up and looked through my records again.
“I love this song.” She pulled out Bing Crosby’s “Don’t Fence Me In.” “His voice is smooth and rich as cream.”
I suppressed instant jealousy. I’d always looked up to Crosby and wanted to be just like him until I’d moved to Hollywood and had to compete with him for top spots on Down Beat’s best-seller lists.
“I’ve always wanted to be a part of a band, since I was a girl,” she said, a wistful look in her eyes. “I dreamed of being onstage one day. A silly fantasy, really. I’m not a great singer.”
“That’s not true. I saw you sing in The Killers. You have a fine voice. Sultry, I’d say.”
“You think so?” She seemed genuinely pleased.
“As far as I can tell, everything about you is fine.”
“There’s that flattery again.” She smiled, exposing a dimple in her cheek, and tossed her dark wavy hair—and I was completely smitten. She wasn’t just beautiful; it was how she wore her beauty. She was intelligent and sharp-tongued and had a generous laugh. There was an edge to her charm. Something undefinable, intangible. I wanted to discover what that something was—I wanted to know everything about her.
“Here’s a secret. Something about me that isn’t so fine,” she said. “I have the worst stage fright! I’m also shy in large groups. The martinis help with that,” she said, sliding the Bing Crosby back into the stack and choosing a Billie Holiday record instead.
“That will get better as you make more movies,” I said.
Billie’s voluptuous voice filled the room and the energy between us shifted. I wanted her nearer. To take her in my arms, put my face in her hair. I’d wanted her the first moment I saw her, but it had been nothing like the need I had now to connect with her on every level. I held her gaze until she looked away.
“You’re a night owl, like me,” I said. “It’s late and you haven’t yawned once.”
“I am.” She turned on her stomach and propped herself up on her elbows.
“Me, too. I like to go all night. That’s when all the fun happens.” I winked and she rolled her eyes.
“I can’t believe that works on women.”
I laughed. “Did it work on you?”
“How about you get me another drink,” she replied, dodging the question.
I raised a brow. She could hold her liquor as well as any of my pals, but I didn’t mention it. Instead, I poured us another round and set the glasses on the coffee table.
“The floor must be pretty hard by now. Why don’t you get more comfortable?” I sat on the couch and patted the cushion next to me.
She met my gaze and this time, the femme fatale that I’d watched on-screen emerged. Seductive, sexy, challenging. I felt a stirring below the belt.
“It is, come to think of it,” she said, rising from the floor and settling onto the couch next to me.
I inched closer. She didn’t come any nearer but neither did she turn away, and I took my chance, closing the slender distance between us. When her warm breath fanned across my cheek, I cupped her face in my hands.
“You’re more beautiful than you have a right to be, you know that?” I said. “All I can think about is what your lips might feel like.”
She glanced at my mouth and then met my eyes again. “So why don’t you give them a try?”
I smiled and leaned in, brushing my lips over hers. I was gentle at first, but when her arms slipped around my neck, pulling me closer, an urgency built between us. I ran my hands down her arms and over her back, my body coming alive at the feel of her skin beneath my hands. I wanted to devour this woman from head to toe.
We kissed and caressed each other until our soft moans mingled.
Suddenly, she pulled away. “Well.” She was breathless, her eyes dark. “Now that we know what that’s like, I’d better be on my way.” She scooted farther away from me, and I groaned at the distance between us.
“Now?” I asked, sitting up straight. “Come on, doll, stay a little longer. You didn’t finish your drink.”
“You’re married,” she said simply. “And I’m not interested in courting that disaster, no matter how much I like talking to you. Or kissing you.” She slipped on her saddle shoes without her socks and grabbed her purse by the door. “Thanks for dinner.”
And with that, she was gone.
As I stared at the back of the door, my body still pulsing with the need she’d elicited, I knew this woman wasn’t anything like the others, and for the first time, that scared the hell out of me.
Chapter 4
Ava
I thought of that night with Frank for weeks: the heady sensation of his eyes on me, drinking me in, the weight of his hands on my back as an undeniable energy sparked between us. But it was our conversations that I couldn’t stop thinking about. How easy they had been. I’d felt seen in a way that I hadn’t before, and it was intoxicating—which was precisely why I’d avoided him ever since. There was no sense in wrapping myself around a man who had a wife and family. It would mean I was good for one thing, and I wasn’t in any mood to have my affections toyed with, least of all by a man constantly on the road who also happened to be married.
Still, Frank Sinatra plagued my thoughts.
When an invitation came to get out of town, I accepted instantly and packed my sister up along with me. A few weeks in Palm Springs at a friend’s place while I was between films seemed like just the thing. I needed the break. I’d been on the go for quite some time after One Touch of Venus released—another film owned by a studio other than my own. I frowned just thinking about it, frustrated by the way MGM continued to ignore me. The film had been a success and suddenly, there were plenty of other roles for me. My paycheck had quadrupled, and my name was not only all over town, but all over the country. I was ecstatic by the change in my circumstances and my success. And yet, MGM still refused to give me a decent role. I didn’t understand it. Would they always overlook me, see me as nothing but a hick without star power? Whether I liked to admit it or not, the consistent rejection from the studio who had discovered me stung.
“Do you want a drink?” I balanced my sunglasses on the bridge of my nose and looked at my sister, who lounged in a chair next to me by the pool. “Champagne sounds just right, doesn’t it?”
Even in the fall Palm Springs was hot until the sun burned itself out for the night. It was a beautiful town nestled at the base of a ridge of mountains that rimmed the valley. They were stark, lumbering giants of dusty brown and gray framed by vivid blue skies during the day and deep purple peaks swaddled by a blanket of stars at night. Grottos of lush palms and desert flowers adorned the properties of the rich and famous, fed by the local hot springs. A visual feast and the perfect escape to be sure. I adored it.
“We may as well keep the party going all day,” Bappie agreed, and pushed her own sunglasses up the slope of her long, strong nose.
My sister was striking, though not precisely beautiful, and I loved her features for their character. She didn’t live by them the way I had to with my own, and I envied that about her at times. I’d never tell her such a thing because I could already hear her reply: “Don’t mock me, Ava.” She’d tell me to be grateful for my beauty, and I was, but I was coming to learn that though my beauty was a gift, at times it was also a burden, the weight of which I felt as I avoided the lecherous men in the halls of MGM, or when it was suggested I eat more of this and less of that or told, “For heaven’s sakes, don’t get pregnant or you’re through” by my manager, or by Mayer himself. I’d come to be defined by my beauty, and that was alright for now, but I couldn’t help but notice the way most actresses “aged out” of the business and disappeared from Hollywood completely. As if age made one invisible. It was all the more reason to fully establish myself at MGM and beyond.
“I’ll get it.” I waved to an attendant who sat at a luxurious outdoor tiki bar decorated with cacti and fuchsia flowers on the opposite side of the patio.
He arrived pronto, took our order, and returned with a couple of coupe glasses and a bucket of ice. He popped the cork and poured the golden liquid.
“Isn’t the pop of a cork the happiest sound in the world?” I said.
“It sure is,” Bappie replied.
I took a hearty drink from my glass. I was looking forward to the next couple of weeks of sleeping through the morning and lounging poolside in the afternoon, attending an occasional party in the evening. It was a prime place to escape the rat race of Hollywood, and many people I knew had houses nearby.
“Did you keep that jewelry from Howard?” Bappie asked.
Howard Hughes—eccentric Texas millionaire, friend, and man on a mission to get in my pants. He’d even hired his own team of spies to watch my house and my comings and goings, to keep me safe, he’d said, but I knew it was because the man liked to own things—and people. Somehow, I managed to forgive his awkwardness and his eccentricities, at least most of the time, and see past the wrinkled suit and body odor. We’d had a lot of great times together, talking like old hens, dancing, dining, complaining about Hollywood. The shopping trips to Mexico via his private jet with my sister along didn’t hurt either. In the end, he amused me and he was loyal, and that was worth a lot in this life.
“Of course not,” I said crossly, sorting through the chopped vegetables we’d ordered for a snack. “Sometimes, I swear he thinks I’m a concubine. I’m not going to sleep with him just because he gave me a bunch of diamonds.”
“He’s the richest man on earth, Ava. Even if you divorced him, you’d probably walk away with enough money to never have to work again.”
“Would you listen to yourself? Why don’t you go after him?” I drained my glass and reached for the bottle to pour another. “I’m not for sale.”
Bappie swatted my arm half-heartedly, leaving a slick of tanning oil across my skin. “You know perfectly well he’s in love with you and I’m the last person in the world he wants to date. I’m not a beautiful, mysterious movie star.”
I launched a celery stalk at her, and it ricocheted off her sunglasses. I laughed heartily, reaching for another.
“Oh no you don’t.” Bappie shook her head vehemently. “We’ll get a good scolding from the staff.”
“We will not. He’s barely pubescent.” I motioned at the very young man who’d delivered the champagne bottle. “You think he’s going to take on a pair of grown women?”
“You’re probably right,” she said, grabbing a handful of chopped carrots and launching them at me one by one in a tiny bombardment.
We laughed hysterically and wound up knocking the champagne bottle over. The thick glass clanged as it hit the patio tile. The young man at the bar rushed over, his mouth falling open as he took in the scattered vegetables and overturned bottle that, thankfully, hadn’t shattered.
“I’ll just get a mop and broom,” he said.
“You do that,” I said, winking. “And we’d love another bottle.”
“Um, yes, Miss Gardner. Right away.”
“Thank you. And why don’t you grab a drink and join us!” I called after him.
As he hurried away, we broke into a fit of giggles. My oldest sister was one of my favorite people in the world. I couldn’t imagine living in California without her. I loved my other sisters, too, of course, but I’d never been particularly close to them. They didn’t understand me. They’d married and gone on with their lives in the rural world where we’d grown up. I could never return to that life, much as I cherished my childhood memories.
My thoughts turned to Frank—again. How it must have been to grow up in a house without brothers and sisters. It was almost impossible for me to imagine. I’d lived in a tiny, crowded house, and later, in a boardinghouse for schoolchildren, where Mama worked as a cook. Home meant an ever-present hum of activity and the smell of boiled greens thick in the air, always too much washing, and bickering followed by peals of laughter nearly every hour of the day. It was no wonder I’d been wild as the youngest, an afterthought in many ways. I learned quickly to stay out from underfoot. Frank must have been incredibly lonely.
“What do you think about Frank Sinatra?” I asked suddenly.
“His music, you mean, or the pictures he’s been in?” Bappie asked.
I shrugged. “Both?”
“I like his voice. His movies, not much, but then again, he hasn’t played in anything of note. Why do you ask?”
“No reason. I see him around here and there,” I said, cagey. When she cast me a side-eyed glance, I changed the subject. “What are you wearing tonight?”
“To the party?”
“Mm-hmm.” I rolled lazily onto my side.
“The brown dress.”
I wrinkled my nose. “What about the navy with the sash at the waist? Brown isn’t much good for anyone.”
“Maybe,” she said, finishing her glass of champagne. She was living in her own place now. She’d become pretty autonomous, so I guessed the last thing she wanted was to take advice from her little sister. “What about you?”
“My halter sundress. The lemon yellow one.”
“Oh, you’re adorable in that one.”
I blew her a kiss. “I might meet someone special there, who knows.”
I’d given up Duff once and for all and had been on a few dates since, but still nothing serious to speak of. The single life suited me, except for in the heart of the night when the world dreamed and shadows invaded my thoughts. At night, all was quiet but me, and that was when I came alive. My senses heightened and my mind whirred, obsessing over every mistake I’d ever made. On the worst nights, I’d think about Mama and her cancer and how I wished I’d been able to spare her the pain of it all, or I’d think of Daddy and how taciturn he was. I could count the few times I’d heard him laugh or offer a kind word. He lived almost entirely inside himself, his thoughts locked away in a deep well that was unreachable. I pictured him, solitary among the leafy fields of tobacco he’d worked so hard to grow until we’d lost it all—and he’d lost his will to live right along with it. I wondered how he’d feel about having his daughter’s face splashed all over the magazines and billboards, my divorces, and now, a spark of something with a married man. He’d order me home for a good paddlin’, even if I was making all that money, and tell me not to put on such airs.
I flushed at the thought and reached for my drink, reminding myself that Daddy was no longer here.
* * *
A few hours later, Bappie and I were dressed and coiffed and ready for a little fun. If there was something I’d learned since my time in Hollywood, it was to accept invitations to parties and to make friends and play nice. The more the directors and producers liked you, the more often they considered you for roles. I liked parties so that suited me fine, but my natural shyness also made them difficult until I’d had a few drinks.
Producer Darryl Zanuck’s home was beautiful with its airy rooms, potted greenery throughout the house, and wide veranda. I enjoyed a cocktail and then two, and once the liquor had loosened my tongue, I chatted with various colleagues and strangers. Most of the crowd I’d never met before. Bappie made a friend quickly and appeared to be having a grand ol’ time. She’d decided on the navy dress after all and looked as pretty as a peach.
By my third drink, I felt properly lubricated and sidled up next to Darryl. “Aren’t you going to play some music?” I asked the host. “I want to dance.”
