All the Stars in the Heavens Page 30

  Signore lit a small oil lamp. The scent of dank earth and sweet grapes surrounded them. Loretta could see rows of wooden barrels along the wall, with spigots and stoppers. Signore had written symbols in chalk on the barrels.

  “Grappa,” Signore said as he swished a sample in a small round glass. “Taste.”

  Loretta took a small taste of grappa. It was bitter, strong, and left the taste of tobacco. As a smoker, Loretta liked it.

  “You’re the first woman to like grappa.”

  “How is it made?”

  “It’s the skins of the grape, the seeds, and the stems. Any part that is thrown away to make wine, we put aside for the grappa. Grappa is life. You use everything to make it, all the things that no one wants, that no one can use, we use. Everything in life, whether sweet or bitter, ends up in the glass.”

  When Loretta thought about Italy, she would remember grappa, the drink made from the parts of the grape that no one wanted.

  Gable undressed to shower before dinner. As he folded his trousers to hang them in the closet, the letter from Padua fell out. It was the first he had received from Loretta, after all the ones he had sent to her, and frankly, he was steamed. He wasn’t used to women ignoring him, especially one he had feelings for. He opened the letter, and was surprised when it was from Alda.

  Dear Mr. Gable,

  I hope you are well. I am writing to tell you that Gretchen is in good health, and blossoming under the Paduan sun. We plan to return home in early September, and hope we will see you then.

  Yours truly,

  Alda

  P.S. Please keep an eye on my Luca and your Chet.

  If Luca thought that painting a Yukon gold-rush town in a blizzard was a challenge, the historically accurate English port from Mutiny on the Bounty topped it in every way.

  Cedric Gibbons had designed an English seaport inspired by the marine paintings of Peter Monamy and the battle scenes of John Wootton. Irving Thalberg had approved of the scope of the set design and wanted the backdrops to be spectacular regardless of the cost. Luca Chetta was responsible for the facades of the shops that lined the pier. He used actual gold leaf on the signage, so it would shimmer on camera, playing off the water in the bay.

  Luca was lonely without Alda, and didn’t mind filling the long hours with overtime. It kept him out of trouble, though there was plenty to be had on location. Catalina Island and the village of Avalon were enchanted. The company had taken over its charming hotels, bars, and restaurants, which were open around the clock to accommodate them.

  Luca was climbing down off the scaffolding to check his work when Clark Gable turned the corner. Luca waved to him.

  Gable walked toward Chet with a pretty young blonde wearing a sundress and platform heels. She ran alongside Gable to keep up with him. Around the corner, a petite redhead skipped to catch up.

  “How’s it going?” Gable asked.

  “Most expensive picture in Hollywood history.”

  “And it’s all going for paint,” Gable said, surveying the open cans on the pier.

  “I like to try things,” Chet admitted. “Paint is cheap. My time? Not so much.”

  “Ladies, this is Luca Chetta, the best scenic artist at MGM. He even painted the lion.”

  The blonde, shivering in the night wind off the water, latched on to Gable’s arm. Gallantly, he put his arm around her waist. The redhead took his other hand.

  “I got a letter from Alda,” Gable said casually.

  “You did?”

  “There’s probably one waiting for you back at the hotel.”

  “What did she say?”

  “She wanted me to know that her visit was going well.”

  “That’s just like Alda.”

  “It sure is.”

  “You know, she has a soft spot for you—you were our best man.”

  The memory of that day crossed Gable’s face like a shadow. “That was a great day,” he said. “Hey, we’re going to dinner. Going to meet up with Franchot and Niven—and some of the crew.”

  “Some of my friends will be there too,” the young redhead said with a sly smile.

  “Come on, Chet. Join us?”

  “No, Mr. Gibbons has me on a tight leash over here, but you go and have fun,” Luca said.

  “I won’t hear of it. Meet us in the club room of the Hotel Saint Catherine in an hour. You work hard enough. I’ll talk to Irv.”

  “All right,” Luca said.

  “Oh, goody,” the redhead said, taking Gable’s arm again. She turned and winked at Luca as they walked away.

  Luca watched Gable walk down the pier with a woman who couldn’t keep up with him, and another who couldn’t be bothered trying. Chet heard the tap of their platform shoes, hollow on the wooden slats, as they skipped next to Gable.

  When the three of them turned to head for the wharf, Luca Chetta exhaled, a long, low whistle.

  Luca checked his hair in the mirror of his hotel room. He had planned to turn in early after writing a letter to Alda, but Gable’s invitation had changed all that. If Luca were honest, he’d admit that he was miffed that his wife had to spend the summer in Italy with her boss while he stayed behind and worked on location.

  Luca noticed a smattering of gold paint on the underside of his hand in the reflection of the mirror. He went to his supply chest, sat down, dipped the rag into a tin of turpentine, and rubbed the paint away. This was a simple chore his wife would have handled for him.

  One of the hopes of his young marriage was to have his wife by his side as he worked. He liked Alda’s company and her insights—besides loving her, he enjoyed her intellect. Luca was lonely, and because Alda’s plans were open-ended, he had no idea when she would be back in his arms. Sometimes he wondered if she ever would. Each day brought more distance and more anger as he resented her absence.

  Luca made his way down the avenue to the plush hotel where Gable and the cast were put up for the duration. The crew stayed nearby, but in a decidedly less glamorous hotel. It was clean, that’s all that mattered to Luca. He found his mind drifting to the redhead who’d winked at him earlier in the evening. At thirty-five, Luca resisted the temptation to stray with regularity. There were plenty of available women at the studio who longed to get into show business, and that meant befriending any man on the crew who might serve as introduction to the job of her dreams. Since Luca married Alda, he’d found it easy to resist the ladies; he had a home life now, someone he loved waiting for him after the long shifts at the studio. Luca found he liked being married. He wondered why it had taken him so long. Alda provided a closet full of pressed clothing, a cup of black coffee in bed every morning, a hot meal on the table every night, and someone to talk to about his frustrations at work. Alda had made his life better.

  When Luca entered the clubroom, he saw David Niven standing by the fireplace, telling a story to a rapt crowd. Gable had the lovely blonde propped on his lap. Luca remembered when Gable had pulled Loretta onto his lap in the same fashion on Mount Baker. This night, the woman wasn’t swooning over Gable but toying with him. Gable however, was in on the game.

  Franchot was laughing with Frank Lloyd, the director. Lloyd was Scottish and told riveting stories in his native accent, punctuated by his expressive black eyebrows. The actors had learned to look to his eyebrows for approval; if they were arched and open, they knew they were delivering a satisfactory performance.

  In his early fifties, Lloyd was at the top of his game. He had the confidence and ease of a man who had nothing to prove, as he had already won an Academy Award. Mutiny was a big picture for MGM. Lloyd had a huge budget at his disposal, and the imprimatur of the producer Irving Thalberg, whose fine taste was apparent in every word of the script and every aspect of the production, including historical accuracy. Luca had mixed many samples of paint to get the precise patina of the wood on the prow of the ship. This was a first-class bunch, and Luca felt his work was appreciated.

  “Bourbon on the rocks,” Luca told the bart
ender.

  A warm pair of hands went up and under Luca’s jacket, stroking him from his waist to his chest. A shiver went through him.

  “It’s me. Red,” the woman said.

  “I figured.” Luca took a sip of his drink. He could feel the full press of the soft curves of her body against his.

  “What are you having?”

  Luca held up his drink.

  “I’ll have the same,” the woman said to the bartender. “I’ve had my eye on you for a couple of weeks,” she admitted.

  “Somebody that spends that much time thinking about me should have a name.”

  “I’m Peggy.”

  “Luca Chetta.”

  “Is that one word or two?”

  “Luca is my first name.”

  “Spanish?”

  “Italian.”

  “Oooh. I love Italians.”

  “I feel badly for the Spaniards.”

  Sidling close to him, she said, “Let’s get out of here and go for a walk.”

  “I just got here.”

  “They’re bores.”

  Luca looked at Peggy. She had lovely green eyes. Her ginger hair was rolled under in smooth waves. She may have been twenty, but not much more. She slipped her hand up his sleeve jacket. Luca remembered what it was like to be a bachelor, happy to go from woman to woman as though he were working his way through a line dance.

  “You’re persistent.” Luca was flattered.

  “I’m mesmerized by your work. I watched what you do on the pier, and I can see you’re a great painter—not just a scene painter, but a fine artist.”

  “Now what would you know about art?”

  “I’m in school in Santa Barbara.”

  “Really, what are you studying?”

  “Painting.”

  “You want my job?”

  “No.” She laughed.

  “What do they teach at you at school?”

  “All kinds of things. This semester, I’m studying contemporary artists. You know, the Cubist movement that took up much of the first part of this century. Some historians believe that the vivid paint colors and the modern line and sweep are a direct result of the influence of the industrial age. The use of machines, modern equipment, the invention of the automobile and the airplane influenced their style. The art went from realistic to symbolic.” Peggy moved in close to Luca’s lips and kissed him. The soft touch of her lips against his thrilled him.

  When Luca opened his eyes, he felt Gable’s gaze. Gable winked at him.

  The conspiratorial wink from Gable made Luca’s stomach turn. He remembered Gable standing at the altar when he and Alda had been married. The scene was suddenly all too cozy, too much, too cheap. Luca felt trapped.

  “Thank you for the art lesson, Peggy, but I have to go.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m married.”

  “Where is she?”

  “She’s with her family.” Luca felt defensive about his wife and the life they shared.

  “Maybe you don’t matter to her,” Peggy said. “I mean, you kissed me.”

  “That was a stupid move,” Luca said, pulling cash out of his pocket. He paid the bartender. “Won’t happen again.”

  “You’re leaving?”

  Luca turned to go. He looked back at Gable, who was engrossed in conversation with the woman on his lap. Niven hit a punch line, and the crowd laughed, a long rolling laugh. Franchot was raising a glass as Luca pushed through the door.

  Once outside, Luca wiped his mouth with his hand. He wasn’t a man to regret his choices, but he was furious. As he walked back to the hotel, his anger toward Alda built to a boiling point. He resented Loretta and her problems and the devotion his wife had for her boss. He wanted his wife home, and he wanted her home now.

  12

  A soft breeze fluttered the new sheer curtains Gladys had hung in Loretta’s bedroom in Sunset House. Sally placed small pewter cups filled with the blossoms of pink roses on the mantelpiece. It was early September, but a fire blazed in the hearth. It was late afternoon, and the firelight threw a tangerine glow on the walls.

  Loretta paced. She wore a billowing pink organza nightgown with long sleeves and an enormous ruffled bow at the neck, as was the height of fashion in the late summer of 1935. Her chestnut hair hung in loose waves around her shoulders. She wore a touch of loose, pale powder on her face. She had not made up her eyes or her lips, and without the boost of color, she appeared sickly and wan.

  Alda and Gladys placed a new lavender satin coverlet over a fluffy duvet on the bed. A series of six large rectangular pillows, covered in matching satin, framed the headboard.

  A stack of scripts for Loretta’s consideration was strategically placed on the nightstand, with a cup of freshly sharpened pencils next to it. A pale green rotary phone rested on the opposite nightstand, with a cord running under the bed, disconnected. The last thing Loretta needed that afternoon was another abusive phone call from Ria Gable to be overheard by the reporter. The phone would not ring for now.

  Ruby entered with a tray of tea, tiny cucumber sandwiches, delicate bite-size scones, clotted cream, and Ruby’s homemade raspberry jam. She placed it on the serving table and left.

  “Gretch, get into bed,” her mother ordered.

  Loretta climbed into bed, sitting up, propped on the pillows. Alda and Gladys stood back.

  “I have an idea.” Alda went to the closet and took two extra feather pillows off the top shelf. She placed them next to Loretta under the covers, which hid Loretta’s growing stomach completely.

  “Perfect,” Gladys said as she stood back. “Your stomach looks flat.”

  “I can’t tell a thing,” Sally agreed.

  “It’s almost time.” Loretta bit her lip and looked at the clock.

  Alda opened the sheers, leaving the doors onto the balcony open to let the breeze into the room. She lowered the overhead chandelier to dim and flipped the lamps next to the bed on. The soft light illuminated Loretta’s pale face.

  Gladys did a final check of the details. “Here we go. Good luck, Gretchen.” Gladys kissed her daughter before following Alda and Sally out of the room.

  Loretta lay in the bed, feeling lucky. According to the doctor, her baby was fine. After she and Alda left Padua, they’d met Gladys in Naples, returned on a different ship line than they used crossing over, dodged the press completely at the docks in New York City, snuck Loretta aboard the Super Chief for the night haul to Chicago, changed trains for Los Angeles, arrived at dawn, and a car waiting at the station in Los Angeles whisked them back to Sunset House. Loretta hadn’t believed it was possible to keep a secret in Hollywood, but now she was living proof it could be done.

  Dr. Berkowitz stood by the fireplace in the living room across from Gladys’s study. As the journalist Dorothy Manners pulled up in her black Ford town car, it was if a director had called “Action.” The doctor picked up his black bag and went into the foyer, joining Gladys there.

  As Dorothy came into the house with her photographer, a man in his late sixties, in tow, Gladys greeted them warmly.

  “So good to see you again, Dorothy.” Gladys kissed her on the cheek.

  “Happy to set the record straight.” Dorothy smiled. “Thank you for choosing me to do the job.”

  “You’re very special to our family. This is Dr. Berkowitz, the physician who has been taking care of Loretta.”

  “How is she doing, Doctor?”

  “It’s been a long struggle, but she’s showing signs of improvement.”

  “You can see for yourself. Alda, will you take Dorothy up to Loretta?”

  “Right away.” Alda emerged from Gladys’s office. “Follow me please.”

  Dorothy and the photographer followed Alda up the stairs.

  Dorothy took in the sumptuous mural, deep pile rug, and polished brass banister. She looked up at the crystal chandelier; every dagger, cup, and pedestal gleamed. As she followed Alda down the hallway, the bedroom doors were open, the ro
oms inside decorated with canopy beds, fireplaces, cozy reading chairs, and ceramic lamps. This was a home, Dorothy decided; it wasn’t just for show.

  Alda led Dorothy and the photographer into Loretta’s room. Loretta leaned back against the pillows weakly. She looked pale, but her eyes had a touch of sparkle; clearly the actress was on the mend.

  “Hello, Miss Manners.”

  “Loretta, darling, how are you?”

  “I’m getting better.” She forced a smile. “I didn’t know you were taking pictures.”

  Dorothy blushed, embarrassed. “It’s for the AP, and they require photographs with the story.”

  “No problem—anything for you, Dorothy.” Loretta knew darn well there was going to be a photographer, and that there would be pictures. By pretending not to know, she shifted the power away from the journalist’s pen and back to herself. Now, Dorothy subconsciously owed Loretta a favor, because Loretta had just done one for her.

  “Please, let’s do the photographs you need first, before I run out of pep,” Loretta said softly.

  Taken with the sickly Loretta, the photographer began to snap.

  “Why don’t you get a shot that includes the bed and the fireplace?” Alda asked, afraid that the photographer’s proximity might reveal Loretta’s real condition.

  “Good idea. Readers love to get interior decorating ideas from Gladys Belzer.”

  The photographer stepped back. Loretta looked like a doll in the bed. She not only didn’t look like she was expecting a baby, she looked petite.

  “That’s good, Tommy. Thank you,” Miss Manners said.

  Sally stood in the doorway. “Tommy, come with me. Mama made a rum cake, and a big slab of it has your name on it.”

  “Thank you, Miss Young,” Tommy said, following Sally out of the room.

  “Do you mind if Alda stays with us?” Loretta asked weakly.

  “I’d be happy to pour you tea,” Alda said as she served Dorothy.

  “Thank you.” Dorothy flipped open her notebook. “Loretta, let’s get to it. I understand you got sick on The Crusades.”

  “It’s my own fault. I had done a series of pictures back to back, and I just wore myself out. Dr. Berkowitz says it’s a virus that has affected my muscles.”