All the Stars in the Heavens

by Adriana Trigiani

  “It’s not the work, it’s you. You imagine a happy ending to every story. We can’t encourage that here. This is a place of misery—”

  Alda tried to interrupt the nun, but Mother Superior stopped her.

  “—though there are cheery moments. I know. I’ve witnessed them. You want the girls to be happy, but it isn’t to be. No matter what we do, we can only get their minds off their troubles for a short while. We can fix them up and send them back out into the world to try again, but we can’t make them happy.”

  “Then what is our purpose?”

  “To get them through this time.” Mother Superior leaned forward. “Look, Alda. I’m old. I’ve got white hair under this wimple, but a couple years ago it was as red as your roses. I tell myself that our work is God’s work, but I’m not so sure. I have my own doubts. Do you think I wanted to take that baby away from her mother? It’s a horrible thing to do. I tell myself it’s for the best, but I don’t always believe it. I want you to get out while you’re young. You have a chance to build a life that has meaning. You’re joyful. So go and be happy.”

  “I don’t have your doubts.”

  “Not yet. If you stayed here long enough, you would have them too. I was like you. I thought I could fix it all by becoming a nun and devoting my life to this work. But I couldn’t, and you can’t, and the little girl jumping rope on DeSales Street as we sit here who is about to get the calling to be a nun can’t fix it either. All we can do is hold a girl’s hand and get her through the pain. That’s our role.”

  “Why did you wait until now to tell me?”

  “I was hoping that things would change. That you would change. But six years in and you’re still trying to change people. I used to have hope too. I don’t want you to lose yours. And the truth is, I thought you might transform over time, and toughen up.”

  “I’ve worked hard to keep my heart open because so many of the girls we serve have already given up. Sometimes my belief in them is all they have.”

  The Mother Superior looked off in the distance. It appeared she might change her mind, but as quickly as a cloud moved across the sun, she strengthened her resolve to release Alda from the novitiate.

  “Something came across my desk, and I thought of you.” Mother reached into her pocket and removed a letter from the envelope. “There’s a job. A good job. Father McNally from the Church of the Good Shepherd in Los Angeles wrote to me. He’s looking for a young lady who is good with a needle and thread, and who can write. You have excellent penmanship, and you’re a crack seamstress—every baby leaves Saint Elizabeth’s with an embroidered blanket.”

  “If I’m going to work for a priest, I’d rather be a nun.”

  “You won’t be working for the church, but for a family. I’m told this is a fine Catholic family, very devout. You would be a secretary to one of the daughters. She works in pictures. Her name is Loretta Young.”

  In the recesses of her memory, Alda remembered the name. Perhaps she had seen her on the cover of one of the fan magazines that the girls passed around.

  “I’m sending you to the family today.”

  Alda thought about her fellow novices who had left the order before her, dismissed in secret, banished at night. It was always the same. There were hushed conversations behind closed doors, followed by lonely footsteps, and the creak of the doors as the novices who remained looked out to see who was let go. The novice’s room would be empty, save a blanket folded on her cot and an empty washbasin. There was never a meeting, a discussion, or a proper farewell. The novices who remained were left to fret about the transgression that led to dismissal and agonize over their own shortcomings.

  A convent runs on two kinds of fear: fear of failing God and fear of dismissal.

  Alda would join the novices who failed, those who would never take final vows, young women who had broken the long line of the gray habit. There was mystery in the divine, but none in real life. If Alda had worried about how the rejected would fend for themselves beyond this convent in the world outside, she was about to find out.

  Alda noted that the sun was shining brightly on her dismissal day. Maybe this was a sign. She wasn’t leaving in darkness, but in the warmth of the morning sun. She fought hard not to cry, and knew better than to plead with Mother Mary Justine any further. It did little good for the girl who wanted to keep her baby, and Alda knew it would do even less for her.

  Alda stood and bowed to Mother Superior. She kissed her hand and thanked her. Mother walked Alda back to her office in silence.

  Alda entered the same small room next to Mother Superior’s office, where she had changed out of her traveling clothes and put on the work habit of the Daughters of Charity years before. This time, a satchel had been packed with a cotton slip, one set of undergarments, one pair of stockings, and a nightgown.

  A simple navy-blue cotton shirtwaist dress hung on the back of the door.

  Alda removed her habit, the veil, the wimple, the apron, the long tunic, and the petticoat. She rolled down her black wool stockings and folded them neatly. She pulled on pale gray stockings instead and slipped back into her shoes. She was allowed to keep her brown work shoes, as another pair had not been provided.

  Alda pulled the cotton slip over her head. She stepped into the blue dress. It felt flimsy after the layers of wool and work apron. She shivered.

  There was no pocket in the dress, so there was no place to put her train ticket. She looked at her work habit hanging on the wall and wept.

  There were many pockets in the habit, pockets under the apron, sewn into the bias of the tunic, to keep rosaries, thermometers, handkerchiefs, and a small missal to read while the girls slept. And now she wore a garment that didn’t have a single pocket.

  The sisters had taught Alda how to read, write, and speak English, care for expectant mothers and coach them through the birth of their babies. She had developed skills, but wondered if they had any value in the place she was going. For the first time since she could remember, Alda did not have a purpose.

  Alda dried her tears. Without saying good-bye to the novices, the nuns, or the girls in the ward she had read to the night before, Alda left Saint Elizabeth’s through the same door she had entered six years earlier.

  Alda had entered the convent to hide, hoping that a life of contemplation, prayer, and service would give her a fresh start after what she had endured in Italy. Now she was on her own again, to invent a new life once more. She had been afraid of the unknown when she arrived, but the terror she felt as she departed Saint Elizabeth’s was worse.

  Alda carried the satchel in one hand and a train ticket in the other. As she pushed through the door of Saint Elizabeth’s, she turned to take in the foyer one last time. The nuns had filled the gold vase with the flowers Alda had cut that morning; the red petals looked like flames.

  The sweet scent of the roses was the last thing she remembered as she walked out of the convent and into her new life.

  Gladys Belzer stood before the stately colonial-style home she shared with her daughters and shielded her eyes from the sun.

  Perched high on a cliff in Bel Air, this was the grandeur she had imagined for her family, an imposing white brick mansion that honored her ancestral roots in the south and her family’s rising prominence in the film industry.

  Sunset House was the perfect calling card for Mrs. Belzer, one of the most popular interior decorators in Beverly Hills. Gladys had graduated from running a respectable boardinghouse on Green Street to decorating the homes of some of the biggest stars in the movies. She built the business on referrals, some through her popular daughters. Gladys was known for her excellent taste, instinctive use of color, and respect for history and architecture, all of which were wrapped up in an elegant European sensibility that proved to be in hot demand.

  Gladys believed that the exterior of the home was the prelude to the decoration within, so the driveway, lawns, gardens, and even the mailbox outside must be as stunning as the rooms inside.r />
  A set of white brick stairs, with banisters made of frilly white wrought iron, crisscrossed the steep hill like icing on a wedding cake. The stairs weren’t used much, but from Sunset Boulevard, they added architectural interest and a fairy-tale ascent to the castle.

  A movie star’s home required a grand entrance in order for her to make one.

  The entry portico, an imposing two stories high, was anchored by four majestic columns that could be seen the length of Sunset Boulevard. The wide circular drive was paved in brick and could accommodate the longest Duesenbergs and Packards Detroit had made.

  Grand old magnolia trees with white flowers nestled in waxy green leaves were staggered along the property line. Clusters of vivid pink blossoms in the branches of silk-floss trees framed the sides of the house. The hill tumbled down to the street in splashes of color, purple bougainvillea and yellow jasmine twisting through cascades of green ivy like party streamers.

  A house painter stood by dipping a brush into a metal sleeve of white paint, leaving a bold stripe on one of the columns.

  “How’s this one, Mrs. B?”

  “It’s still too antiseptic. Hospital white. Can you bring it down with a touch of gray?”

  “Yes ma’am.”

  Gladys Belzer, at forty-five, had recently separated from her second husband, George Belzer, nicknamed Mutt (and evidently thrown out because he had behaved as one). Instead of wallowing in the failure of the marriage, she let the disappointment fuel her ambition to build her business to new heights to take better care of her family. The more personal challenges Gladys faced, the better the results in her career. It had always been the case.

  Gladys worried about her children. The failure of her second marriage was particularly painful. Her husband had given her Georgiana, her fourth daughter, the baby, and he had been an excellent accountant, getting the finances of her business in order. She credited him with encouraging her to buy property as an investment.

  But he had been unfaithful, and for Gladys, this was untenable. She worried that she had set a terrible example for her children in this regard, which was one of the reasons she cleaved so closely to the teachings of her adopted Catholic Church. She felt that the church, with its empirical authority and dogma, might make up for the loss of a man at the head of her household, or at least she hoped it would.

  Gladys was a stage mother to her daughters, all of whom had found their way into acting in motion pictures. Even her son Jackie had appeared in a couple of movies as an extra before losing interest. The girls had also begun as extras, but eventually earned speaking parts. However, only one, her Gretchen, who went by the stage name Loretta Young, was devoted to the craft, and therefore was the most successful.

  Jackie had entered law school. He had grown up as a ward to their wealthy neighbors, the Lindley family, who had unofficially adopted him. For most of the years of his childhood, before Mutt Belzer courted Gladys, Jackie came and went between the two houses in what became a natural and mutually beneficial arrangement. Gladys allowed it because her son was happy and enjoyed the attention of Mr. Lindley, his surrogate father, a role Gladys could not provide since his own father, John Earle Young, had left her and their children and, true to his word, never returned.

  Gladys left the painter to his work and went inside.

  She surveyed the grand foyer, with its luxurious carpeted staircase shaped like a corkscrew. A chandelier dripping with sparkling crystal daggers threw shards of light on the marble floor, as though diamonds had been scattered across it. Inspired by Italian frescoes, which she had seen in books, Gladys commissioned an artist to paint a mural with a scene set in the old South. The pastoral setting, using a palette of moss green, midnight blue, and dusty pink, featured her daughters as antebellum characters in hoop skirts and picture hats.

  If Gladys wanted to sell something as an interior decorator, all she need do was display the item in her own home. Hand-painted murals became the rage in Beverly Hills.

  A similar rationale helped Gladys sell her customers French antiques, English chintz, Italian damasks, and French toile along with custom-dyed wool rugs. Sunset House became a venue for chic garden parties and proper teas that introduced guests to her largesse, her daughters, and most importantly her keen eye, which led to lucrative commissions.

  Just as Gladys created idyllic homes and gardens, her daughters were creating images for the public, on film and in magazines, of the glorious power and potential of youth. The girls took their popularity seriously. It was not enough for an actress to deliver a great performance on a sound stage; the girls also had a responsibility to their fans, and to the public, to be examples of moral purity. The veneer was lacquered to a high polish, so dazzling you could skate on it. The Young sisters were popular with the studio bosses because of their talent, but even without it, they would have been welcome in the front office as well-raised young ladies with lovely manners.

  Gladys sat down at her desk and pinned swatches of gold chenille to a collage she had created for a client. Gladys had sketched the rooms, painted the scene, and pinned paint samples, wood chips, and swatches of fabric to a corkboard.

  Often the clients kept the collage when a project was completed, as the design board itself was a work of art. Without a traditional education, Gladys devised her own approach to interior decorating, which had its roots in gracious living and homemaking. She expanded her acumen as she learned about architecture, studying the work of her contemporaries James Dolena and Wallace Neff. Gladys designed from the bones out, keeping within the style of the architecture. She used the best materials, went for opulence, and insisted upon comfort, outfitting the home for gracious living, down to the silverware.

  While Gladys learned about floor plans from architects and techniques from contractors, she learned about scope and drama from the great set designers in cinema. Gladys observed the work of Cedric Gibbons, who encouraged her to use her imagination and take risks with color and historical authenticity. Like William Haines, a popular matinee idol turned interior decorator, Gladys kept an inventory of fascinating objets d’art in a warehouse full of antique furniture, chandeliers, and fine art. She shopped for her clients in her own warehouse. The collection grew as she worked with buyers, who traveled abroad and brought treasures from around the world, which eventually wound up in the most stylish homes in southern California.

  “Miss Gladys? There’s a young lady here to see you.” The housekeeper showed Alda into the study.

  “Father McNally sent me.” Alda handed Gladys a letter.

  “Alda, we’ve been waiting for you. I’m Mrs. Belzer.” She hit a button on the telephone. “Honey, come downstairs and meet your new secretary.”

  She smiled at Alda. “We have an intercom in the house, so we can find each other. It’s a busy household.”

  The intercom at Saint Elizabeth’s was only used in emergencies. Alda could not imagine why a private home would need one. She looked around. How many rooms were in this house, anyway?

  “How was your trip?”

  “Very fast.” Alda couldn’t believe that she was in Los Angeles in a matter of hours. San Francisco and Saint Elizabeth’s already seemed like a faraway dream.

  A glamorous young woman skipped down the staircase and into her mother’s study, wearing a peacock-blue satin housecoat and matching slippers. She took a final puff off her cigarette and put it out in an ashtray on a side table. “Hi, I’m Gretchen.”

  “Not dressed yet?” Gladys chided her.

  “Not getting dressed. I have the day off before we start tomorrow. I’m going to do everything from my room.” Gretchen winked at Alda.

  “This is your new secretary, Alda Ducci.”

  “I think there’s been a mistake,” Alda said softly. “Mother Superior told me I would be working for Loretta Young.”

  Gretchen laughed. “That’s my stage name. I’m also not a blonde—this is just for a role. I’m a standard brownette.”

  Regardless of hair
color, Alda was taken in by her new boss’s arresting beauty. Loretta’s coloring reminded her of the doves of Padua, with her gray eyes, black lashes, soft blond hair, and golden skin. Loretta’s lips were naturally full without the enhancement of lipstick. She was very slim, long-legged, not too tall. If Gretchen had a physical flaw, Alda could not find it.

  Alda stared. Loretta didn’t mind, used to it.

  “You may call me Gretchen.”

  “Loretta is an Italian name. It’s from ancient Latin,” Alda offered.

  “Really? I didn’t choose it. At first, I hated it, now it’s all right.”

  It was obvious to Loretta and to Gladys that Alda had just come from the convent. Her black hair was pulled back in a tight braid, her dress was secondhand, and she was wearing work shoes. Alda wasn’t wearing a proper hat or gloves, and her traveling satchel was made of boiled wool. She was thin and about Loretta’s height, but she was as plain as Loretta was glamorous.

  “Your room is ready for you, Alda. I hope you like it.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Belzer.”

  Alda followed Loretta to the staircase. “You’ll like it. Mama decorated it herself. Don’t get attached to anything, because you’ll leave in the morning and come home to a room you don’t recognize. My mother changes paint colors like nail polish.” Loretta took Alda’s suitcase. “You’re Italian?”

  “Yes.”

  “Father McNally didn’t mention that.”

  “It’s not something I can change.”

  Loretta stopped and looked at her. “Why on earth would you?”

  Alda laughed. “I wouldn’t.”

  “Good for you. You say what’s on your mind, don’t you?”

  “Shouldn’t I?”

  “Feel free. You’re honest. That’s something you don’t find much in Hollywood.”

  “I admit I don’t know anything about your work. I haven’t seen a movie since I went into the convent.”

  “How long were you in?”

  “Since 1925.”

  “You missed The Sheik.”