“Why did he hit you, Todd?” she asked, already knowing the answer. “It was because you made a remark about me, wasn’t it? How successful you were with me—isn’t that right?”
Todd Blakely’s face flushed. He could not find an answer for this beautiful woman who stood in front of him. Her blue-green eyes seemed to flash fire, and at last he mumbled, “Well, I’m afraid that’s true, Priscilla. I always did have a big mouth, and I apologize to you.”
“It doesn’t matter, Todd, although for your own sake I think you ought to be more careful. I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask that you let Jason stay on, no matter if it does hurt your pride. It wouldn’t be fair to do it any other way.”
Todd Blakely started to argue, but he saw the determination in Priscilla’s eyes. “All right, Priscilla,” he said quietly. “I was out of line. You can tell your friend he can stay.”
“Thank you, Todd. I was sure you’d see it my way.”
Leaving the star’s dressing room, she passed by her own door, where there was a large silver star. She stopped and looked at it for a moment and muttered, “The silver star. That’s what I thought I wanted, and now look what kind of people I’m working with.” Angry and disturbed, she went to the bunkhouse and found Easy and Peter sitting on the front porch. “Is Jason inside?”
“Yeah. He’s packing his clothes,” Peter said bitterly. “And I’ll be next. I’m going to black both of Blakely’s eyes when I see him!”
“Save a part for me!” Easy said.
Seeing they were both angry, Priscilla said quickly, “It’s all right. I’ve talked to Blakely.”
Peter brightened up. “You mean Jase isn’t fired?”
“Go tell him to come outside,” Priscilla said. She waited while Peter dodged inside, and when Jason came outside with a stormy look on his face, she went up to him at once. “I’m sorry about what happened. It was nice of you to defend me.”
“I should have busted his head!” Jason muttered. “Or shot him!”
“You’ve got to understand,” Priscilla said quickly. “That’s just the kind of man he is. He doesn’t mean anything by it.”
“Then he ought to change his ways.”
“I doubt if he’ll do that, but he has agreed to let you stay on.”
Jason stared at her suspiciously. “You didn’t go begging him, did you?”
“No, I didn’t beg him! I told him he’d have to agree or I’d give him a black eye.”
Suddenly Jason laughed, and Priscilla reached out her hand. “Please stay, Jase. I know it’s hard for you, but I don’t think you’ll have any more trouble with him.”
Jason Ballard stood there looking at this girl he loved so deeply. He had been ready to leave and now said quietly, “It might be better if I left anyway, Priscilla. It’s hard being around you all the time and never being able to be with you.”
Priscilla dropped her eyes. He was holding her hand, and she said finally, “I wish you’d stay, Jason. I really do. Will you?”
He could refuse this woman nothing. “All right, Priscilla. I’ll stay,” he said. He was still holding her hands and said, “How about we go get a hamburger?”
She threw her head back, and her honey-colored hair swung around her back as she laughed up at him. “All right. That sounds fine to me.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
A Kiss in the Dark
At the end of February, work began on The Dangers of Darlene. No one was more delighted than Peter Winslow. He was hired by the studio to be in charge of any filming that required the use of automobiles. Since there would be several crashes and daring rescues, Peter walked around on a cloud just thinking about it.
Jolie was happy for Peter. She stayed busy doing the costume work but took on the additional job of a new position called a “Script Girl,” in which she was required to see that all the actors had the final edition of the script in their hands the day before shooting. The new job kept her very busy, but she was pleased with her promotion and the extra earnings it provided. She was even more pleased with the tutoring sessions that she had three times a week with Tom Ziegler.
Ziegler appeared regularly at Mrs. Bell’s boardinghouse, and Jolie easily retained permission to use the small library room for a schoolroom. There were only four boarders at the present time, and all of them went to their jobs during the day, so at three o’clock in the afternoons on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays Ziegler showed up promptly. He came a little early on Friday, and when Jolie greeted him, he said, “I brought some new books that I think you might like.”
“Come in, Tom,” Jolie said. She led him into the library and watched as he upended the canvas book bag that he carried and began to pull them out.
Selecting one, he said, “I think it’s time you started on some literature.”
“Literature?” Jolie assumed a doubtful look and shook her head. She was wearing a yellow dress with green polka dots and a high neckline with a small collar of white. The short, puffy sleeves also had a small band of white just above the elbow, and the waist had a wide green belt cinched in tightly. She had just combed her hair out so that it hung in ringlets over her forehead and swept the back of her collar. She looked fresh and clean, but at the word “literature,” she appeared to balk. “I don’t see any point in studying things like that. They’re just silly stories!”
“Well, I thought we might begin with poetry,” Tom said.
“That’s even worse!” Jolie answered. “Why don’t we just do math? I’m good at that.”
“Well, there’s more to the world than a column of figures.”
Ziegler had grown a little more comfortable in Jolie’s presence, but still there was a shyness in him. Though he was reticent to talk about himself, Jolie had found out much about his life by questioning him a lot. Ziegler had been raised by his widowed mother in a sheltered world. He attended a small college while still living at home. He had never been away from home, nor had he much experience in the world.
When she had asked him what he wanted to do in life, he had replied, “I want to be a lawyer.” And when she asked why, he said, “Well, I think I could help people.”
Jolie had little experience with legal affairs, but she had shaken her head and said, “I don’t see that lawyers can help people much. Maybe a doctor might be better.”
Now she watched as he opened a thin blue volume and settled back to listen. He had a pleasant baritone voice, which sounded a little strange coming out of such a thin, lanky body, but he read well.
He thumbed through the slender volume, and finally his eyes lit up with a pleasant glow. “Here’s one I’ve always liked,” he said. “It was written by a man called Thomas Campion, who lived back in the sixteenth century. The name of it is ‘There Is a Garden in Her Face.’ ” He began to read the poem with obvious pleasure.
There is a garden in her face,
Where roses and white lilies grow;
A heavenly paradise is that place,
Wherein all pleasant fruits do flow.
There cherries grow, which none may buy
Till “Cherry Ripe!” themselves do cry.
Those cherries fairly do enclose
Of orient pearl a double row;
Which when her lovely laughter shows,
They look like rosebuds filled with snow.
Yet them nor peer nor prince can buy,
Till “Cherry ripe!” themselves do cry.
Her eyes like angels watch them still;
Her brows like bended bows do stand,
Threatening with piercing frowns to kill
All that attempt with eye or hand
Those sacred cherries to come nigh,
Till “Cherry ripe!” themselves do cry.
Looking up he seemed to have been caught by the rhythms of his own voice. “Did you like that, Jolie?”
“It’s pretty, but I don’t understand a word of it. What does it mean?”
“Why, it’s about a lovely young girl. There is a flo
wer garden in her face where roses and white lilies grow. That simply means she had a lovely, fair complexion with rosy lips. And then the poet says, ‘A heavenly paradise is that place, wherein all pleasant fruits do grow.’ You have to remember that this isn’t a vegetable garden, but a beautiful flower garden. And notice the last two lines, which are what we call a refrain. ‘There cherries grow.’ What do you suppose that would be, Jolie?” He watched her as she thought hard.
Finally she said, “Cherries? I suppose that would be her lips.”
“Exactly right. And you have to know one thing about this poem. The street-sellers used to wander through the streets of London selling cherries, and everywhere they went they would call out at the top of their lungs, ‘Cherry ripe!’ which meant they had cherries for sale. Now look at these two lines. ‘There cherries grow, which none may buy, till “Cherry ripe!” themselves do cry.’ ”
Leaning forward, Jolie placed her elbow on the table and her chin in her palm. She stared at the words for a long moment, reading them over silently, moving her lips. Then abruptly she straightened up and said, “Oh, I know! ’Till “Cherry ripe!” themselves do cry.’ No one can kiss her until she says it’s all right.”
“That’s very good! Very good, indeed! Now look at the next stanza. It just simply describes the beauty of the young woman. ‘Those cherries fairly do enclose, of orient pearl a double row . . .’ ”
“That’s her teeth, isn’t it, Tom?” She read the next line. “ ‘Which when her lovely laughter shows, they look like rosebuds filled with snow.’ Oh, that’s pretty!” she said. “ ‘Like rosebuds filled with snow.’ I can just see it.”
“Well, that’s what poetry’s supposed to do,” Tom said. “It is a lovely image, isn’t it? What do you make of the last stanza?”
Again Jolie read in a whisper the lines of the last stanza. “ ‘Her eyes like angels watched them still.’ That’s her lips, isn’t it? ‘Her brows like bended bows do stand, threatening with piercing frowns to kill all that attempt with eye or hand those sacred cherries to come nigh, till “Cherry ripe!” themselves do cry.’ ” She looked up and laughed. “Why, that’s easy! Her eyes are guarding her lips, and her brows are like a bow with an arrow, and she’ll shoot anybody who tries to kiss her until she says it’s all right.”
Tom Ziegler nodded his approval. “It’s going to be easy to teach you literature. You have a flair for it. Most people wouldn’t make anything of that poem.”
“Why, it’s real pretty. I didn’t think any poetry could be like that. Do you think he was in love with the girl?”
“I don’t doubt it a minute,” Tom said, looking at Jolie. “They were real lovers back in those days.”
“Teach me some more, Tom,” she said. “Find another one about a beautiful young girl.”
“That shouldn’t be hard,” Ziegler smiled. “Seems like poets like to write about pretty young girls.”
For over an hour Tom moved back and forth through the book, reading and then explaining several poems. Jolie was delighted by how much she liked it. “Can I keep the book and see if I can figure out some for myself?”
“That’s why I brought it,” Ziegler said. He handed it over to her and opened the front page. At the top, in strong script, was written, “To Jolie, with warm regards. Tom Ziegler.”
“Oh, it’s a present!”
“Yes, you just had a birthday, so this is a belated birthday gift.”
“Why . . . thank you, Tom. Come on. I’ll buy you a chocolate soda down at the drugstore to reward you for being such a good teacher.” She stood up and Ziegler stood also, looking a little flustered. She hesitated, then stared at him. “What’s the matter?”
“Well, I don’t know. Mr. Winslow might not like it. He just hired me to teach you.”
Cocking her head to one side, Jolie studied the young man carefully. She had been forced to become a student of men to protect herself, and she had been somewhat puzzled by Tom Ziegler. In the long hours that they had spent together, not once had he tried to hold her hand, or kiss her, or even say anything that could be construed as improper. He had been a perfect gentleman. Though he was not as dashing as some of the actors she had seen at Imperial Pictures, he was pleasant looking, tall, well dressed, and highly educated. She sensed an uncertainty in him, and she stepped closer and put her hand on his arm. “Are you afraid of me, Tom?”
Ziegler, acutely aware of her grip on his arm, flushed. “Why do you ask that?”
“You seem to be. Have you ever had a girlfriend?”
The flush on his cheeks grew brighter, and Ziegler said, “Well, no, I haven’t.”
“That’s odd. How old are you? Twenty? Haven’t you ever even kissed a girl?”
Ziegler cleared his throat and shifted his feet with embarrassment. When she saw that he did not need to answer, she laughed and tugged at his arm. “Well, come on. I promise I won’t bite you.” He picked up some of the books, stuffed them into the satchel, and as the two left the house, she said, “You need a few lessons if you’re ever going to romance a young lady. Maybe if you can teach me poetry, I can give you some lessons in that.”
Tom Ziegler was stunned by the young woman’s outgoing manner. He muttered, “I guess I could use it.” He turned to smile at her and shrugged, saying, “I guess I’m as far behind in love and courtship as you are in algebra and geometry.”
She laughed and said, “Well, we’ll teach each other then, Tom.”
****
“No, it won’t do. We’ll have to shoot the scene again!”
Priscilla had just gone through a romantic scene with Blakely that called for him to embrace her in a half-reclining position. He had kissed her thoroughly and gone even further than Lem, the director, had told him, but for the third time he had shook his head and frowned, saying that it wasn’t good enough.
Priscilla glanced around at the cameraman and the light man, who were grinning broadly, and shoved Blakely away. “It’s good enough for me, Todd.” Looking toward the director for help, Priscilla said, “What do you think, Stan?”
Lem, who was a perfectionist, had been satisfied with the first take. He was well aware, as were all the onlookers, what Todd Blakely was doing. “I think that’ll do fine, Todd. It was a good scene.”
“Well, I could do better, I think.” He turned with a slight smile toward Priscilla and said, “By the time we get through with this picture, there are enough romantic scenes that we’ll be able to do it much better.”
“I’m sure we will,” Priscilla said dryly, glancing at Lem.
“Let’s take a break,” Lem said, nodding to the crew. “Be back in thirty minutes.”
Leaving the set, Priscilla started to make her way to her dressing room when she saw Jason Ballard, who had been watching. For some reason this troubled her, and she could feel the blush creep into her cheeks. However, she walked up to him and said, “Hello, Jason.”
“Hello, Priscilla.” He stood there looking down at her from his great height, and his eyes were unhappy. He spoke quietly so that no one could hear except her. “I can’t stand seeing that man maul you. Why do you let him do it?”
“It’s part of the making of a picture. It doesn’t mean anything, Jason.”
“Then why did he have to do it three times? You’re crazy, Priscilla, if you think he’s just doing it for his art’s sake!”
“Jason, you don’t know what you’re talking about,” Priscilla snapped. She was angry because she knew that Ballard was exactly right, and she herself had felt uncomfortable and disgusted. “You take care of your horses, and I’ll take care of Todd Blakely.”
“I can see how you were taking care of it. It seems to me you rather like it.”
“Jason, don’t say anything more!”
Grabbing her arms, he pulled her forward. “I’m going to say a lot more!” He began to speak plainly and bluntly, telling her, “You’ve got to stop letting this sort of thing happen to you, Priscilla.”
“I’m not th
e director! I didn’t write this plot! It’s in the script!”
“So anything that’s in the script, you’ll do? Is that it?”
“Yes. As long as I’m an actress, I have to do what the director tells me to do, and what the script calls for.”
“Well, suppose the script calls for you to get into bed with him? Would you do that, too?”
Before she could think, Priscilla’s anger flared up and she slapped Jason’s face. At once remorse struck her, and she said in a horrified tone, “Jason, I’m . . . I’m sorry. . . .” But he had turned and stalked away, his back stiffly upright.
Priscilla looked around and saw that people were pointedly ignoring the little scene, but they were aware of what had gone on. Todd Blakely was watching also. He smiled at her and walked across the set toward her.
“A little trouble with your old friend? Too bad. I suppose he was upset about the scene between us.”
“Yes, he was.” Priscilla hesitated, then added, “And so was I, Todd. Those other two takes weren’t necessary.”
He ran a well-manicured hand through his meticulously groomed hair, then said, “I suppose not, but I make chances wherever I can. You won’t have anything to do with me off the set, so I’ll have to convince you on the set that I’m the right man for you.”
Priscilla gave Blakely a disgusted look, shook her head, and then left. She walked out of the studio feeling discouraged. Hailing a cab, she went directly home. The work at the studio had left her so tired that she decided not to go out for supper.
She had already dressed for bed when a loud knock on her door startled her. Pulling on a pink silk robe, she went to the door and cracked it open. “Who is it? Oh, it’s you, Peter.” She opened the door and stepped aside. Seeing her brother’s troubled face, she asked, “What’s wrong?”
“It’s Jase,” Peter said with disgust. “After he left the set today, he went out and got drunk and punched a fellow out. He caused such a ruckus they threw him in jail.”
“Jail? Oh no, Peter!”
“He wouldn’t talk about it, but I heard how you had a fight with him on the set. What’s it all about, sis?”
The Silver Star Page 19
