She did not answer right away but then slowly said, “It’s my father. He died at his post at the mission station in Africa.”
“Oh, Dorothy, I’m so sorry!” The words came quickly, and when he put out his hand, she put both of hers in it. He held them for a moment and said, “You shouldn’t be alone. What are you doing out wandering the streets?” Then his brow furrowed and he asked with a look of deep concern—almost disbelief, “Andrew didn’t go to Sacramento, did he?”
Dorothy nodded without speaking. Her throat had choked up, and she could not say a word.
Now Nolan sounded irritated as he said quickly, “Well, come along. We’ll find someplace to talk.”
Dorothy knew she should not, but she did not resist as he led her to the car, helped her in, closed the door, then walked around and got in beside her. Without a word he drove to the beach, a fairly empty stretch with only two or three figures farther down the shore taking their morning walk.
Dorothy got out as he came around to help her, and they made their way down a narrow pathway to the beach. They walked along in silence, watching the waves crash onto the shore, feeling the salty tang of the wind whipping off the water. Fleecy clouds scudded across a hard blue sky, and the raucous cries of sea gulls wheeling overhead punctuated the soothing sounds of water and wind.
Finally they reached a large log turned gray by the passage of time and smoothed by the continual lapping of the waves. “Here. Sit down, Dorothy.” She sat down numbly, and Nolan sat beside her. “Tell me about it,” he said gently.
At first she spoke haltingly. Sensing his genuine care, she began to speak more freely, even recounting some of her fond memories of her father. She did not look at him, but he was there, and he listened. As she spoke, she saw a school of dolphins arching their backs, their fins outlined against the sky. She paused and watched until they had made their way across the horizon, and then she turned and attempted a smile. “Thank you, Nolan.”
Nolan shrugged his shoulders. “Andrew shouldn’t have left you alone.” Then, as if realizing that was the wrong thing to say, he suddenly stood up. “Come along. Let’s walk some more.”
“I’ll get sand in my shoes.”
“Well, we’ll take our shoes off, then.”
“We can’t do that.”
“Why can’t we?” He reached down, pulled off his shoes and socks, knotted the strings, and tossed them over his shoulder. “Here. Give me yours. I can carry them in my hip pocket.”
Dorothy stared at him, then hesitantly she took off her shoes. She wore stockings that came below her knees and took those off, too. She stood up, and they began to walk down the beach. The surf came crashing in, and at times they had to scamper away to keep from getting their clothing wet.
Finally, after they turned and made their way back to the car, Nolan said, “Do you need to be back right away?”
“No. Not until suppertime. Helen Teague is caring for the children.”
“I want to show you something you might like.”
Curiously she followed. They put their socks and shoes back on, got in the car, and he drove down the shoreline to a marina. When they got out, he led her to a small skiff with a single mast moored at the end of a dock. “This is mine. Do you like boat rides?” he asked.
“I’ve never been in a sailing boat,” Dorothy said as she looked at the small boat rocking gently in the water.
Grabbing her arm, Nolan smiled and said, “Climb aboard and let me have the privilege of giving you your first ride.”
She gladly took his hand and allowed him to help her into the skiff. And for the next two hours Dorothy Winslow enjoyed herself immensely. The gentle warmth of the sunshine and the cool ocean breezes provided the balm she needed to soothe the hurt of long-pent-up feelings and her immediate grief, and she felt enormous gratitude for Nolan’s kindness. She sat in the prow while Nolan sat in the stern, holding the tiller in one hand and shifting the sail from time to time as he brought the small craft about. The wind caught her hair and tossed it wildly. She laughed with abandon at her futile attempts to hold it in place.
“Forget about that! Real sailors don’t mind wind in their hair.”
The sea was fairly smooth, and the gentle rocking motion of the boat over the swells was a delight.
“So, tell me, Nolan, where did you learn to sail?” Dorothy asked as she leaned forward, turning her head and gazing at the distant shoreline.
Nolan sighed deeply and watched Dorothy, her silky hair now resting gently on her shoulders. “When I was about ten years old, I visited with my uncle who owned a small orchard near San Francisco. The current up there is similar to here, and we would spend as much free time as possible on his small sailing boat. My uncle at one time served with the merchant marines, and the tales he would tell of far-off lands brought out the adventurer in me. Before the summer was up he had me sailing on my own, and I have loved it ever since.”
Dorothy was completely relaxed now. Finally she sighed, “I’d better be getting back, Nolan.”
“All right.” He swung the tiller about and expertly brought the small craft in. As it approached the shore, he judged the distance accurately and loosed the sail so that the boat headed back to the dock at the marina. Leaping out, he pulled the prow up and held out his hand. After he helped Dorothy onto the dock, he tied the boat up and fastened the sails down.
They were quiet on the drive back to the parsonage. Dorothy wondered at just how comfortable she felt in Nolan Cole’s presence, even when neither of them were saying a word. Finally, as they pulled up in front of her home, Dorothy said, “I’m glad you found me, Nolan. I needed someone to talk to. You’ve been a great help.”
He didn’t answer for a moment, then said, “Have you remembered the meeting of the youth committee at the church this evening?”
“Yes, but I’m not going. I don’t think I could handle that just now.”
“Oh, but I think you should. You need to keep busy. It’ll just be a short one, and early enough that we could take the kids out afterward and buy them hamburgers. What do you say?”
“Oh no, Nolan, I couldn’t do that!”
“Of course you could!” he said firmly, jumping out of the car and running around to Dorothy’s side. He said no more, simply helped her out of the car and escorted her up the front walk.
Helen met them as they came through the front door, and she greeted Nolan respectfully. She had known him for a long time, since she was also a faithful member of Faith Temple. “Well, you two look like you’ve been blown about by the wind.”
“So we have, Helen. Have the children behaved for you?” Dorothy asked.
“With a little help from me they did,” Helen said, smiling. “Do you want me to stay and fix supper?”
“No, that won’t be necessary. Thank you so much for your help today.”
As Helen got her coat on, Dorothy pulled some bills out of her purse and handed them to her, saying again, “Thank you, Helen, for coming so quickly.”
But Helen refused the offer of payment. “Not this time, Dorothy. I really wanted to be here for you today—simply as a friend.”
Dorothy gave the dear lady a hug and thanked her again; then Nolan offered to drive Helen home. “I’ll be right with you,” he said as the older lady stepped out the door and headed down the front walk. Speaking quietly, he told Dorothy, “You get the kids ready, and soon as I take Helen home I’ll come back in time to get you all to the church. Then we’ll go out after the meeting and find a good spot to eat unhealthy hamburgers and greasy fries.” He flashed a quick smile.
Another weight that had burdened her heart lifted from Dorothy. She had been dreading spending the evening alone, and now she smiled. “All right. I’ll get them ready.”
An hour later, Nolan returned and the four of them drove to the church. The children went to the nursery while Dorothy and Nolan took part in a brief meeting of the youth committee. It was only six-thirty when the meeting dismissed, and half an
hour later they were perched on stools in a small diner. Phillip loudly ordered his “hang-ga-ber,” drawing smiles from a number of nearby patrons, and Amelia asked for hot dogs. They smeared mustard liberally on them and downed them with gusto.
“I think those kids would eat anything,” Nolan grinned. He reached over and tousled Phillip’s hair and said, “Don’t eat so fast. Nobody’s going to take it away from you.”
“These are good hamburgers,” Dorothy said. “They make them better at a cafe than I can make them at home.”
“That’s the old stale grease they use,” Nolan said and winked.
“Oh, don’t be silly.”
When they had finished their meal, they walked down one of the streets for a time looking in all the windows, then they got in the car and drove back to the parsonage. Dorothy started to say good-night, but it was early and she still dreaded being alone. “Come in and have a cup of coffee, Nolan.”
“I think I could use it, and these kids have demanded a story.”
Dorothy led the way in, and soon they were all in the living room. Nolan sat cross-legged on the floor and began telling the children a story. After a time, his eye lit on the gramophone, and he said, “Do you know how that thing got invented?”
Dorothy looked up with surprise. “Why, Edison invented it, didn’t he?”
“Well, more or less. He made a machine that would record some kind of sound, but actually it was all on cylinders, inconvenient and expensive. A fellow named Emile Berliner should have gotten the credit. He was the one who invented that flat disk and a way to duplicate them.” He went into a long explanation of how the master record was made on a disk of zinc, and finally said, “Not everybody likes gramophones.”
“Why, I think they’re wonderful. My favorite is Enrico Caruso.”
“Well, I suppose Caruso liked it. He made a fortune off of making records, but did you ever hear of John Philip Sousa?”
“You mean the man who wrote all those marches?”
“That’s him. He wrote ‘Stars and Stripes Forever.’ I think that brought him about three hundred thousand dollars, but he thought phonograph records were awful.”
“Why would he think that?”
“He thought music should come from the soul, and a machine doesn’t have a soul. I remember he got pretty rabid about it. He said mothers would be recording their lullabies on a record and making babies listen to them.”
“That’s foolish!”
“Sure is! Myself, I’ve got quite a collection. Maybe you’d like to borrow some of them.” He began to name off the records he had.
“I love music,” Dorothy commented.
They talked about all kinds of music, until the children grew cranky. Dorothy picked up Phillip and said, “I’d forgotten the time. I’ve got to put them to bed.” The children were so sleepy they went without protest.
When she came back she found Nolan standing beside the gramophone, going through the flat disks reading the labels. “You have a good selection, Dorothy.”
Turning from the gramophone, he said, “I guess I’d better get going.” He stepped over to Dorothy and took her hands in his. “Dorothy, I can tell you loved your father greatly. I’m so sorry about your loss.”
Their day together had helped Dorothy keep her mind off of her father’s death, but Nolan’s words spoken so gently, and the compassion in his eyes, brought her loss back to her with a keenness she could not deny. She dropped her head, struggling against the sudden emotion, but the tears began to flow, and she found herself weeping uncontrollably.
Nolan Cole put his arms around her as the wave of grief overwhelmed her. There was a fierce quality to her weeping, and she no longer cared if someone saw her or heard her. She held on to the lapels of his coat and pressed her face against his chest. His arms around her were strong and warm, and he said nothing, but she could feel his sympathy.
Finally the storm passed. Nolan released her, and when she looked up, he suddenly leaned forward and kissed her tearstained cheek and whispered, “I’ll be thinking of you. Call me if you need me.” He released her and quietly left the house.
Dorothy heard the front door close, and in the sudden silence of the room, the sense of loss and loneliness threatened to overwhelm her again. She quickly turned out the lights and fled down the hallway to the bedroom. After she had bathed, put on her gown, and lay down in the darkness, she let the events of the day flow through her mind. She remembered how miserable she was when she had left the house that morning, and how Nolan had lifted her spirits with his tender concern.
“He took it all away—all my grief,” she whispered. A thought came to her very clearly, which she did not speak aloud. Nolan Cole is more aware of a woman’s needs than Andrew. How strange! A man who’s never had a wife but who knows what a woman craves and needs. . . .
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
A Little Peace of Mind
Priscilla straightened the hat on her head and examined it critically in the mirror. Her thoughts suddenly flashed back to the days when she was an unhappy girl at her home in Wyoming. She had plastered her walls with pictures of famous actors and actresses and read every scrap of news about them she could get. She had been so desperately certain that if she could become an actress, then all the world would be bright and exciting, and her happiness would be complete.
“Well, I’ve got it. The thing I always wanted,” she muttered, pushing the hat around. It had cost more than any outfit she had ever bought while she was growing up, but somehow she took no pleasure in it. It was a yellow and white taffeta hat with a broad brim and white ostrich plumes, and it matched her dress perfectly. Still, she found herself feeling slightly depressed and listless as she applied a little powder to her cheeks. She wondered, as she often had, if she had missed something in life, but could not determine what it was. As she thought of her future, she tried to picture more success on the stage, which meant more money and more hats. Any hats she wanted—but the thought brought no thrill with it.
Disturbed by her thoughts, she rose, put on a light cream-colored jacket, and left the house feeling strangely deflated. When she arrived at the studio, she went through the scenes that Lem had planned, performing mechanically without feeling greatly excited by it.
Right after the last scene, Todd came to her and said, “Come along. We’re going to celebrate.”
“Celebrate what?” Todd was always finding something to celebrate, and she had told him once that he would celebrate the birth of a groundhog if nothing else offered itself.
This time, however, he was practically glowing with excitement, but he said only, “I’ll tell you after dinner if you’re a good girl.”
“All right, Todd.”
They went to the Silver Slipper, one of the most expensive restaurants in Los Angeles, and Todd ordered an entree for the two of them with an exotic foreign name. The waiter brought it out on a silver platter, carefully setting it on a stand by their table, and with a practiced hand, he poured a clear liquid over the entree, then lit a match to it. The whole dish flared with a beautiful blue flame.
Priscilla watched this little drama with delight as the flame died and the waiter began to lay the portions out on their plates. “If my dad were here,” she laughed, “he would have jumped up and thrown a bucket of water over that thing.”
“He must be quite a man, your dad.”
“The best man I ever knew,” Priscilla said quietly. “He and Mother have had the happiest marriage I’ve ever known. They would do anything for each other. Not a selfish bone in either one of them. Not like me,” she ended glumly.
“Hey! Stop putting yourself down!” Blakely protested. He reached over and squeezed her hand. “Enjoy your meal first,” he said. “Then I’ll tell your fortune.”
Smiling briefly, Priscilla shook her head. “I don’t believe in fortune-telling.”
“You’ll believe this one,” Todd said confidently. “Now, eat hearty.”
Priscilla enjoyed her meal bu
t could not work up any intense curiosity about Todd’s surprise. It was probably a trip to Sacramento or San Diego. He was constantly pressuring her to accompany him on one of these trips—which she never did.
Finally, as she leaned back and sipped her cup of coffee, she said, “Well, let’s have it.”
“All right, here it is, Priscilla. I’ve had an offer from Carl Maxwell.”
Despite herself, Priscilla was impressed. Carl Maxwell was one of the two or three producers on Broadway who could make a star out of a waitress or a mechanic. Leaning forward, she asked, “What sort of a play is it?”
“That’s another surprise. It’s by Terrence Block.” Todd grinned broadly when he saw her reaction. “I thought that would interest you. Block’s written three hit plays in a row, and Maxwell tells me this one is better than any of them.”
“I’m glad for you, Todd. I suppose you’ll be leaving for New York as soon as the serial is completed.”
“Not quite. I have another serial to finish, but you haven’t heard the real surprise yet. I’ll tell you that when I get you home, if you treat me right, that is.”
“Don’t bank on that,” Priscilla said dryly. Blakely had tried every possible means to get himself invited into her apartment with no success whatsoever. Now Priscilla leaned back and shook her head. “Why do you keep after me, Todd? Women flock all around you. You could have almost anyone you want, and most of them are prettier than I am.”
Blakely smiled and shook his head. “I guess it’s the case of wanting what you can’t have. When I was a boy, all my parents had to do to make me do something was to tell me I couldn’t do it.”
“Sounds just like you,” Priscilla laughed. “But when I say you can’t come into my apartment, I mean it. And you might as well make up your mind to it.”
“Well, maybe that’s part of the surprise,” Blakely said.
He was a fine-looking man, his face not even lined by the dissipation she knew characterized his lifestyle. His features were smooth, and he had an attractive cast to his long lips. He was one of those men whose features fit together perfectly. Almost too perfectly, she thought.
The Silver Star Page 24
