When Linda joined us, she was still shaking from what must have been a thoroughly unpleasant scene. She threw herself onto the sofa beside me and reached gratefully for a glass as Helsa offered a tray.
“I need this! Try it, Carol. It’s fruit and rum and a few other touches—something Monica Arlen invented a long time ago.” As Helsa went off, Linda spoke to Keith. “Would you like to help get lunch on the table?”
Keith followed Helsa willingly, always glad of action. The moment he’d gone, Linda burst into words.
“I’ve told Monica everything about why you’re here. I’ve never seen her quite like this. I really didn’t think your coming would throw her so badly. I had to promise to send you away as soon as possible. That was the only way to get her quiet. But don’t worry—I’m not going to do anything of the sort.” She thrust out her chin, looking as stubborn as Wally. “We’ll wait her out.”
I sipped my cool drink and said nothing. Desolation flowed through me in a tide I could no longer swim against.
Linda continued, speaking now to Jason. “I’ve told Carol that you know why she’s here. Maybe you’ll have some ideas that will help. It’s not as though she can’t earn her own living—and very well, given a little time. She’s a good writer and there are always loads of fascinating people to write about in Palm Springs.”
This hardly mattered if we weren’t allowed to stay at Smoke Tree House. Monica’s rejection—first when I’d seen her on the balcony, and now through Linda—left me despairing. Hurt went as deep as the fear. So much had been lost so quickly, and the fact that some of this was due to my own rosy illusions didn’t help. The ground had been cut from under me.
If Linda’s brother had anything useful to offer, he kept it to himself, and in spite of my devastation, I was aware of his continuing critical reserve. How I wished that Linda hadn’t arranged this uncomfortable meeting in the first place.
Helsa announced that lunch was served, and I tried to get myself in hand. Not for anything did I want Jason Trevor to guess what I was feeling. I had to meet his hostility with indifference and a pretense of poise, no matter how much I resented it.
The dining room was pleasant, with its long polished table, old silver, crystal, and woven place mats in an Indian design. It seemed agreeably cool, thanks to the tiled floor and a minimum of draperies, which gave it a feeling of air and space.
Not until we began with plates of clear soup did Jason return to Linda’s comment. “Do you write only about personalities, Mrs. Barclay?”
I didn’t trouble to correct the name, but Linda did it for me, all too quickly. With an effort I tried to speak as though what we were saying really mattered.
“I write about whatever interests me and might interest readers,” I told him abruptly.
“If you don’t have to concentrate on individuals, you might like to write about the Desert Museum,” he suggested. “Of course there have been a lot of articles published about it, but coming in with a fresh eye, you might find a new approach.”
He spoke courteously enough, but I heard the edge of challenge in his words, and I knew I hadn’t been mistaken. Linda’s brother seemed determined to carry his antagonism toward Monica Arlen over to me. Though my relationship to her hardly seemed a good enough reason.
I tried to answer him evenly. “I’ve written about museums before. New York museums, Washington museums. What is special about this one?”
His smile lifted the sharp lines around his mouth and lessened the severity of his look. “You’ll have to see for yourself. I suppose we feel it’s unique. People come from all over the world to study what we offer.”
He seemed to warm a little as he spoke, and I knew that his enthusiasm was genuine. This was what he cared about.
“What kind of museum is it, really?” I asked. “What’s its focus?”
“It has several. Natural history, of course—that’s my department. The physical elements of the area. Whatever lives and grows in the desert and nearby mountains, the forces that created it all. There’s a section on Indian arts too, since quite a few Indians live here. There was a curious land arrangement made here a long time ago. Alternate sections of land were given to Indians off the reservations, and these are still held by local Indians, who lease the land to homeowners and businesses. The result’s what’s been called our checkerboard.”
“The museum goes in for the visual and performing arts, too,” Linda said. “Paintings and sculpture, music, dance, film—there’s a lot going on during the season.”
“When is your season?” I asked.
“The cooler months. In summer the museum closes down.”
“If I’m here long enough, I’d like to see the museum,” I said, wondering if I would still be here in Smoke Tree House by tomorrow.
“Of course you’ll stay!” Linda said vehemently. “So don’t talk as if you were leaving. This—this rejection of Monica’s is temporary. You’ll see.”
It wasn’t temporary that her wealth was gone, and with it perhaps this very house.
“Are we moving somewhere else?” Keith asked, and I heard the familiar tension in his voice.
“You’re staying right here, honey,” Linda assured him, and he relaxed enough to regard the salad bowl Helsa had brought him with normal small-boy suspicion.
Jason noticed. “We’re great on avocados out here, so you’d better start being a Californian,” he said cheerfully.
The rest of the luncheon passed smoothly enough, with our talk kept safely innocuous. Yet all through it I was aware of trouble that lay beneath the surface merely being postponed. The crises were still waiting to erupt, and Keith and I were strangers without a home.
Keith finished his lemon ice and Helsa’s homemade cookies and asked to be excused. The plaintive Annabella was waiting for him on the terrace, with the white Persians in attendance, and he ran to join them.
When he’d gone, Jason put a direct question to me without beating around the bush. “Just so I get the legalities clear—are you free to take your son across the country without letting his father know?”
“I’m the custodial parent,” I told him. “That was the court’s decision, and since I waived any support from my husband, I can do as I please. No, Mr. Trevor, I haven’t broken any laws.”
“She’s just run away from the most awful brutality!” Linda burst out. “You’ve seen Keith’s face. His father did that.”
I didn’t want to go into any of this with a man I’d just met, who seemed to dislike me for no good reason. Yet I had to make my position clear.
“It’s not the law I’m afraid of,” I said. “It’s Owen Barclay. I want Keith to have a chance to get over what’s happened in this last terrible year. He must be able to grow up without being afraid all the time. Whether or not his father will allow that, I don’t know.”
“That’s why I told her to come here,” Linda said.
“What do you think your ex-husband will do?” Jason asked. It was the same question Linda had put to me, but coming from this man it seemed curt and too direct. Yet when I looked at him again, reluctantly, I saw for the first time the face of a sensitive, thoughtful man, who was regarding me with a good deal of doubt.
I tried to answer honestly. “Once he knows where we are, Owen will turn California upside down to get his son back. And that won’t take him long to discover. Laws don’t really matter to him.”
“Most fathers value their children,” Jason said quietly.
“Yes!” In spite of myself I sounded indignant and defensive, and I made an effort to lower my voice. “Especially a son. A son is a symbol! Of blood, of heritage, perhaps of immortality. Only I don’t care about all that. I only care about Keith. He’s a boy—a real live boy, not a symbol. And he’s been badly wounded in a lot of ways. Some of them don’t show on the surface.”
I didn’t know whether I’d convinced Jason Trevor or not, and I really didn’t care. Before I could say anything else, there was a startling interrupti
on.
A woman had appeared in the open doorway to the terrace.
With the light behind her, so that her face was in shadow, she looked as beautiful and enchanting as I remembered her from all those films I’d seen. Her hair was a reddish chestnut—the color of the wig she’d worn for Mirage—and it curled in gently just above her shoulders. Her pale gown caught the color of the smoke tree, with a slash of crimson ribbon at the waist, and it floated about her, lifting like mist as she moved. In one hand she held a delicate, long-stemmed blue iris made of silk, and on the other flashed the deep green of the famous intaglio ring—the emerald ring that Saxon Scott had given her all those years ago.
Monica Arlen had made up her mind, and she had stepped out of the past to join us.
FIVE
I heard Linda gasp and stole a look at her. She seemed both dumbfounded and entranced. Jason revealed nothing at all in the guarded expression he’d assumed, while I was too stunned to move.
It was Monica Arlen who held the stage. She was perfectly aware of what sunlight would do to the illusion she was creating, and she kept it carefully behind her, letting it backlight her as she approached an empty chair at the table. Jason rose and seated her, behaving admirably, as though her appearance in the role she was playing was an everyday matter. She placed the slightly shabby silk iris on the table beside her empty place, and when Helsa appeared from the kitchen she nodded regally.
“Just coffee, please, Helsa.”
Four words, yet the old, whispery magic of that voice was there, unmarred by age, untouched by time. She had made up her face delicately and with a skill she hadn’t forgotten, so that it didn’t seem a painted mask, but enhanced those famous cheekbones and brought out the sunken eyes that still slanted in their own exotic way. It was a masquerade—a mirage of her own, perhaps—but skillfully, beautifully carried off. I felt as though I’d been given a reprieve. Perhaps my old, exciting dreams needn’t be discarded after all.
Ralph appeared suddenly from the terrace and stood behind her. Without turning her head, she seemed to know he was there.
“Go away,” she told him. “I don’t need a keeper.”
He shrugged and went outside to talk to Keith. Monica continued as though there had been no interruption. She’d acknowledged Jason’s presence with no more than a remote “Thank you.”
“So you are Carol?” the lovely voice went on—quite ignoring the fact that she’d turned her back on me, wanted nothing to do with me until this very moment. I couldn’t speak, and I only nodded.
“I remember all those lovely letters you used to write me,” she continued. “I’m sorry I was such a poor correspondent. I’ve always preferred the spoken word. Linda tells me you’re a professional writer now. You showed promise even when you were very young. Did she tell you I still have every one of those letters of yours?”
“It’s true,” Linda said. “They’re all tied up in special boxes.”
I felt a lump rising in my throat, tears in my eyes. She could still weave the old enchantment, play on the emotions, and I was a sentimental captive to her charm. Besides, listening to her, watching her, a little of my own despair was abating.
Helsa brought coffee, and set a small blue pot of honey at Monica’s place. I watched, fascinated, as she stirred a scant teaspoon into her coffee with a patterned silver spoon. No one had found much to say since the Star had made her dramatic entrance. She didn’t seem to notice or mind. Perhaps she expected us to be stunned. Now she went on conversationally.
“Linda told me about that awful man you married, and how badly he’s treated you and your son. Men! You did the right thing in coming here to me. You must stay as long as you like, of course, and I’ll help you in any way I can.”
I managed a faint “Thank you.” Whatever had caused this surprising reversal, I was grateful for it; grateful for the fact that she clearly meant to remain at Smoke Tree House herself, however unrealistic this might now appear.
“So you’re a writer?” She was half musing to herself. “I admire writers, since I have none of that skill myself. We actors would never amount to anything if words weren’t put into our mouths. Are you going to do some writing now?”
“Yes, Aunt Monica,” I found myself answering like an obedient child. “I hope to get to work very soon.”
She nodded, and the smooth chestnut hair in its pageboy cut moved gently, if a little stiffly, above her shoulders. “And what are you going to write about?”
“Perhaps I’ll do a piece about the Desert Museum. Mr. Trevor has been telling me about it.”
“Ah, yes—the museum. I watched it being built right down there below my terrace. Though oddly enough, all I’ve seen of it are the roofs. They’ve wanted me to come to functions down there, of course, but I’ve refused all invitations. Someday I must visit it quietly, when no one knows. There’s something there I’d especially like to see. And I understand they’ve put in a perfect little theater.”
“It is perfect,” Linda said. “You’d love it.”
I sensed that Linda had fallen captive too, and I wondered if she might take this opportunity to mention Wally Davis’ bold scheme for bringing Arlen and Scott together again at the benefit. She said nothing, however.
“What else will you write about?” Monica looked at me directly.
I decided to be bold myself. “I’d like very much to do an interview with Saxon Scott, if it’s possible.”
I remembered that lift of her shoulders, the very tilt of her chin, as she bristled. The masquerade was nearly perfect, and I found myself wishing she might never have to face the light.
“Saxon? What nonsense! Ridiculous! He’s a very dull man by this time, I’m sure. He goes in for restaurants and golf courses. He’s forgotten what he once was. I have never forgotten—so why don’t you write about me?”
I stared at her in astonishment. “Do you mean you’d really let me? Would you talk to me?”
“I might. Providing you were willing to tell the truth.”
“Carol, what a wonderful idea!” Linda sounded suddenly excited. “Though it would make too long an article. Perhaps you’d need to turn it into a book.”
“Oh, of course a book,” Monica said complacently. “I’ve kept all my papers and photographs, and Linda has catalogued everything faithfully. So much has never been published—all sorts of memorabilia saved. The truth has never really been told. I’ve refused interviews for so many years that this will be fresh for readers.”
“You’ve never been forgotten. I’d be lucky to have the chance to write about you,” I said, sounding breathless and young to my own ears. To write about Monica Arlen had seemed something beyond my reach. The very thought of going back into that dreamworld legitimately enchanted me.
Jason made a sound that barely escaped being derisive. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to get back to work. Thanks for lunch, Linda. Good-bye, Miss Arlen. And I’m glad to know you, Miss—uh—Hamilton.”
He sounded more mocking than glad.
“I’d still like to see your museum when it’s possible,” I said, challenging his derision.
“I share it with Palm Springs.” He sounded as dry as his sister sometimes did. “Come down at ten tomorrow morning and bring your son. Just ask for me.”
I thanked him stiffly, and he bowed to Monica, who still seemed scarcely aware of him, lost in her own preoccupation with herself. When he’d gone out to his car, she picked up the iris and waved it gently by its long, wired stem.
“I wasn’t sure I had this anymore. But the moment I found it, I knew what I would do. You should have seen your face, Linda dear. You’ve been thinking of me as an old woman, haven’t you?”
“I’ve never thought of you as anything but Monica Arlen,” Linda said loyally. “You’ve been pretending to be old ever since I came here. So I’m glad you’ve shed your make-believe.”
She couldn’t have said it better, and Monica’s eyes, so deep-set now, yet still with that slightly
exotic slant, glowed with satisfaction.
“We’ll have a talk soon,” she promised me. “Perhaps when you come back from the museum tomorrow we can begin.”
I hoped she wouldn’t change her mind. Every writer of short pieces thinks of someday writing a book. That had always seemed far ahead to me. Now the moment was here and I wanted desperately to take the ambitious step. It would test me, stretch me out, demand everything I could bring to the task. Failure would not only be humiliating, but it could also mean a loss of income because of time invested in something I might not be ready to handle. There could also be disappointment for Monica, if she chose me as her biographer and I failed. She must have turned down a good many writers and publishers in the past. But none of these potential difficulties could lessen the surge of excitement that went through me. I wanted to write about Monica Arlen more than anything I’d ever thought of doing, and I was the right one to do it. If such a biography succeeded, the income from it might be something I could share with her—and that was an intoxicating thought. To help the woman who had been my idol for so long would be wonderfully satisfying.
She was still waving the silken iris that had been her signature in the old days, holding it delicately by its stem, so that the blue petals moved back and forth in a gesture I’d first seen when she’d used it in a picture. My imagination leaped ahead.
“We could put your iris on the jacket,” I said dreamily. “And on the inside cloth cover. Stamped in gold on azure blue cloth. Perhaps we could even use it as a symbol at the opening of each new chapter.”
“What?” Monica had been lost in her own make-believe and came back to the present querulously, the role of her younger self slipping a little. “What are you talking about?”
Linda laughed. “Carol’s already printing the book about you!”
“I know,” I said. “But that’s the way it is when a really wonderful idea comes along. I begin to see everything about it all at once—like a mosaic that’s already putting itself together.”
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