Emerald

by Whitney, Phyllis A. ;

  I heard the same intensity, the same absorption in his voice that I’d heard in Linda’s, and a curious notion struck me.

  “You and your sister are alike in a lot of ways, aren’t you—even though you’re so different.”

  He looked straight at me, and for the first time I saw the burning quality of his dark eyes. There were banked fires smoldering in Jason Trevor, well concealed most of the time, but hot and deep. And sometimes angry. I wondered why he should be angry with me, however polite on the surface. I’d felt this yesterday, and it was still there, even though his lighter manner disguised it.

  “What do you mean by that?” he asked.

  “Only that Linda lives in a make-believe world. And perhaps you do too. There’s not necessarily anything wrong with that—I know I do it myself. I suppose it depends on the degree. We’re all constantly imitating what’s real. Interpreting, according to our own viewpoints.”

  “With a few differences,” he said coolly, moving on to the next room. “At least you and I go to the real thing for our inspiration. But that world up on the mountain—Monica Arlen’s world—is dead. It’s over and done with, and there’s no point in trying to resurrect it. It always was artificial, even in its heyday.”

  Part of what he said was right, of course, yet he missed something important, and I didn’t know how to make it clear to him. Or even to myself. Magic is always hard to explain to someone who doesn’t believe. My world and Jason’s were very far apart.

  “Right now,” he went on, “I’d like to interest you in writing about this museum.”

  “I’d like to try,” I said. “I don’t entirely agree with what you say about Monica and that life she used to live, but that doesn’t matter. I want to do some short pieces, even while I work on the book. Perhaps the museum will make a good place to start. Let me get an overview first. Then I’ll come back again for more detail. Of course there will be people I must interview, questions I’ll need to ask.”

  “Right. When you’re ready. I’ll help set up what I can for you.” He sounded stiff again, as though he doubted my ability to cross from Monica’s world into his. Perhaps I doubted it a little myself.

  As we continued, I became more and more interested in the scope of the exhibits. There were displays of basketry and pottery from Indian artists, old and new. There were spacious galleries of paintings, and lovely outdoor sculpture gardens and courts, one of which was named for its donor, Frank Sinatra.

  Now and then I made notes, mainly about things I wanted to visit again.

  “Before you can really appreciate what we are trying to do, you need to get out into the desert itself,” Jason said.

  “I’ve already driven through it from the other side of Mount San Jacinto.”

  “That’s not the same. Do you ride?”

  “I’ve been on a horse a few times. Why?”

  “That’s the best way to see the desert. And the Indian canyons up the mountain too. Not in a car. Not even on foot, though I’m all for backpacking and hiking too.”

  “How would I go about this?”

  In response to my direct question, he retreated suddenly, and when he didn’t follow through I let it go. Though why he’d dropped the subject so abruptly, I didn’t understand.

  “Let’s go downstairs,” he suggested. “I want to show you the Annenberg Theater.”

  The broad stairway with its bright tangerine carpeting was like a flash of sunset against the desert browns. One wall was again built of lava rock, with its subtle tones, while the opposite stair wall echoed ripples of sand in concrete. Overhead, as we made the landing turn down, a stunning chandelier seemed to shoot stars from its glowing heart in a burst of tiny, stemmed bulbs. On every hand the senses were stimulated, pleased, satisfied.

  “We’ll need to have the lights turned on in the theater,” Jason said. “I’ll find a guard.”

  When we stepped through to the rear of the small auditorium, however, we found that lights were already on, so that the area glowed with soft color. Again, browns and beiges echoed the desert, made even richer in contrast by curved rows of seats done in bright tangerine fabric. Enclosing the outer aisles, soft green draperies shut in the theater, suggesting the green of this oasis that was Palm Springs.

  The jewel of the entire setting was of course the stage—small and intimate, framed in neutral colors that would allow the lighting to bring it to life.

  Now the stage area too was lighted, and two men stood talking below its edge, one of them Linda’s friend, Wally Davis, the other Saxon Scott.

  “Let’s go back,” Jason said quickly. “We can come here another time.”

  I stopped him. “Please wait. If I do a book about Monica, Mr. Scott has to be part of it. I mustn’t lose this chance to meet him.”

  Reluctantly, Jason followed me down the slanting aisle.

  Wally saw us first and his manner grew even more enthusiastic. “Wonderful, Carol, do come and meet my boss. We were just talking about plans for the benefit.”

  Saxon turned and even though I’d glimpsed him at the restaurant, I couldn’t help my young, thrilled reaction all over again. This man had been my first crush, and something in me hadn’t forgotten. His pale hair seemed dazzling above a tanned, unlined face. Though heavier than the young man I remembered, he looked athletic and fit, as men were apt to in this outdoor community. The slight smile he gave me was polite and impersonal. He must long ago have learned to be wary with strangers.

  “This is Carol Hamilton,” Wally said. “And of course you know Jason.”

  I took the brown hand Saxon held out to me, not quite believing. He was still so much like that image on the screen that I felt as though his handclasp should have been less firm and real.

  “You know, Sax,” Wally said, “Carol is Monica Arlen’s great-niece.”

  Saxon Scott really looked at me then. It was strange to know so well the expression he wore—because I’d already seen every nuance on the screen. He looked at me with a new, intense interest, and he didn’t let go of my hand. I was aware of Jason stepping back from us a little, removing himself from something he clearly found distasteful. Snobbery, I thought, and ignored him.

  “You resemble Monica a little,” Saxon said. “Perhaps around the eyes.”

  I was pleased, but had to shake my head. “Not really. My eyes don’t have that exotic tilt—not like Monica Arlen’s.”

  His sigh seemed genuine in its hint of regret. “No, of course they don’t. I suppose I saw that flash of resemblance that comes at first glance. It’s already gone. But you’re almost her only relative, aren’t you?”

  “As far as I know.”

  “Carol is going to write Monica’s biography,” Wally put in. “A marvelous idea!”

  So Linda must already have been on the phone to this balding little man who seemed aquiver with boundless energy. Yet apparently she had not yet phoned Saxon to make an appointment for me. I’d have preferred not to have my nebulous plans thrown so abruptly at Saxon Scott, but there was no quenching Wally’s exuberance. He was a born salesman, though I was beginning to wonder exactly what it was he was selling.

  “That’s interesting,” Saxon said. “How does Monica feel about it?”

  “She seems to like the idea,” I admitted.

  “That’s one Hollywood biography that ought to be written,” Saxon said. “If you can tell the truth.”

  Strangely, those were the very words Monica had used, and I wondered how different their two truths might be.

  “Of course you’re essential to Monica’s story. Would you be willing to talk to me?” I asked.

  “I might. If, as I say, you’re willing to tell the truth. I’ve thought I might someday write my own memoirs, but I’m probably too lazy. And there are problems. Old problems. Perhaps we can explore this a little.”

  “Every story has its own truth, Mr. Saxon. I’d like to know yours as well as Monica’s.”

  Wally had remained silent long enough. “The most
important thing right now will be to get Sax and Monica up on this stage together after we show Mirage. He and I were just talking over the possibilities.”

  I turned to Saxon. “Are you really willing to go through with this? Appear onstage with Monica?”

  He didn’t answer me directly. “I’ll be surprised if she consents. From what Linda says, she never plays the old Monica Arlen anymore. The public role, that is.”

  “She did yesterday,” I told him. “She came into the dining room looking as beautiful as I remember her on the screen. She’s still a wonderful actress and I think she wanted to show me she could be something besides an old woman.”

  “Monica Arlen was always her best role. But playing it for you in private is quite different from getting up on a stage before an audience. Do you think she can face that after all this time?”

  “I haven’t any idea, but if you can face it, she should be able to.”

  False words, I thought, even as I spoke them. Monica had changed so much for the worse, while Saxon hadn’t. Besides, as I was beginning to sense, he had probably always played himself on the screen. In so many small ways I knew and recognized in him now.

  I’d moved my hand as I spoke, and suddenly Saxon caught and held it up so that the great emerald with its iris intaglio shone in the light. For an instant he looked angry, his mouth tightening so that the youthful expression vanished. Saxon Scott wasn’t young, either, and he would remember old hurts.

  “It’s only a loan,” I said quickly. “She’d never give this ring away.”

  He let my hand go, as though the sight of the emerald had somehow shaken him.

  “Perhaps it’s time,” he said enigmatically. “I’ve waited too long.”

  Jason took a step in my direction and spoke under his breath. “We have company.”

  I looked toward the back of the theater and saw the man from the blue Chevy sitting in a rear seat watching us. Owen’s man. A sense of outrage began to shake me.

  “Oh, no!” I cried. “How dare he do this?”

  Saxon was quickly intuitive. “Someone your husband has sent?”

  If Linda hadn’t told him, then Wally had.

  “Yes,” I said. “He followed us here from Monica’s gate.”

  “I’ll get rid of him.” Saxon strode up the aisle and the man watched his approach uneasily.

  I remembered that flow of dangerous power that Saxon had always been able to summon on a screen. Macho, long before the word became common criticism, and obviously convincing.

  “You’d better get out and stop annoying this lady,” he said, his voice ominously low. “The police chief in this town’s a good friend of mine, and if you bother Miss Hamilton again I’ll have a talk with him.”

  The man in the pullover slid out of the seat and after one slow, insolent look in my direction, walked out of the theater. I suspected his retreat was due more to Saxon’s impressive physical presence than to any hints about a sheriff. Bullies could often be bullied. Though I felt little relief at his leaving. I wouldn’t be rid of him that easily.

  I hurried up the aisle. “Thank you, Mr. Scott.”

  Unexpectedly, he laughed. “So I can still pull it off,” he said, and I heard self-mockery in the words.

  “Will you really let me interview you?” I asked.

  His famous smile had always held a hint of sadness in it. Perhaps it was that very vulnerability in so strong a man that had broken so many hearts. Or perhaps he was still performing?

  “Let’s set a date soon,” he said. “Ask Linda to bring you to my house in Indian Wells. Perhaps I can suggest some others you should see as well. Alva and Nicos Leonidas would have a lot to tell you. Linda will know how to reach them.”

  “Who are they?”

  For an instant his expression was almost mischievous. He’d looked like that sometimes when he teased Monica on the screen. Though now there seemed a faint edge of malice to the mischief.

  “Nicos Leonidas was Monica’s favorite cameraman. Though not always mine. Actors are a vain lot, and we don’t much care for favoritism if it’s directed toward someone else.”

  At least he could mock Saxon Scott, as I suspected Monica would never mock herself.

  “And Alva?”

  “She was the only woman at the studio in the old days who was a makeup expert. Perc Westmore did that job. But Alva always worked with Monica. She concocted colorings and special lipsticks that were just right for her. Alva could make Monica look her best under any lighting, and Monica was devoted to her. The panchromatics and other new films were coming out fast, and Alva always managed the right effect for magnification on a big screen. She even did her hair. Monica would never play a scene without Alva in her dressing room.”

  I wondered why he was going on at such length. Then he paused and the quizzical look returned.

  “You might as well know before you see her that Alva and I were married for a time—after Monica left pictures.”

  I knew about the wife he’d been married to for a few years, and it would be a real break if I could talk to her as well. Especially since she’d worked so intimately with Monica.

  “Do you suppose she’d see me?”

  “I can ask her to. We’re still friends in a wary sort of way. After she married Nicos, they bought a place in the mountains up near Idyllwild.”

  He took my hand again to look at the ring. Whatever Monica had once meant to him, I didn’t think the feeling had died away entirely. It was clear that the emerald brought back memories. But when he dropped my hand his look was suddenly guarded.

  “You might tell Monica that you mean to talk to Alva and Nicos. Her reaction could be interesting.”

  With that puzzling remark, he walked out of the theater without another word. As dramatically arrogant as he’d ever been on a screen!

  I must certainly search for the “truth” they’d both spoken of, and discover the reason behind the strange warring that seemed to exist in Saxon Scott. I wished I knew why he had made that mysterious phone call to Monica that Linda had mentioned, and which had seemed to upset her so badly.

  Wally didn’t mean to let Saxon get away. He rushed up the aisle after him, passed me with a casual, “See you,” and disappeared.

  I sat down in a nearby seat feeling as though a strong wind had rushed into my already stormy life and was sweeping me along.

  Jason came slowly to the back of the theater. When I looked up into his grave, unsmiling face, I realized that his expression was unexpectedly sympathetic; perhaps less critical than before. During my exchange with Saxon, he must have been weighing something in his mind.

  “Will you come out to my ranch tomorrow—Sunday?” he asked. “It might help you to get the feeling of the desert. Besides, there’s space enough out there to think things through. Perhaps you need that. You could bring your son along with you.”

  Regretfully, I was already shaking my head. “I can’t take him away from the house just now—it’s too risky. And I mustn’t leave him often.”

  “We can smuggle him out in my car and I’ll make sure we aren’t followed. The ranch will do him good. If you agree, I’ll phone Mrs. Sanchez that you’re coming, and tell her we’ll want her best Mexican food. But not too hot, since you’re greenhorns.”

  Suddenly I wanted to go to his ranch. We needed Monica’s fortress, but it would be a relief if we could occasionally escape it safely. I knew how much Keith needed this.

  “I’d like to come,” I said. “Thank you.”

  He nodded, stiffly remote again, as though he might already be regretting his invitation. Jason Trevor was a difficult man to fathom, but perhaps all the more interesting because he wasn’t easily read.

  “I’ve an appointment now,” he said. “Would you like to wander around on your own awhile?”

  I hesitated, my concern for Keith surging up again. “I’d like to stay, but—”

  “Then stay. You won’t help your son by constant worry. You need to do something for you
rself too, or you won’t be much good for him.”

  Again his understanding surprised me. It seemed to cut almost unwillingly through the antagonism he held against me.

  “I know you’re right,” I said.

  “I’ll pick you up early, before your shadow expects any action. Seven o’clock? We can have breakfast at the ranch, if you like.”

  “We’ll look forward to it,” I told him.

  As we started toward the stairs that led up to the main floor, I remembered something.

  “Yesterday Monica mentioned that there was a piece of her in this museum. Do you know what she meant?”

  “I think so. There are several outdoor sculpture gardens. Sunken gardens below street level. You’ll want to explore them anyhow, and you can look there. I’m not sure where the Arlen bust is, but you’ll be able to find it. You can go outside through these doors near the theater if you like. Theater crowds enjoy the garden during intermissions. It’s one of our attractions.”

  Always when he spoke of the museum, Jason’s voice warmed with enthusiasm, and I knew that for him this Desert Museum was no antiquated collection, but something with a life of its own that enriched the present.

  I thanked him again, and when he’d gone I went outdoors and wandered through the gardens for a long, peaceful time. Jason’s words had helped me to put aside for a little while that dark menace that haunted me.

  Outdoors huge pieces of sculpture were shown in the open, where they belonged, and I discovered great names—Calder, Henry Moore, Hans Arp, and others. For now, however, I gave them no more than a passing glance because I was seeking the piece that held special significance for me.

  In one outdoor section, diagonally placed slabs of concrete that echoed the cantilevers of the building formed walks between fountains and flower beds and made bridges over pools. Tropical plantings grew against high walls reaching to street level above. Thrust out from the building were angled windows of glass, reflecting pools, and sky.

  I found a stone bench where I could sit quietly, listening to birds and to the soothing play of water. In this enclosed, protected space I felt for a little while an illusory peace, and could let my tensions flow away.