I saw his face when Monica appeared—saw it before I saw her. He looked stunned, shocked, and I turned my head.
I’d never seen her look more beautiful. She’d put on another of her “costumes,” and this one couldn’t have been more perfect for facing Saxon. I remembered how striking it had been in the Switzerland scene from Mirage. For a lounging robe she’d adopted a stunning Japanese kimono, and it was that garment she wore now. A true kimono of the ancient style—a rich silk, with sleeves that hung nearly to the floor. The color was a dark navy blue, and the V of the neck closing was piped in white silk that stood away from the nape in the traditional, seductive style. At the hem white chrysanthemums bloomed all the way around in a glorious print. In her ears were emeralds, and on her finger the emerald ring. Always there was the refrain of emeralds.
But it was the woman who graced the kimono. Her neck rose, slim and graceful, to a head crowned with chestnut hair. The soft light of the room flattered and smoothed away her years. She hid the betrayal of her hands demurely in flowing sleeves, and the lightest of smiles touched her lips, warm and soft with color.
“Hello, Saxon,” she said, and the old magic was in her voice. He had never believed, and he was totally unprepared. Her laughter mocked him gently, triumphantly. “You see? You didn’t think I could do it, did you?”
“My God!” Saxon said, and the words had an angry ring.
Monica came toward him, and he backed away as though she alarmed him. He turned to me, still angry.
“Just forget everything I told you!” he said. “I’ll be there!” And he walked out of the room without another glance for Monica Arlen. We heard him running down the stairs, and a moment later his car started down the mountain.
Monica looked completely dismayed. “What’s the matter with him? Why did he run away?” She came to sit beside me, and I felt her trembling.
“Never mind,” I said. “You just took him by surprise.”
“But why did he come to see me? He asked to come!”
I couldn’t tell her the whole truth. I couldn’t crush her with the threat he’d intended, and had withdrawn, only to contradict himself again. Now he meant to go through with it after all.
“He wanted to cancel his appearance with you at the benefit, and he wanted you to cancel, too,” I said.
“That’s outrageous! And if I didn’t?”
That was what I couldn’t tell her. Annabella came out of the shadows making remarks of her own.
“Never mind, Annie,” Monica said. “I can guess what he meant to do. Only I am not going to back out. And Saxon won’t do one thing about it! I’m still strong, and underneath all that make-believe courage, he is the weak one. He always has been, and that’s what he chokes on every time.”
“It might be safer to cancel,” I said uneasily. Though if Saxon had any plan to tell a story that had been suppressed all these years, he would be the one to suffer most. Could he really face that?
“I wouldn’t think of canceling,” Monica said, and her trembling had stopped. “I’m going to give everyone who comes tomorrow a performance they’ll remember. I’m going to show them who I am and what I can do, whether Saxon appears with me or not. Besides, I am the one they’ll come to see.”
There was an excitement in her that disturbed me. I wondered why I’d ever believed that Saxon might hurt her. It was much more likely to be the other way around. Perhaps he knew that now and it was this that made him angry.
She rose with Annabella in her arms and moved about the room. Not with the mincing steps that should have matched the kimono, but with a bold, assured stride.
“Go away, Carol,” she said. “I don’t need your long face staring at me.”
She needed nothing from me, and I went downstairs to the Arlen room and immersed myself in more reading, to take up time until Linda came home and I could tell her what had happened.
It was during the next hour that I unearthed a treasure that especially delighted me. It was a folder of the old photographs, and among them was one of a very young Monica—probably taken when she first came to Hollywood.
The picture wasn’t a close-up, but full figure, with Monica in a simple sweater and skirt. She looked very young and utterly lovely. Her wide, exotically tilted eyes looked out at the camera—not altogether innocently. Even then there must have been a certain awareness in her, and a knowledge of the struggle she must make. Her hair in those days had been short and blond, with a slight curl to it, and it fluffed delightfully about her face. She had already matured a great deal from the girlhood snapshots Henry Arlen had shown me.
By the following night we were all balanced on an edge not far from hysteria. Linda gave Ralph the afternoon and evening off. Neither she nor I wanted him around dropping remarks that might upset Monica. Linda herself would drive her down when the time came.
I had told Linda of Saxon’s visit and she’d been upset. Who knew what Saxon meant to do? If Monica was right, he would do nothing, but Linda didn’t believe that.
Wally was to drive me down to the theater early, so I could watch for Saxon. When he came, I wasn’t to let him out of my sight, and I was to gauge his mood, so that if it seemed threatening in any way, Monica could be protected, even at the last minute. Linda decided that she mustn’t appear at the theater until the picture was nearly over. I agreed to whatever she wished, and hid my own misgivings.
In midafternoon a messenger arrived at Smoke Tree House with a long florist’s box. I carried it to Monica’s bedroom, where she lay in darkness, resting, with Linda nearby on guard. Annabella met me suspiciously at the door, and I had a feeling that the tension pervading the house had reached the cats as well. Even the white Persians seemed restless as they followed Annabella around.
Monica put out a hand as I came into the room. “This is all wrong!” she protested. “Linda’s keeping me prisoner, when I should have had a dress rehearsal. How do I know the lights will be right? I ought to have gone down early to check everything out. I don’t even know what the stage is like, whether there are steps … I don’t know anything!”
“It’s not that complicated,” Linda assured her. “You’ll go out on the stage from the wings and accept the ovation they’ll give you. Saxon will say a few words, because it’s expected. You needn’t say anything unless you want to. Just give them your special smile and they’ll love it. They’ll be at your feet, darling.”
I held out the florist’s box. “A messenger just brought this for you, Aunt Monica.”
Linda, still watchful, would have intercepted the box, but Monica sat up in bed and snatched it away. I think both Linda and I knew what she hoped for as she opened the box and looked for a card. There was none, and she spread pale green paper to reveal the single long stalk the box contained. It was a blue iris—a real one—perfect, exquisite. No card was needed.
Monica lifted the stalk from the box wonderingly. “He remembered! He always sent an iris on special occasions.” Yet she sounded sad—almost afraid.
“It’s going to be all right, dear,” Linda assured her. “He wouldn’t have sent this if he meant to hurt you. Now you can relax and rest.”
I wished I could feel as sure as Linda sounded.
Monica burst into tears and fell back on her pillow.
Linda rescued the iris as Monica dropped it. “I’ll put this in water so it will be fresh for you to carry when you go out on the stage tonight.” Then she spoke to me. “You’d better go now, Carol. Let her sleep. She hardly closed her eyes last night.”
For the rest of the afternoon, Linda kept everyone away. Only she was allowed to help when the time came for Monica to dress.
During the afternoon I answered the phone in Linda’s office, to hear Jason’s voice on the line—a wonderful, reassuring sound! The sound of sanity in a world gone askew.
“Carol, I’m home, and I want to see you tonight.”
There was nothing I wanted more, yet I couldn’t have been more tied up.
“There’s the benefit tonight …” I began.
“Yes, I know. I plan to be there. Could you come a little early and meet me in the garden of the museum? Perhaps near that bronze bust of Monica?”
“Of course,” I told him warmly. “I’ll be early anyway, so just tell me when.”
In the late afternoon, Linda drove out alone, leaving a note that Keith brought to me.
Monica’s asleep, thank God. I have an errand to do and I’ll be away an hour or so. Don’t disturb her.
Linda
I had an uneasy feeling that she might have gone to see Saxon herself.
Keith and Jonah and I were eating a light supper in the dining room when her car came up the drive. I didn’t see her because she parked near Monica’s end of the terrace and went straight upstairs.
At least I was grateful for the lively presence of Helsa’s grandson. He was good for Keith and I could leave the two of them in Helsa’s care with confidence. It was a relief to have Ralph away.
After supper I put on the one gown I’d packed in my hasty flight from New York—a white Halston in a toga style that draped over one shoulder and fell about me in soft silk folds. Gold earrings, a cuff bracelet, and white sandals set off the dress, and I was female enough to be glad that Jason would see me looking my best for once.
Keith and Jonah admired me, and waved me off from the upper balcony when Wally came to pick me up. He seemed anything but his usual cocky self tonight, and I knew the tension had reached him too.
On the way down, I told him about the iris Saxon had sent, but he didn’t seem especially impressed or pleased. “Saxon likes to put on a good show. I saw him yesterday and told him I wouldn’t be working for him anymore. A funny thing happened while I was there. Your ex-husband phoned and made an appointment to see Saxon today.”
I hated that. It meant that Owen was still in town, or close by. And he hadn’t given up.
We reached the museum well ahead of the evening crowd, and a guard told me that Jason would be with me soon in the garden. I sat on a stone bench in the softly lighted area and waited. The moon was full tonight—big and close—a disk of silver, reflected in the quiet pool beside me. I remembered the last time I’d seen the moon in water, and shivered.
As she had done that other time, a bronze Monica stared at me with the same concentration I’d felt before. Shadows moving in the night air made her seem almost alive, as though some enigmatic expression flickered across her face. Peggy Smith had managed to convey in her sculpture the same secret look I’d caught now and then on the real Monica’s face. This work, I remembered, had been created the same year Peggy had died. I could only hope that Monica Arlen, whose world had crashed around her then, would regain something of her own tonight. Whatever wrong she had done in the past, nothing must happen to defeat her tonight. I knew very well—and so did Linda—that this was her last chance.
Jason came out of the museum, and for a moment stood looking for me, the strong planes of his face cast into relief. I remembered my early feeling about him—that here was a man with banked fires that burned deeply, and I knew as I’d known then, that these could be dangerous fires. I no longer cared whether they burned me.
He sat beside me on the bench. “How are you, Carol? I wanted to see you alone for a few minutes before all this begins tonight.”
In the distance we could already hear a murmur of voices as early members of the audience arrived. By now the television cameras outside would be watching celebrities as they entered. The showing of Mirage would continue for nearly an hour and a half before Monica and Saxon must go out onstage.
“I’m all right,” I said. “Did you have any luck at all on your trip?”
He shook his head, but he didn’t want to talk about this now. “What are your duties here tonight?”
“I’m supposed to watch for Saxon when he comes.”
“He hasn’t arrived yet. I saw Wally just now, and he’s looking for him too. Carol, I couldn’t stop thinking about you while I was away. I got through all the disappointments because I could think of you. I wanted to tell you that tonight.”
“It’s been the same for me,” I said softly. “I keep wanting to tell you about everything that happens. Only now I can’t seem to remember what I wanted to say.”
“I think we need each other. Though I don’t know whether I’m ready for this, anymore than you’re ready. Perhaps right now our need is mainly to explore, to know each other better. To move slowly.”
I understood all too well. In both our marriages we’d rushed in, throwing caution to the winds. Yet now we knew that neither was entirely sure of the other—or perhaps of ourselves—and that in a good many ways we were still strangers. In this there was some safety, even though my own foolish instinct was to plunge without heed or caution.
He drew me up from the bench, kissed me lightly, and let me go. At that moment I could have clung to him all too eagerly—and knew that I mustn’t. He still needed space around him, and if I was to hold him, I must allow him that—as he would allow me whatever space I needed.
“You look beautiful tonight,” he said. “Your dress is exactly right.”
The long folds moved about me as I walked, and his words gave me assurance, as the gown gave me grace. This was something Owen had tried very hard to take away, once he considered me a possession.
Together we went inside to where tangerine carpeting on the Grand Staircase brought an audience in evening dress down to the theater level. The starburst glass chandelier sparkled on women’s jewels and coiffured hair, on black jackets and men’s jewelry as well. For a few moments we stood apart, watching that beautiful, fabled crowd, picking out well-known faces. I felt like a young movie fan watching from the sidelines. Everyone really was turning out for Monica Arlen and Saxon Scott.
Wally came bustling over, more anxious and uneasy than I’d ever seen him, as though Linda’s anxieties had infected him.
“Neither of them is here yet,” he whispered.
“Linda wants to bring Monica down when the picture is nearly over,” I reminded him. “And now it looks as if Saxon means to arrive late too. Perhaps it’s better that way. More dramatic.” Or perhaps he would return to his earlier plan and not come at all?
“I suppose so.” He hurried off, driven by those inner tensions that wouldn’t let him rest.
Jason had an aisle seat in the last row, and he took me to it. “Sit here for a while, and I’ll watch outside. I’ll let you know when either of them arrives.”
When he’d gone, I reminded myself that I was working on a book about Monica, and began to take note of all that I saw. Or overheard. The chatter of excitement ran high with anticipation.
The famous director who had worked on Mirage was dead, but the producer was here, and when he walked out on the lighted stage, the audience applauded. After a few anecdotes, he introduced the film. The house lights dimmed, the audience began to stir again, then settled down as titles for Mirage began to slide across the screen, and the wonderful Max Steiner music began.
It was hard to sit quietly watching. I kept thinking about Jason’s words, and wondering if we could ever trust each other completely, without haunting, unsettling doubts.
I thought of Monica as well, and of how she would weather this night. How Saxon would permit her to weather it. And what would happen after tonight? Could Monica take the anticlimax? I wished Saxon would come, so that I could look into his face and see what he meant to do. Or perhaps his not being here was the answer—he meant to do nothing. Not even appear.
As I watched the action on the screen, I saw again how marvelous those two had been together in their youth. Monica’s face seemed so alive, so eternally young, so filled with hope and anticipation, all part of her role—only to be deadened in the retakes of the two or three scenes that weren’t right. Once more I was moved to tears—this time because I knew the woman she was to become, and that added almost unbearable poignancy.
Before it ended, I sl
ipped from my seat and went to find Jason at the back of the theater. Wally was with him, and he grabbed me excitedly.
“Monica’s here! I was just coming to tell you. Linda’s taken her backstage. But Saxon still hasn’t showed up. I’m going to go phone him.”
I spoke to Jason. “I’ll join them now. Monica said she wanted me with her. Jason, they’ve loved the picture all over again!”
I touched his arm and went away quickly.
Several notables were in the green room at the side of the stage, and in spite of Linda’s efforts to keep her alone and quiet, Monica was holding court with her electric presence. She saw me and held out her hands.
“Carol darling! Have you seen Saxon?”
“He hasn’t come yet, but he should be here any moment—if he’s coming. Wally’s gone to telephone. The picture is nearly over, and they’ve loved every minute of it.”
“That doesn’t matter,” Monica said. “What matters is me—the way I am now. That’s what I have to show them.”
“And you will,” I whispered.
She looked utterly beautiful. The new blond wig was soft and natural, sweeping her coiffure high. Her garnet velvet gown with the spray of gold leaves running diagonally across shoulder and breast flowed to the tips of golden sandals, clinging where it should cling and hiding what should be hidden. The sleeves were wisely long and came to a flattering point over her wrists. Long earrings of gold filigree hung from her ears, and the intaglio emerald gleamed on her left hand. She’d chosen to wear it on her engagement finger tonight, and I felt both moved and a little frightened at the sight. In the other hand she carried the real iris stalk with all her old grace, using it to punctuate her own animated words. Under artificial light her makeup did exactly what it was supposed to do, and she seemed ageless. When she moved I caught the scent of her perfume—light, but faintly mysterious. A scent I didn’t recognize—perhaps something she’d kept from a long time ago.
Wally came to tell us that it was nearly the moment for Monica to go on. “Saxon didn’t answer my call, so he must be on the way. Perhaps we can give them an intermission to gain a little time.”
Emerald Page 26
