“Michael was ever so concerned,” she told me. “He pulled me into his arms and checked all over for broken bones and murmured soothing words and stroked my hair. He was very thorough when he checked for broken bones,” she added. “We were behind the bushes, and—well—”
“Laura, you’re outrageous!”
“It was divine, love. Michael is a remarkable lover—quite the best I’ve ever had.”
“I thought you vowed you’d never get involved with another actor,” I said.
“Oh, I’m not emotionally involved,” she protested, “but—well, when the bonbon is right there beside your plate, why pass it up?”
“Michael is a bonbon?”
“Absolutely, love. I’m not ready for the main course—I’ve made that perfectly clear—but I see no reason to forgo the delight.”
Laura sipped her coffee and smiled, looking gloriously content. I wished I could be as carefree and cavalier as she was about such matters. Life would be much easier—and Jason would be happier, too. I stepped over to the mirror for a final inspection of my hair, brushing a heavy honey-blond wave from my temple and sighing, thinking of Jason again. He had been in Atlanta on “company business” for the past ten days. I missed him far more than I cared to admit. Laura set her coffee cup down.
“You might take a leaf from my book, love,” she said.
“Oh?”
“Charles Etienne hurt you very badly, Dana. You’ve been nursing that hurt all these months—don’t try to deny it, love. That lost, pained look has been in your eyes all along, even at your brightest, even when you smile.”
“I was hurt, yes, but—”
“The best way to get over a man is to get another man,” she told me, “and a perfectly marvelous man is waiting in the wings.”
“Oh?”
“Don’t be coy, love. Jason’s mad for you, and you’re attracted to him, too. He’s a rogue—I won’t deny that—but he’s handsome and intelligent and amusing and, I hear, superb in the sack. I’m not saying you should marry him, love. I’m just saying you should—well, treat yourself to a bonbon.”
I gave her a look. Laura smiled.
“I’m just thinking of your welfare, love,” she said pleasantly. “All that reading can’t be good for you. Jason’s been pining for you ever since you joined the company. He hasn’t even looked at another woman, and Lord knows they’ve been throwing themselves at him.”
“I—I wonder when he’ll be back from Atlanta.” I said casually.
“No one knows. No one knows why he went in the first place. It’s a mystery to Jackson—probably something to do with that play he’s been writing. He’s always writing a new play, hoping the National in Atlanta will mount it. No disrespect to my dear cousin, but I seriously doubt we’ll ever play Atlanta. The National has very high standards, and thundering melodrama is not their cup of tea. We’re doomed to tour the sticks, I fear.”
“Savannah is hardly the sticks,” I pointed out.
“It’s not Atlanta, love. It’s not New Orleans, either. I’m not complaining, mind you. We’ve done wonderfully well this season. No thanks to our leading lady, I might add.”
Poor Carmelita. She had done her best to have Jason fire me, and when he refused, she grew more and more frustrated and discontent. Instead of hitting the bottle, our leading lady began hitting the chocolates, adding a steadily mounting poundage to a figure hardly sylphlike to begin with. Dulcie had been forced to make constant alterations, complaining vociferously all the while. “I no longer dress her,” she claimed. “Now I upholster her!” On more than one occasion there had been loud “Moos!” in the audience when Carmelita stepped onstage, and only last week here in Savannah one journalist had written an article declaring it was high time Donovan’s leading lady be put out to pasture.
“She’s undoubtedly in her room right now, stuffing more chocolates,” Laura continued. “She’s going back to Biloxi as soon as we close here, and Jason isn’t about to sign her up for next season.”
“I wonder what she’ll do.”
“She can always get a job as a roadblock.”
“That’s very unkind, Laura. I feel sorry for her.”
“You shouldn’t, love. It all started that first night when you decked her—she blames you for everything.”
“I—I never wanted to supplant her. I never tried.”
“No, but you did, love. This is the first time in the history of the company that the ingenue has received twice the attention—and three times the adulation—as the leading lady.”
“I can’t help it if they like me.”
“True. You can’t help being absolutely gorgeous and marvelously gifted. If I had a competitive bone in my body, I’d hate you myself, you hussy. Like it or not, love, you’re the star of the company.”
“Nonsense. I’m still billed below Michael and Carmelita and Billy.”
“And above me,” she pointed out. “Jason doesn’t want you to get a swollen head. That’s the only reason you haven’t received top billing. You’ve certainly received the lion’s share of attention from the gentlemen of the press—and that bloody picture keeps right on selling.”
I had to smile. Several months ago, when we were performing Lena Marlow in Montgomery, Alabama, a very gifted young artist had drawn sketches of everyone in the company. Jason had bought reproduction rights from the artist, and the picture of me in the sumptuous and low-cut fox-trimmed gold satin had been immensely popular. Newspapers used it frequently, and copies of it were hawked in theater lobbies during intermission along with pictures of the rest of the company. Laura was forever teasing me because my picture sold twice as many as all the others put together. Over the months, I must have signed hundreds of them for the gushing teenage girls and would-be swains who, after every performance, were invariably waiting at the stage door.
“It’s a very flattering picture,” I observed.
“It doesn’t even begin to do you justice,” Laura said kindly, and then she gave me a hug. “I’m so pleased, love. I knew the minute I laid eyes on you, you had something special. It’s been a great eight months, hasn’t it?”
“Just great,” I replied dryly. “Wretched accommodations. Inedible food. Nights spent waiting in squalid railroad stations. Freezing cold dressing rooms. Backstage squabbles. Forging ahead through thick or thin—mostly thin.”
“Adulation. Admiration. Applause. Stage Door Johnnies flooding your dressing room with roses. Ardent fans clamoring for your autograph. Newspaper articles extolling your beauty and skill. You’ve loved every minute of it.”
“I’ve loved every minute of it,” I agreed.
Laura smiled and brushed her grass-soiled skirt. “I really must get back to my room. Michael’s taking me to lunch, and I have to bathe and change and see if I can do something with this hair. Care to join us?”
I shook my head. “I’m going to the bookstore.”
“It figures,” she said. “Think about what I said, love. You deserve a bonbon.”
There were several people in the lobby as I made my way down the gracefully curving staircase. Two well-dressed matrons were sitting on one of the red velvet sofas, exchanging bits of gossip, and an attractive older couple were checking out at the mahogany front desk. Rubber tree plants stood in brass urns, and a rather worn red and gray oriental carpet covered the floor. As I reached the foot of the stairs, two teenage girls swooped toward me, giggling nervously and holding out pictures for me to sign. I did so graciously, chatting with them a few moments before moving on. It still amazed me that anyone would want my signature, that anyone would think me glamorous or exceptional. It wasn’t all that long ago that I had been wearing rags and feeding chickens in the swamp.
Wavery sunlight streamed down from a pale blue-gray sky as I strolled slowly toward the bookstore I had seen earlier but, until now, had not had an opportunity to visit. Savannah was a lovely, tree-shaded town with mellow, slightly weathered old buildings and a genteel, leisurely atmosp
here. No hustle and bustle here, I thought, but a great deal of charm. Carriages moved slowly down the street, horse hooves clopping, and the people I passed on the sidewalk seemed to have all the time in the world. Several of them recognized me and gave me shy, friendly smiles. Actresses might be considered exotic, immoral creatures little better than prostitutes by some, but that wasn’t the case here in Savannah. The good folk here had given us a very warm reception, packing the theater each performance and treating us like honored guests in their town.
Flowers grew in neat beds in front of Gittman’s Book Shop, and white wooden steps led up to a shady porch where tables of dusty bargain books invited browsing. It had obviously been a small private home at one time, I reflected, pushing open the front door. A bell tinkled pleasantly overhead. I found myself in a large, sunny room filled with book-laden tables and shelves, colorful rag rugs on the floor and an abundance of potted plants giving the place a homey, welcoming air. A plump gray cat drowsed atop a huge leather-bound dictionary, basking in a ray of sunlight. There was a wonderful selection of new novels, I noticed, many of them imported from England and France, and I was delighted to discover a new Balzac and a gothic novel by Mrs. Ann Radcliffe I had not read.
“The Radcliffe’s frightfully spooky,” a plump, rosy-cheeked woman informed me, entering from a back room. “I read it when I was a girl—a number of years ago—and I couldn’t sleep without a night candle for weeks. There’s a scene in the graveyard that’ll curl your hair. Hi, honey, I’m Sally Gittman. I see you have picked up the new Balzac, too. I don’t read French myself, but I understand from some of my customers that this one’s a scorcher. Old Lady Marceau said it jolted her right out of her rocking chair—she bought three more copies to give to friends.”
She laughed and gentle nudged the cat off the dictionary. She had bright, intelligent brown eyes, a small pink mouth and shiny blue-black hair pulled into a neat bun in back. She wore a fresh gray cotton frock and a white organdy apron and looked efficient, industrious and slightly self-satisfied, the kind of woman who would belong to several clubs and dominate them all with jovial tyranny. Although her manner was a bit officious, she was warm and friendly and very likable.
“Balzac can be quite racy,” I said, “but he’s always interesting.”
“Old Lady Marceau certainly thought so. Can’t wait until they translate it into English. Enjoying your stay in Savannah, honey?”
“Very much,” I replied.
“I know who you are, of course. I saw you opening night—last Tuesday as well. I’m president of the Ladies’ Theatrical Guild, and we bought a block of tickets. You were enchanting, honey.”
“Thank you.”
“Much better than the fat lady. Herring? Is that her name? I don’t mean to be unkind, honey, but when she waddled onstage in that gray velvet gown, she looked exactly like a hippopotamus. I had to laugh when that handsome leading man took her in his arms and vowed eternal love.”
“Carmelita is—a very good actress,” I said tactfully.
“Not a patch on you, honey. You want those two? I’ll just take them over to the desk and let you browse a while longer. I’ve got the best stock in this part of the South—won’t find a better bookstore anywhere around.”
“I’ve not visited a better one,” I told her. “You certainly have a—”
I had been eyeing various titles as I spoke, and I cut myself short when I spotted a handsomely bound, boxed two-volume set on one of the tables. I moved to the table, my heart fluttering. Flora and Fauna of the American South stood out in bright gilt letters, Julian Etienne in smaller letters beneath. My hand trembled as I took one of the volumes out of the box. So he had finished it at last. So it had finally been published. I opened the volume at random, and my breath seemed to catch as I saw the beautiful full-color plate of the flower he had been painting that day in the swamps, fragile pale orange petals delicately flecked with gold and bronze, opening to reveal the deep orange center with the tall stamen projecting like a golden fairy wand. It was a superb reproduction, and I remembered the fussy old printer, Monsieur Delain, and his cluttered, dusty shop. My heart filled with pride, with sadness, too. He had done it, and I had not been there to share his triumph with him.
“Are you all right, Miss O’Malley?” Mrs. Gittman asked. “You’ve suddenly gone pale.”
“I—I’m fine,” I said. I closed the volume and slipped it back into its box. “I’ll take this, too,” I told her.
“My last one,” she said, carrying the set over to the desk. “Would you believe I’ve sold twenty sets—and it’s a frightfully expensive item, too. Of course, all the girls bought copies when Monsieur Etienne talked to our Literary Circle. He came here to the store afterwards and signed all the copies—this one’s signed, too, by the way.”
“He—Monsieur Etienne was here in Savannah?”
“Three weeks ago. Quite the charmer he was, too. He’s still a bachelor, you know—surely you’ve read about him in the papers?—and Mildred Drake made an absolute fool of herself. He was as polite as could be, so suave, so witty, so handsome. I’d have made a play for him myself if I’d-a thought a plump middle-aged widow like myself had a chance.”
“There—there’ve been articles about him in the papers?”
“Honey, where have you been the past two months? The book’s caused an absolute sensation, and Julian Etienne is all the rage. He’s been traveling all over the South, giving lectures, signing books, being interviewed by all the important papers. The book is already in its fourth printing—this is a first edition, incidentally—and he’s wildly in demand everywhere.”
“Who would have thought a book on plants would be so popular,” I said to myself.
“It’s a prestige item,” Mrs. Gittman explained. “People buy it because it’s the thing to do—every cultured home should have one. Very few of them read it, of course, but they display it in their parlors to show how au courant they are. Actually, it’s delightful reading, beautifully written and extremely witty.”
“I’m not surprised.”
“All those newspaper articles have helped, too. Southerners are proud one of their own has penned what the critics are calling a monumental work, and the journalists have taken him up. He’s his own best salesman, of course, touring all over, giving his talks, delighting the ladies. I read that he was in Washington last week and the president invited him to the White House. No doubt he charmed the First Lady right out of her leggings.”
“I think it’s wonderful. No one deserves success more than Julian.”
“You know him?”
“I—met him in New Orleans,” I said quietly. “He’s a wonderful person. Was—did he seem happy when he was here?”
“Beaming all over the place,” she told me. “Proud as punch, he was, but modest all the same. He published the book himself, you know. He told me in confidence that he hadn’t even expected to make back his costs, and now it looked as though he was going to make a bloody fortune. The family could certainly use it, he added. Like so many fine old families today, the Etiennes are apparently experiencing financial setbacks.”
I made no reply. Mrs. Gittman added up the price of the books, and I paid her for them. She pulled heavy brown paper off a roll beside the desk and began to wrap them.
“It seems he’s not spending all his money on the family,” she added, tying the package with twine. “When he was here, Josie Laidlaw saw him in the hotel dining room with a gorgeous brunette. Her name is Amelia Jameson—Josie’s a terrible snoop, she chatted up the desk clerk and found out everything. Monsieur Etienne and the Jameson woman checked in on the same day—not together, mind you—and she left the same day he did. They were very discreet, stayed on separate floors, but there’s no doubt they’re traveling together. Of course, a man as handsome and virile as Monsieur Etienne would have a mistress.”
“Of course,” I said.
“Here you are, honey.” She handed me the books. “It’s been nice talk
ing to you. The girls and I plan to see the show tomorrow night. They’ll be real impressed when I tell them you came in today.”
I thanked Mrs. Gittman politely and left the shop with my parcel of books, a prey to conflicting emotions. I moved through patches of sunlight and shade and passed the other shops and returned the smiles I received, but my mind wasn’t on what I was doing. I was surprised to find myself in front of the hotel, moving up the steps onto the spacious verandah. Great swirls of mauve and purple wisteria draped the white wood banisters, and beds of vivid blue larkspurs grew beneath. I didn’t go inside. I didn’t want to see anyone just now. I stepped over to one of the white wicker sofas with its plump pale blue cushions and sat down, gazing pensively over the railing. Several long minutes passed, and tears spilled down my cheeks as I remembered all that had been and all that I had left behind.
This is absurd, Dana, I scolded myself. You’re much better off now. You’re making your own way, beholden to no one. Julian is better off, too. He’s finally come into his own and he’s savoring every minute of his hard-earned success and … and he’s not pining over you either. He’s got Amelia. No doubt she’s very good for him. I remembered her wry wit and sophistication and that breezy, insouciant manner. Yes, he needed someone like her. Society would not look askance at a lovely mistress—indeed, it was expected of men in Julian’s world—but they would never have accepted the wrong wife. Even if Charles had not been in the picture, I could never have married Julian, no matter how grateful to him I may have been. It would have ruined his life. It would have made him an outcast in the only world he had ever known. He might pretend indifference to society’s opinion, but he was an Etienne nevertheless. I couldn’t have deprived him of all that that entailed. I had done him a good service by leaving New Orleans, no matter how it may have pained him at the time.
How thrilled I was for him. How pleased I was by his success. The ineffectual dreamer had showed them all. He had come into his own at last, and he was riding high, basking in all the attention and acclaim, as well he should be. The money was pouring in, too. How ironic it was that Julian should be the one to replenish the family coffers. Charles loved his brother and would be proud of him, I granted that, but nevertheless it must rankle that the brother he had fondly patronized all these years had achieved such a success. Charles had always been the superior one, the breadwinner, the one who held the reins, and it was Julian who had come through, Julian who had been invited to the White House to dine with the President and First Lady.
They Call Her Dana Page 45
