A flood of guilt squeezed Claire's gut. “Ever since Six died—”
Violet held up her hand. “Sara's the only one who truly needs you now. We just have to arrange it so Sara insists on visiting you. Lefty's a good man. He'll share you with your daughter.”
Claire nodded. One of the main reasons she had married Lefty was so she could bring Sara back into her life. She tried to imagine luring her daughter the way she had reeled in recalcitrant generals to the table in the war years or coaxed skittish actors to the Lefkowitz Talent Agency.
“Lefty and I filed for custody the day after we married. It's impossible to fight Ophelia Harrison, even in the California courts. Mother, help me. If Sara doesn't conform to Ophelia's ways, she'll banish her to some mental institution. And the stupid laws are on her side. I knew I wouldn't have a chance without a husband, but now …” Her voice trailed off.
It was ironic, she reflected, that her untraditional, cash-poor family had raised her beautifully without the benefit of husbands or a father. They had given her values, self-confidence, and unconditional love—all the things Claire was failing to provide for her daughter. Even with the head start of high social position and untold wealth.
“Is it my fault, Mother? Did I do this to her?” Claire's eyes glistened with real tears. “I abandoned her, didn't I?”
“No, dear. Sara's the child you were never allowed to mother. Ophelia stole those early years. Now you must do everything you can to rescue her.” Violet's warning was spoken in kindness.
“But how?”
“Sara loves you, Claire. It's just buried in all the confusion. What's happened to Sara has happened. If she is going to survive what's already fallen across her path, it will depend on her own strong will and her support team. Us.”
Sara climbed out of the pool, shaking herself like a rude Irish setter, sprays of water beads flying off her wet red hair.
Claire brightened. Finally, the guilt was being replaced with a plan. Dodging the water spout, she stood to hold out a dry beach towel for Sara. She'd been world famous for catering to the desires of all sorts of difficult folks, persuading people who wouldn't even speak to one another to dine together at her table; surely she could convince her daughter to accept an invitation to lunch. To some, an egg-salad sandwich with the crusts cut off was a dull prospect, but for Sara it was a comfort food that brought back the best of times. Only Claire would serve it up in a place where they could begin to make new memories.
Claire pitched the idea to Sara as enthusiastically as she had proposed her Eleanor film to the studio. “Why don't we all go out for egg salad?” Honey to catch the bear, live bait to lure the sailfish, and a sandwich to reel Sara back in. “Three generations at the Brown Derby could be fun.”
“Sounds like purgatory to me. A bunch of old farts and has-beens talking about their old movies and eating dead animals, medium rare.” Sara groaned. “I'd puke.”
“Now, now, we're talking about eating lunch, not spoiling everyone's appetite.” Violet managed a laugh and a stern look at the same time.
“Mine's already spoiled. I'm going into the kitchen to ‘lunch’ with Lorenza. Don't worry, I won't play with any sharp knives. That was what you two were talking about, wasn't it? Gram, look at my tan lines.” She snapped her bathing-suit straps to show her grandmother.
“I'll be so black they won't let me in the Tuxedo Club.” When Sara smiled, which was rarely, she displayed a prominent overbite, a physical characteristic she shared with Ophelia.
Claire sighed. MGM was an easier sell than this subversive fifteen-year-old. She'd just have to try harder, matching each of Sara's insults with a forgiving hug. As Claire watched her sullen daughter enter the house through a sliding glass door, she wondered to herself if she would have loved her flesh-and-blood offshoot better if she resembled Harrison and not her paternal grandmother.
When Harrison's invitation for lunch arrived, Claire assumed it must be about Sara. Or related to the documentary. Probably in response to the dozens of letters she had sent out in request for home movies of the Roosevelt White House years. As connected as Harrison was, she was sure he'd heard about the project.
She immediately recognized the handwriting on his imposing stationery with a World Bank address, and for a moment before opening it she felt as giddy as a schoolgirl finally receiving a note from the football captain she'd had a secret crush on for years. His letter curtly informed her that he'd be stopping off in Los Angeles for two days before his aid mission left for Hong Kong, and asked that if the date coincided with her calendar she might join him for lunch at the Bel Air at 12:30 on the fifteenth of the month. And then came the little phrase that stirred her heart: No reply necessary.
As the date approached, Claire found herself getting leaden fingers while she practiced Lefty's favorite show tunes at the piano and unable to concentrate while she read over new properties for her clients. She figured if she went to a psychoanalyst like everyone else in town, or even to an advice-giving hairdresser instead of doing up her own French roll, they would have advised her to attend this reunion and just get it out of her system. After all, she had been contentedly married for over a year.
The morning of the lunch she felt like a fourteen-year-old. Lorenza couldn't understand why her lady had to try on everything in her closet just to meet a former father-in-law. Hats, gloves, sweaters, even some of the Dior suits that hadn't seen the light of day for ages were strewn around her dressing area like when one of those Hollywood wives got a divorce and held a luxury garage sale. The final choice was pretty boring, according to Lorenza's point of view: feet first, a pair of open-toed pumps; a slim white linen skirt with a subtle kick-flair; and a plain-necked cashmere sweater set.
Lorenza shook her head in the mirror behind Claire. “The signóra looks like she was just in a stick-up.”
“You think so? I look too naked without any jewelry?” On a scale of one to ten, her nerves were jittering at a twelve.
“Forse, the signóre's secretary dresses this much”—she held her forefinger and thumb a good two inches apart—“more exciting.”
“Oh, it's noon already. I haven't got time to change. I'll be late. Harrison hates late.” She had already spent two hours trying to get herself together. While Claire breathlessly ran into her bath to spray a last whiff of vanilla around her shoulders and then hurriedly brush out her hair, pins flying everywhere, Lorenza scurried to her own room and dashed back with her prized pop beads from Woolworth's. She snapped the fake pearls together at the back of Claire's neck, and assured the signóra that now she looked like the lady she was. In her rush, Claire barely noticed the bubble-gum-machine quality of her borrowed jewelry.
She parked her sports car beneath the bell-shaped leaves of a ginkgo tree and, pulling the scarf off her head, she quickly stepped under the Bel Air Hotel canopy and then over the winding pathway past the quaint stucco cottages and white-picketed rosebeds, as casually as she could.
Harrison was already seated. He stood when he saw her enter the restaurant and waited for her to walk over to their table. She was struck by how out of place he looked out here in Southern California, with his formal manners and aristocratic bearing. It was almost as if he had stepped off the set of a period film, a graying Gregory Peck immaculately tailored for his role as the distinguished ambassador in a war movie.
It had been almost two years since she'd seen him. And so many ruined lives ago. She was so apprehensive she was trembling, but she lifted her head and tried to disguise it. She might have pulled it off, too, if he hadn't taken her hand. Suddenly, every day, every hour away from him, the man she was destined to love, lifted away like an early-morning L.A. fog. The last time they'd been together, he had asked her to run away with him. He held her hand in both of his for a long moment and she left it there, confused and lost in remembrance, before she took her chair.
Their table for three was placed at the end of the room, far enough away from the others for privacy and overl
ooking a deep bay window. The empty chair seemed to symbolize that someone was missing. Their son. Claire bit her lip, not acting at all.
“You're looking well, Claire. I'm glad you agreed to see me.”
“I'm just glad you're feeling better. I was worried.” She was trying to remember what part she was playing: jilted fiancée, notorious murderess, or happily married Hollywood wife. She knew she was sitting a breath away from the only man she had ever loved, but she didn't have one clue how to behave. She needed direction. When the waiter came, she studied the oversized menu as if it might hold her next line.
“Smoked salmon, please, and the cold artichoke.”
“You won't mind if I have something heartier?” He smiled that sideways smile of his and suddenly she remembered her role. She watched him, mesmerized as he methodically sliced his tomatoes and precisely peppered his lettuce leaves, patting his napkin to the side of his chin. She couldn't detect any sign of a stroke. He appeared as in control as ever.
“Are you just passing through?” She was willing herself not to care.
“I've taken the chairmanship of the World Bank and am leaving in two days for Hong Kong and New Delhi. I shall be traveling about a month. We're putting together a new industrial program for emerging nations.”
Claire's eyes lit up. Of course he knew this would interest her.
“How exciting, Harrison. Building self-help infrastructure.”
“Exactly. Foreign aid by itself isn't enough. We only create enemies by giving starving people bottled water. We need to have them build their own wells. And then create jobs. Self-reliance is where I plan to take this project.”
“I couldn't agree more. How brilliant of you.” Claire was right at home. She didn't even need a cue card. She was already seduced by his humanitarian endeavors.
“You know, we have a representative from Eleanor House along on the trip. You've done a fine job there, Claire.” He reached across the table to pat her hand and then let his fingers tighten their grip. “Darling.”
Darling. She knew she should have winced at the word, but coming from Harrison's soft lips it sounded natural to her ears. But so did “Toots” now.
“Why don't you come along and supervise the children's part? You could, you know, as founder of Eleanor House.” The invitation hung in the air.
Claire was amazed. Here in Hollywood she had won a hard-eamed respect. To the rest of the world, however, she was still a fortune-hunting murderess. Had he conveniently forgotten, or was he just being polite?
“I've only just been put back on the letterhead.”
“Yes, I saw. It was noble of you to resign when things weren't going well.”
When things weren't going well. The euphemism for what had happened unsettled her. An artichoke leaf dropped from her fingertips onto the tablecloth.
“But I knew it was you who gave them the endowment that allowed them to continue. I matched it, you know. In Six's name.” His skin went sallow.
Claire couldn't help it. She wasn't a good enough actress. The tears welled up in her eyes. Hurt and anger exploded inside of her. “Where were you? I needed you.” Her shoulders started to shake. “He killed Six.” It was the first time she had uttered the truth. But she wanted him to know. “And you sent me there.” A year in Hollywood had taught her to reach down into the quick of her pain as if she were a method actress drawing on her own, very real, emotions. Except that she wasn't acting. “Everything in my life was in shambles and you never came.” She didn't care that her tears were falling like hailstones into her artichoke heart. The waiter headed in their direction did a quick military maneuver to skirt around their table. Whether it was a rich woman sobbing to her investment banker or an actress auditioning for a part, he decided to give table twenty-seven a wide berth.
Claire's eyes were livid with anger. “How could you just casually invite me for April in India or Pakistan after you left me penniless in an Italian jail cell? I wasn't even allowed to see my son buried.”
“Our son.” His skin was the color of ash. “It was out of my control.”
Claire bristled. Those were the exact words Tom had used when he'd ordered her to catch the next plane out of Rome, leaving everything, everyone, behind.
“But I can make it up to you now. Truly, Claire. I've got my health back. It was hearing about Six that caused my stroke.” He looked ashamed, as if by falling sick he had broken his code of honor along with her heart “Allow me to take care of both of us now.”
“It's just too late.”
“I'm free now. It's inevitable you'll hear about it, but I've tried to handle it as discreetly as possible. I've divorced Ophelia. I'm yours if you'll have me.”
She was frozen. Harrison was free. But what was she supposed to do? Drop Lefty? Fly away with a song in her heart? The man she had loved since she was eighteen, the minute she had laid eyes on him—no, before, that, the man who had materialized out of her Field's catalog dream book—was back again, pleading for her hand. And she had just given it to another.
“I understand if you need some time, darling. If you won't come now, we can be together in two months when I return.”
The waiter thought the Seberg look-alike must have got the part from the way she turned off the tears and determinedly attacked her peach melba.
“No, Harrison. It's too late for us. If only you could have come sooner.” She wouldn't leave Lefty. He might not be the one she loved, but he had been the one who was there when her life died. And sometimes being there was more important than love.
Lana Turner was coming to dinner. A very excited Lefty was trying to behave as if the star of The Bad and the Beautiful wasn't currently testifying in the L.A. courthouse in defense of her daughter, who was on trial for fatally stabbing hoodlum Johnny Stompanato. And Claire was trying to pretend that the man she loved hadn't just asked her to run away with him two days ago. And that her brain didn't have to shut off her heart to prevent her from following after him.
Baskets of fruit and flowers had been arriving at three-minute intervals from hopeful attendees. But Claire insisted that Lana be protected, so only the film star's most loyal friends and the cream of Hollywood society were invited. All day long the phones had been ringing off the hook. Everyone wanted to come to the Lefkowitzes’ dinner. The murder of Stompanato, Lana's lover, was making headlines all over the country, and this was Lana's first outing.
Lana was a client, and the film studio had insisted on this little dinner to show she wasn't being shunned by her peers, a real career-killer. So Lefty had arranged for supper under the flattering light of the Chinese lanterns around the kidney-shaped pool. Claire understood only too well the importance of making sure the lady felt welcome at the best table in town. She also felt the need to protect her guest of honor from the sharp pen of the press and any party crashers—and she felt the need to try to quell her own resurfacing emotions. The buzz in town was that Lana had stabbed her jealous lover in a knock-down-drag-out fight and that her fifteen-year-old daughter had taken the blame when the police stormed in, a loyal gesture to save her mother. Claire shivered in the warm air and wondered if Lana Turner's daughter had taken the blame to protect her. Dear God, she whispered, don't let someone else live the same nightmare I have.
The whole movie colony was desperate to witness this meeting. Would Claire and Lana embrace as sisters in violence? Would they tell one another the truth? The hand-picked guests included only one columnist—a friendly one—from the Hollywood Reporter who always spun out his column as Lefty dictated. So the little group was suddenly thrown off balance when Mrs. Cecile Juarez, descendant of one of the first families of Los Angeles and widowed owner of the LA. Mirror, showed up with Fenwick Grant instead of her nephew as her escort.
Grant saw Claire before she spotted him. He stood off to one side in the shadow of the pool house, studying his hostess, the woman who had sent the circulation of his papers soaring, the one whom his attack-dog columnist Anita Lace had ruined. B
ut somehow she had risen, Phoenix-like, out of her own ashes. She was moving gracefully among her guests, whispering a word here, lightly touching another on his arm, finishing one sentence as she moved on to the next person. Like a butterfly, he thought, only more interesting. She made all the other women look overdressed. She wore a slim black sheath that covered her obviously ample cleavage all the way to the collarbone but must have been designed by a superior architect, as it had no back at all. He had little time to wonder at anything else before Lefty tapped him on his elbow, Fenwick Grant's six-three shoulder being out of Lefty's reach.
“Hit the road, bub. You got a big set of balls showing up here.”
Grant, who combined a Harvard education with street smarts, wasn't easily intimidated. “I'm here with Cecile Juarez.”
“You're outta here. Listen, Grant, maybe someday I'll forgive you for what you did to my wife, but tonight isn't it.” Lefty practiced his own smooth brand of diplomacy. He was anxious to usher Grant out before Claire could be upset by his intrusion.
Grant turned to comply a moment too late. Claire saw him and walked straight over to one of the two people she despised most on the face of the earth. Somebody had to be blamed for all her tragedy, and tonight the fellow who broadcast the news, milking the story and getting rich off her troubles, was it. By now she knew enough about the newspaper business to know that Anita Lace had been working under his skillful direction.
In her high heels Claire was more of a vertical match for him than Lefty. Her haughty aquiline nose was just inches from his face.
“I assume you've blundered in by mistake and you're not a trespasser.”
Lefty brought his hands to his ulcer, hoping she wouldn't finish her thought.
“In case you don't bother to read your own newspapers, trespassers can be shot in this neighborhood. Happens all the time. When I moved to Bel Air, I think it was your Anita Lace who dubbed this street Murderer's Row. Are you leaving now, or would you like one last drink? How do you take your poison?”
The Chameleon Page 41
