The Memoir of Johnny Devine

by Camille Eide

  “Sharp, on-point writing immediately engages and makes it difficult to tear one’s attention away from this emotionally riveting novel. The romantic tension sizzles nearly from the beginning, and readers will often find themselves breathless from the sheer delight of it.”

  —RT Book Reviews, 5 Gold Stars, Top Pick

  2015 Reviewers’ Choice Award Nominee for Inspirational Romance

  “I love this story! The golden era of movies, a Clark Gable bad-boy turned good, and a woman with a broken heart learning to love again. A beautifully written story of redemption and second chances, this Hollywood romance is one that will leave you with hope. A fantastic weekend escape!”

  —Susie May Warren

  RITA- and Christy Award-winning, best-selling author of the Christiansen Family series

  “Film noir and gripping romantic tension leap from the pages of The Memoir of Johnny Devine like a perfectly choreographed dance. Camille Eide’s writing is poignant and lovely from the first page to the last.”

  —Carla Stewart

  Award-winning author of Stardust and A Flying Affair

  “Combining the romance of classic Hollywood, the intrigue of the Cold War era, and a stirring spiritual message, The Memoir of Johnny Devine is unforgettable. Eliza, John, and all the supporting characters are compelling, and Camille Eide’s strong and evocative writing brings the story to life. A novel to savor.”

  —Sarah Sundin

  Award-winning author of Through Waters Deep

  “There is not a false beat in this engaging story. Eide has managed to create an intricate plot that flows effortlessly from one page to the next. Full of insight, intrigue, romance, and faith, The Memoir of Johnny Devine is so well constructed, it makes me want to go right back to the first page and read it again. Highly recommended!”

  —Cindy Kelley

  Screenwriter, co-author of Traces of Mercy and Finding Mercy

  “Camille has written another heartthrob of a novel, with an inspiring beat of true love, beauty, and grace. The Memoir of Johnny Devine takes us from the Golden Age of Hollywood through World War II and into the Red Scare of the early 1950s, as it weaves a story of both despair and redemption. It’s a page-turner—literally a one-sitting story that I couldn’t put down until the very last word!”

  —Leslie Gould

  Christy Award-winning and #1-bestselling author

  “The Memoir of Johnny Devine is one of those special reads you hope to find but rarely do. The power of this story drew me in and refused to release me. When I was forced to put down the book, the characters went with me, and I couldn’t wait to return to its pages. It is brilliantly written and felt as if every fragment of story and nuance of character were real. It did not feel like fiction. Truly a must read.”

  —Bonnie Leon

  Best-selling author of The Journey of Eleven Moons and To Dance with Dolphins, 2015 RT Reviewers’ Choice Award Nominee for Inspirational Novel

  Ashberry Lane

  © 2015 by Camille Eide

  Published by Ashberry Lane

  P.O. Box 665, Gaston, OR 97119

  www.ashberrylane.com

  Smashwords Edition

  This book is available in print at most online retailers.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

  Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author's imagination or used fictitiously. All characters are fictional, and any similarity to people living or dead is purely coincidental.

  Published in association with Rachelle Gardner of Books & Such Literary Agency.

  ISBN 978-1-941720-30-1

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2015951809

  Cover design by Miller Media Solutions

  Edited by Rachel Lulich, Kristen Johnson, Andrea Cox, Amy Smith, and Tami Engle

  Scripture used in this book, whether quoted or paraphrased by the characters, is taken from the King James Version of the Bible.

  FICTION / Christian Romance / Historical

  Table of Contents

  Endorsements

  Read the Book

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Discussion Questions

  Other Books by Ashberry Lane

  There is neither Jew nor Greek,

  there is neither bond nor free,

  there is neither male nor female:

  for ye are all one in Christ Jesus.

  Galatians 3:28

  To Mom, my anchor

  a woman of class and grace

  a true tender heart

  After all the women I’ve known and all the illusions of romance I’ve helped create on stage and film, you’d think I was Hollywood’s leading expert on love. In fact, many people not only believed this, but banked on it.

  ~The Devine Truth: A Memoir

  1

  October 1953

  Laurel District, Oakland, CA

  A tiny cyclone of dry leaves raced ahead of Eliza as she crossed 35th Avenue, urging her to hurry. Or perhaps, more likely, the urge to hurry was coming from her stomach. The warm, leaf-scattering breeze caught the hem of her skirt and swirled it around her knees, quickening her steps all the more. Her heels clicking across the pavement sounded like a tiny horse’s hooves.

  At the entrance to Lucky’s Diner, Eliza stopped and searched her sweetheart handbag—a gift from Betty, of course—just to make sure the money was still there. Eliza didn’t care what today’s Blue Plate Special was, as long as it didn’t cost more than fifty cents.

  Inside the diner, her stomach groaned at the smells of coffee and fried food. A waitress Eliza had not seen before worked the window side of the diner. Tugging off the scarf that barely kept her dark, collar-length curls in order, she followed the woman’s progress.

  The new waitress moved deftly from table to table. Perhaps this one would be friendlier than old Greta.

  Eliza hurried to the only empty window seat, then turned up her coffee cup and waited, shushing the embarrassing sounds coming from her insides.

  Anticipation must have awakened the sleeping beast.

  As she waited, she made a quick study of the other diners. Two young women, one with a toddler and the other with an infant, sat in the next booth. The baby peeked over her mama’s shoulder and blinked at Eliza with big, blue eyes.

  Eliza smiled until the baby broke out in a toothless grin. She widened her smile and waved her fingers, but the mother glared over her shoulder and quickly shifted the child down onto her lap. Cheeks warming, Eliza returned her hands to her own empty lap.

  A man in a long, dark coat, seated at the counter, peered over his shoulder at her.

  She turned and focused her attention on the busy crisscross of traffic outside her window. Busy was good.

  “Coffee?” the new waitress asked, carafe in hand.

  “Yes, please.” Eliza poked her cat-eye glasses higher and read the name Peg on the waitress’s pin.

  Peg handed her a menu and filled her cup. “Holler when you’re ready to order, hon.”

  “I’ll have the Blue Plate Special, please.” Eliza took a scalding sip of coffee. Black as tar and bitter as always.

  Frowning, Peg watched Eliza gulp down her coffee. “Don’t you even want to know what it is?”

  Eliza set the half-empty cup down and smiled. “Whatever it is, I’m sure it’s divine.”

  As Peg left with her order, the jukebox blared to life.

  Eliza tapped her toes to the lively sounds of Les Paul’s guitar and Mary Ford’s
voice singing about her undying love for a boy named Johnny.

  Papa would have closed his eyes, tuned out the sounds of traffic and café chatter, and focused on the sound of the guitar. After listening to a song once or twice, he would practice for hours until he could play it note for note.

  With a sigh, Eliza shelved the memory. The last time she saw her parents was in 1938, just a week before her high school graduation. They had looked so full of life, waving goodbye from the train as it pulled away from the station, promising to return with pennants from Fresno State for her and Betty, and with any luck, two full-time teaching jobs. Papa had been especially keen on teaching again. Eliza always suspected the lean years following the Great Crash had been harder on him than on Mama. But the only souvenir Eliza and Betty got from their parents’ trip was a telegram saying they’d been killed in a railway accident outside of Modesto.

  When her meal arrived, Eliza quickly assessed each item. The gravy-coated mashed potatoes and breaded mystery meat wouldn’t keep—those she would eat now. The dinner roll and dill pickle spear could wait. The green beans were questionable, but they would also wait.

  In the center of the plate, as either an added bonus or a mistake, rested a cluster of plump, green grapes. Since when had the standard bargain fare included fresh fruit? She looked up.

  In the long galley window, a toothy grin greeted her. Jimmy was cooking today. Of course.

  Eliza checked to see if anyone was watching, then raised her hand in a brief wave of thanks.

  Jimmy waved back, still grinning.

  Swell. Grateful as she was for the treat, she didn’t want to encourage a college boy. For some reason, Jimmy didn’t seem to understand that Eliza was at least ten years his senior.

  She ate slowly, marveling at the way warm potatoes could reach into the hollowest places. She cut the breaded mystery meat—which turned out to be chopped beef—into tiny bites and made her meal last longer with two more cups of coffee, a trick she’d learned from the girls in steno school. When she finished her allotted portion, she pushed the plate away, then drained her cup and signaled Peg for one last refill.

  “Pity you didn’t eat all your dinner,” Peg said, filling Eliza’s cup. She reached for the half-empty plate.

  “No!” Eliza grabbed the plate and pulled it close. “Sorry, I’m … not quite finished with that.”

  “Well, that’s good. Because just between you and me, doll, looks like you could stand to gain a few pounds.” Peg gave her shoulder a soft pat and moved along to the next table.

  Eliza tugged four napkins from the dispenser, unfolded them, and piled the rest of the food into the center of each. As she did, she felt eyes on her and looked up.

  The man at the counter was staring at her again, sending a tingle along her spine.

  She wrapped up the food and stuffed the bundles into her handbag. Whatever the stranger had in mind, she wasn’t interested.

  Peg returned with her check. “Will there be anything else? Dessert? More coffee?”

  “No, thank you.” Eliza smiled.

  Peg smiled back and waited.

  Ah, the tip! Eliza held her smile steady but wanted to slither beneath the table. She had only enough money to pay the bill and not a penny more. Betty would have kittens.

  Once Peg had moved on, Eliza dug like mad through her handbag, searching for anything of worth she could leave the woman. Or at least a scrap of paper to write an IOU on.

  Was she really so pitiful? No. This was only temporary; things would turn around soon. She just needed a break, a leg up. Perhaps the American Women’s Alliance would offer her a regular column now that she’d written a dozen articles for them, and one that paid in double digits for a change.

  She could just hear Betty now. Don’t tell me you have no choice, Eliza. Women of our class do not scrape by. Forget those crazy notions of yours and get yourself a husband.

  The trouble was, Eliza had already taken that particular advice, but marriage hadn’t been the fairy tale her sister had promised. Far from it.

  In the bottom of her purse, Eliza’s fingers grasped something cold. She pulled out a nickel.

  Her last nickel.

  She could buy a cup of coffee with that.

  Or … she could leave a tip. Peg had to eat too.

  She left the nickel beside her plate, then paid her check.

  The man at the counter rose and paid his check also. He left the diner a few steps behind Eliza.

  She hurried across the street and looked back, but the ogler must have gone another way. Eliza slowed her pace. She was in no hurry to trade the clean bay breezes for her stifling one-room studio.

  Since her last freelance job had just ended, the next thing on Eliza’s to-do list was to call the employment agency. Inside her building, Eliza ignored the peeling yellow paint in the lobby and looked around.

  With any luck, the super was occupied elsewhere and not hovering near the telephone eavesdropping on tenants’ conversations.

  She hurried to the hall at the bottom of the stairs, fully expecting to wait in line for the telephone, but for once, none of the other girls were using it. She gave the number to the operator and waited to be connected, fingers crossed.

  It didn’t take the receptionist at the agency long to answer Eliza’s query. Still no typist or stenographer work.

  Not ready to give up, she headed upstairs to her apartment for her telephone book. There were still a couple of former contacts she could try again. But as she neared the top of the stairs, Eliza nearly tripped on the last step.

  Her sister waited at the apartment door.

  Kit-Cat’s steady ticking seemed louder than usual—as if to announce that there was an intruder in the room.

  Betty must have heard it too, because she looked over her shoulder at the clock and made a huffing sound. “I positively despise that thing.”

  Eliza sighed. She happened to love that clock. It was different.

  “It’s tacky, Eliza. I hate the way the eyes move back and forth with the tail. It gives me the heebie-jeebies.”

  All the more reason to love it. Eliza hid her smile.

  Betty swept a narrowed gaze across the studio apartment.

  Why had she come? With a husband, two neatly groomed kids, and a picture-perfect home surpassed only by Ozzie and Harriet’s, Betty was far too busy for drop-in visits. She only ventured down from Richmond Heights when something she couldn’t be caught dead without wasn’t available there.

  As Eliza waited, Betty continued her scrutiny, shaking her blonde head at the narrow sideboard just big enough for a hot plate, electric coffee pot, two saucers, and a cup. She frowned at the small café table in the center of the room where Eliza’s ancient typewriter left no room for eating. Which was a moot point.

  Betty grimaced at the threadbare chair, the rickety bureau, and lastly, Eliza’s twin bed. Which she’d forgotten to make.

  She hadn’t exactly been expecting company.

  Betty shook her head. “Darling, you really need to—”

  “Betty, please. Don’t start.”

  “What? I just want to see you happy. It’s not too late, you know. You’re still young. And ten years of mourning is plenty sufficient.”

  Mourning? Was that what her sister thought she’d been doing?

  “You’re throwing away the best years of your life, Eliza. What’s all this writing and working yourself stick-thin getting you? Not a home of your own, that’s a fact.” She frowned, dark-blue eyes seeming genuinely confused. “What kind of a woman doesn’t want a home of her own?”

  “The kind who would rather have no home than a miserable one,” Eliza said quietly.

  Betty stared at her, barely masking her disbelief. “Just because your marriage wasn’t ideal is no reason to throw away your—”

  “Ideal?” Eliza stiffened. The only “ideal” thing about her marriage to Ralph Saunderson was that he joined the army the minute he heard about the war, giving Eliza a chance to lick h
er wounds in peace.

  And then the selfish brute got what was coming to him.

  Burning with shame, Eliza went to her bed and straightened the bedding, forcing the awful thought from her mind. A good wife would feel grief, not relief, at the news her husband had been killed in battle. But then, a good wife would probably do many things Eliza had never mastered, like turning a blind eye to his cheating. Or to the fact that he’d named some other woman his beneficiary.

  Taking up her pillow, Eliza turned to her sister. “I don’t want to argue with you, Betty.”

  “Good.” With a sigh, Betty moved closer, her brow creased. “What do you want?”

  Eliza fluffed her pillow and lifted her shoulders in a shrug. “I just want … to feel complete.” She frowned. It wasn’t a notion she’d ever entertained, much less voiced aloud.

  “Well, sure you want to be complete, darling. Hence the need for a husband. Isn’t that what I’ve been saying all along?”

  Eliza tossed the pillow to the head of the bed, suddenly weary of the pressure to accept this destiny, to measure her worth by her home and what man she belonged to. Betty seemed so certain, and yet at times it all seemed like pretense, like the silent lie Eliza had lived once and swore she would never live again.

  “I don’t think a woman should get married just so she can have an automatic dishwasher and a full Frigidaire,” she said.

  Betty’s cheeks reddened, nearly matching her bold, red lips. “You make married women sound shallow.”

  Eliza shrugged again.

  “Please tell me that’s not what you think of me.”