“Forced?”
“If I wanted to work. The studio was not willing that the public should know me in any way except as a scandalous, raven-haired, sultry femme fatale.”
“But that’s so crazy. You’d think they’d want to market you as an extraordinary woman, an incredibly beautiful and sexy woman who is also a brilliant scientist.”
Romy’s laugh was bitter. “Those were different times, Gena. Almost eighty years ago. In those days, women’s roles were carefully manufactured to reflect prescribed images of what women were supposed to be. Hollywood insisted that any woman who was a brilliant scientist—as you so kindly put it—had to wear glasses and shapeless suits and mannish shoes. And her hair couldn’t be raven. Only a dowdy, mousy brown would do. She certainly couldn’t be a world-class beauty. The studio people thought the public couldn’t accept anything other than a foolish stereotype. They believed that a different reality would scare them away from the box office. They were convinced that the truth about me would have a bad effect on their profit margin. So their lawyers drew up a nondisclosure agreement that forced me to be absolutely silent about my scientific work. Forever.”
She paused, took a sip of her wine, put the glass down, and looked away for a moment, and Gena sensed that she was about to reveal something more. Romy apparently needed some time before she decided to go on, and Gena wisely stayed silent.
Finally, with a deep sigh, and still looking away from Gena, as though she was confessing something shameful, Romy said, “The truth is, at that time, I really didn’t care if my scientific work was kept hidden. I was young and eager for fame, and much more interested in being that raven-haired, sultry, scandalous, femme fatale, with Hollywood recognition and a successful acting career ahead of me. I was ambitious and self-centered and valued movie stardom far above scientific achievement.”
“But now you want recognition for that, too?”
Romy nodded.
“What changed?”
Romy sighed again. “Many things, I suppose. Women have changed. We are growing up. All over the world, women are beginning to run their own lives, wherever they can. And the times have changed. It is almost eighty years from then to now. The inevitable growth of experience, wisdom, patience. One takes inventory of one’s life as the end comes close. One realizes that some things have lasting importance and others don’t. My name is virtually unknown today—go out on the street in any city in America and ask, ‘Who is Romy deVere?’ and only very old people may remember the name. And no one sees my films anymore—except perhaps film buffs, students of film, teachers, scholars who write about the old days. The scandals that lit up the tabloid world in those days were little more than children’s innocent fairy tales compared to what screams at readers today.”
And now Romy leaned forward, as though her reflective mood had shifted to one of serious engagement.
“Gena,” she said, “I remember the work my father and I did all those years ago, together in his study—working out the details of what we called a ‘radio steering device,’ figuring out carrier waves of shifting frequencies, working to find a technology that would keep bombardiers and battleships safer. And now I see the peacetime fruit of that work all around me. I see it in the cell phone you are using, and in the computers and laptops, and all the other electronic devices on which the explosion of instantaneous worldwide communication depend. I see it in the massive use of social media and all its political and economic consequences. Today’s Wi-Fi and Bluetooth, the cloud interface, the GPS in your car—Gena, it all, all, rests on the work Thomas Kanfer and his eager daughter did, sitting there in his study. We were so engaged—oh, I can remember as though it was yesterday, we were so fascinated by the possibilities. We understood the enormous military value our work would have. We understood the contribution we were making to the war effort of our new country and its allies.” She was glowing with the thrill of the memories that she was sharing, memories she’d been forbidden to share for so many years. Her beautiful deep blue eyes were flashing and her hands were clasped tightly, as though to keep her excitement from bursting out of her. “But we had absolutely no awareness then of what the world’s population would be holding in its hand decades later. Because of us! Do you understand, Gena? Because of us!”
In her mind, Gena’s story for Lady Fair was practically writing itself.
Oh, Lord. This is going to be so great!
“And now,” Gena said, “you want to come out from behind the curtain, to come out of the shadows. You want it to be no longer hidden. You want the role that you, Romy deVere, played in this century’s great electronic development to be seen and recognized by its proper audience. You want your work—and your father’s work—to be acknowledged by the entire world. You want to be known as the full person you are and have been, and not only as a Hollywood stereotype.”
“Exactly. I realize that I am still ambitious, though I live quietly here in my little cabin in the woods. I know now that I still want the world to know me, and not because I was once beautiful. I want the world to know me because I did something important. My father and I did something important, and I am so proud of it, Gena. I want to stand up and take the credit for what we did. Perhaps my father would not have cared. But I do. And I want to be able to speak about our work, without being gagged by that piece of paper I signed.”
“And the only legally safe way that could happen,” Gena said, “was for someone else to come along and spill the beans without your having said a word.”
“You have understood it exactly.”
The two women were silent, each thoughtful in her own appreciation of the other. Then each, slowly, began to smile, knowing that something good had happened here. And gradually, each woman felt her own small smile grow into a broad grin, broader and broader, until both women simultaneously broke out into uproarious and totally uncontrollable laughter, the infectious laughter that feeds on itself and cannot end until it reaches exhaustion. On Romy’s part, it was the inevitable result of decades of needing to keep a complex secret under tight control. And for Gena, it was a recognition that she’d engaged in an almost silly bit of mischief, that she was guilty of an impish complicity in a vaguely illicit scheme. As though she’d been a willing co-conspirator, helping Romy outfox the wicked Hollywood fat cats.
And so the two women drank more wine, let the dogs out to play, reviewed some of the details Gena would need for the magazine article, and then decided that Gena had had too much wine to drive back to New York that night, so she bedded down on the sofa in the front room, with her phone alarm set for six so she could get back to the office by nine, and with Wiley curled up next to her, she slept the—almost—dreamless sleep that comes after a day of good work done and the prospect of good work to be done again tomorrow.
There was one dream, though… It started out scary, with Warren playing golf, trying hard to drive the ball at Wiley, who was running frantically this way and that across the greens, with Warren’s boss standing by and laughing and cheering Warren on. And then Gena ran out onto the green to save Wiley, and Warren was driving the balls at her, too, but she grabbed Wiley up and ran away to the dog park behind the Met, making sure it was before nine in the morning, which was the safe time for dogs.
Chapter Twenty-one
“Where the hell have you been?” Warren was not at his best early in the morning.
“I’m on my way home. I told you where I was going.”
“Not a word from you all night, and all I know is you’re up in Connecticut somewhere with that old movie person. At least you could have called.”
“I told you last time: There’s no cell phone connection up there in the woods. I had to wait till I got to the highway.”
Why did he always make her feel like a little girl, explaining why she forgot her homework or lost her mittens?
“And I’m supposed to wait around until you feel like r
emembering about me? I didn’t know you were going to stay overnight.”
“I’m on the freeway, Warren. Can’t talk and drive. Talk to you later.” She shut off the call and tossed the phone into her bag.
Not worth driving dangerously just to listen to him scold me.
I wonder what Romy would have done.
That was a new thought. What would Romy have done? The answer was hovering somewhere beneath her conscious thought. But she wasn’t ready for it yet.
Instead, she engaged Wiley in her ruminations. He was, after all, a perfectly nonconfrontational listener. He didn’t argue with her, he didn’t catch her up in self-serving defenses, he was happy sticking his nose out the bit of window she’d cracked open, and he never got bored or demanded to know, “Are we there yet?” Every now and then he dropped down from his stance, front paws up on the edge of the door, and turned to Gena as though to assure her he was still listening to her. Then, after a nuzzle against her arm, he’d go back to letting the wind blow against his nose and ruffle the bit of hair on the tips of his ears.
“I don’t know what he’s so mad about. It’s not like he’s never away on business, and if he is, I always know he may be kept away longer than expected.” Almost a whole mile of freeway passed beneath her wheels before she spoke again. “And he knew I was going to be out of cell phone range.” After another mile: “Like whatever I was doing, I should be thinking about him.”
That’s when Wiley came over and put a paw on her arm, and she looked away from the road just long enough to nod an acknowledgement of his attention. “Here I am,” she said, her eyes back on the road, “with the biggest story I’ve ever had, practically dropped into my lap, and I’m sorry, Warren”—now she addressed the imagined boyfriend—“I can’t help it if you were not being attended to while I was putting together a real scoop, one that will have people talking, and, what’s more, a story that wouldn’t have happened at all if I hadn’t done some pretty clever journalistic sleuthing.” She realized she was pouting like a little girl. “I think you should be proud of me.” But her imaginary Warren just scowled his disapproval at her, and her one-sided conversation had not resolved anything. Wiley went back to his scenery-watching and wind-sniffing and Gena turned on the radio and forced herself to stop thinking about Warren.
Anyway, her stomach was reminding her that she’d left Romy’s cabin without stopping for breakfast, insisting she wasn’t hungry, didn’t have time, would get something along the way. Her real reason for leaving without a pause to eat had been that she wanted to get to the freeway, where she’d be able to call Warren as quickly as possible, but for some reason she didn’t want to say that to Romy. But now that she’d had her brief call with Warren and he would no longer need to be worrying about her, she decided to stop as soon as possible to get something to eat—and give Wiley a chance to pee. And with that decision, she found her mind focused on the day ahead, the story she’d be writing, the details that needed to be put together, the further research that might be needed. Already, the outline of the story was taking shape in her head.
Out loud, she said, “The character is the challenge, not the cheekbones.”
These words would be the opening sentence.
* * * *
Even with a quick stop at a service station for coffee and a couple of doughnuts, and giving Wiley a minute to visit a couple of trees at the edge of the station’s parking area, she was back on Seventy-Third Street before eight-thirty. Warren had already left for the office, and when she came into the apartment she found a note on the kitchen table:
Viv says she’ll come by to walk the dog. She has the key.
Try to make some regular arrangement for him, okay?
I don’t like people coming in here when no one’s home.
There was a second note, next to the first.
Do we really need to have a dog?
Chapter Twenty-two
“Tell Marge I’m glad she’s back, and I need to see her as soon as she has a minute. Maybe more than a minute. Important.”
Gena was bursting with the news for Marge and sent Selma scurrying off with the message before she even got herself settled in. A scoop on two stories! The wedding of Sonny Gaile and Tim Fine on Monday, and the revelations about the secret wartime inventions of a long-ago beauty icon. They’d be reaching two markets—the younger readers with the Sonny Gaile story, and their more “mature” readers, the women who thought they knew all about Romy deVere but would now be astounded to learn from the pages of Lady Fair the secrets she’d kept hidden for more than seventy years.
She’d no sooner got her stuff unloaded when her phone signaled a message from Marge:
Good news? Bad news? Can it wait till noon? Swamped up here.
She texted right back:
Good news. It can wait till noon. Welcome back.
There was plenty for her to do till noon. She’d had no chance to talk with Ira about the new angle on the shoot in Tennessee, so she called his office to arrange to meet with him at ten. Brittney had already faxed over the nondisclosure forms that everyone would have to sign. As soon as the legal department okayed the forms and got them signed, they’d be faxed back to Brittney.
Ira took the shift in the assignment with no fuss. That was one of the great things about working with him. Never any dramatics, just purely professional. But he loved the idea of a wedding at Sonny’s cabin and got Brittney’s contact information from Gena so he could talk with her about the physical layout—indoors? outdoors?—time of day for the ceremony, sunlight orientation, what people would be wearing. Before Gena left his office, he stopped her on her way out to say that it had been a big moment in his life to have had a chance to photograph the great Romy deVere, and that he looked forward to the story.
“Oh, it’s going to be an interesting one,” Gena said. “And your photos are always great, Ira. I know Romy’s going to love them.”
She left him with a big smile and a thumbs-up.
Barely back at her desk and her phone was ringing. Warren was calling.
“Did you remember to pick up another bottle of Glenlivet? We’re practically out and I told you last week—”
She cut him off. “Can’t talk now, Warren. Super busy. I’ll try to remember on my way home tonight.”
And as she hung up, she heard him saying, “How could you manage to forget? I specifically—”
She sat still for a moment, feeling set back on her heels. She’d been feeling so pleased with herself, so energetic and eager about all the positive things that were happening. But in Warren’s eyes, she’d failed again. Because she’d forgotten a chore he’d assigned to her.
She clamped her lips together and said aloud, “Nuts to you, Warren!”
She was about to turn her attention to the deVere story and the materials she’d want to show Marge, but again she was interrupted. This time it was a call from Viv.
“Just thought you’d like to know: I went over to your place to take Wiley out. And we were walking along Madison, right by that store where they sell the flowers, on the corner at Seventy-Ninth Street? Next to the real estate place?”
“I know the place.”
“Well, we were walking along there and a man stopped me. He said, ‘Do I recognize Wiley?’ So I figured he must know you.”
“Did he have a small white dog with him?”
“Yes, he did. You know who he is?”
“Yes. And you do, too. Or, at least you know the dog. That’s Sweetie Pie. Remember her? Harriet van Siclen’s Powderpuff Crested? And the man is Mrs. Van Siclen’s brother, Paul. He’s taking care of her dog while she’s in Australia.” She paused. She knew Viv was going to be full of questions. “We’ve met a couple of times, dog walking.”
“He’s good-looking, in a hedge-fund manager sort of way. You know. Sedate and ruthless.”
“I didn’t t
hink he was ruthless.”
“Maybe I’m wrong.”
“Hmm.”
“But he’s kind of cute.”
“Kind of.”
“How old, do you think?”
“I don’t know. Late thirties, maybe.”
“Forty?”
“I don’t think so.”
Both women were silent for a moment.
“Anyway,” Viv said, finally, “he asked for you. Said he hadn’t seen you for a couple of days. I told him you’d been away. I didn’t tell him you were already back in New York.”
“No reason why you should.”
Another long pause.
“So. That’s it?”
“Of course. Why?”
“I don’t know, Gena. I just thought he looked sort of nice.”
“Come on, Viv. Are you trying to promote something between Paul and me?”
“I’m just saying.”
“I know how you feel about Warren.”
“I’m just saying.”
“Well, you’ll have to stop ‘just saying.’ You’re going to have to let it go, Viv. Anyway, I gotta go. Meeting with Marge Webster at noon.”
“All right. But the guy is kind of cute.”
“Goodbye, Viv!”
“Okay, okay.”
* * * *
“Okay, Gena, what have you got for me?”
You’d never know, looking at Marge Webster sitting there at her desk, in her cool Chanel suit and her picture-perfect dark hair and her great jewelry, all gold and a mile thick, that she’d just come in on a redeye flight from Milan after a week in the hectic and highly concentrated rush of a major fashion event.
“So glad you’re back,” Gena said. “A lot going on here. First of all, there’s a big, big addition to the Sonny Gaile story.” Marge lifted her head and pursed her lips, all attention. “Sonny’s publicist called. Brittney Brisken. You know Sonny and his partner, Tim Fine, have been together for over a year?” Marge nodded. That was one story that was familiar to anyone who stayed clued in to celebrity news. “Well, item number one: Sonny and Tim are getting married.” Marge’s eyebrows rose. This was news. She could smell what was coming. “And they’re giving Lady Fair an exclusive on the story.” Marge added a nod of her head to the pursing of her lips.
Who Do You Love? Page 11
