“No, nothing.” Duncan was aware that he had been rebuffed and was amused. A million women would have been delirious at the chance to have an arm squeezed by one of the foremost matinee idols from Hollywood, but Lylah Stuart was not one of them. He was wearing the uniform of a lieutenant and looked spotlessly handsome as he stood beside her. “She’s only done one role in Hollywood. I suppose you know that?”
“No, I don’t know much about films.”
Duncan liked her honesty. “She’s made a dozen or so films playing young girls. She and her new husband, Doug Fairbanks, along with Charlie Chaplin, are the hottest stars in town. Can name any figure they like and get it.”
“That must be nice.”
Howard Duncan shrugged. “I’d like to find out, but I’m just one of the spear carriers.”
Lylah gave the actor a startled look. “But you’re costarring with Miss Pickford!”
Duncan pulled a silver cigarette case from his pocket. He offered her one, and when she declined, he extracted a cigarette, snapping the case shut. He seemed to be amused at her innocence and took his time lighting the cigarette. “It doesn’t work that way, Lylah,” he said slowly. “There are half a dozen big names in pictures, and they get the lion’s share of the money. The rest of us toil and wait for the big break.” He studied her carefully, then said, “You don’t know this world, do you?”
“No, not at all. I’ve been on the stage since I was seventeen—and for the past few years in Europe.” She looked around at the set, shook her head, and said doubtfully, “I’d never learn to do this sort of acting.”
“Sure you would. If Cecil B. DeMille says you can do it, you’ve got the goods.”
“He liked me on the stage, but I don’t know if I could do that scene as Miss Pickford just did.” Her eyes widened with disbelief, and she said, “She showed that expression ten times, and I couldn’t see any difference. On the stage, you get one chance, and that’s it.” She smiled suddenly, then laughed aloud. “I can just see a director of a stage play calling out, ‘Just a minute, Lylah, you didn’t smile right. Run through it again.’”
Duncan found this woman very exciting. He was bored with empty-headed starlets who came to him willing for anything, for he knew they were tigresses ready to kill for a career in the movies. He had been surprised when DeMille had told him how much he admired Lylah Stuart. “She’s theater, Howard,” the bald-headed director had insisted. “We need talent like that in Hollywood. I’m going to sign her—if I can get her.”
DeMille was a power in Hollywood, and when he had asked Duncan to entertain the visitor, he had agreed. He had been surprised to discover that Lylah Stuart was not as young as most aspiring actresses and had commented on the fact to the director. DeMille had given him a knowing smile. “She has maturity, Howard, and real beauty, not the cheap prettiness we see so much of. Look at her bone structure when you meet her. You’re a woman’s man, you’ll see what I mean.”
And now as he chatted with Lylah, Howard Duncan understood what DeMille had meant. She’s got the same features as Bernhardt, he thought, and it’ll come across on the screen. He had been surprised to discover that she seemed to be immune to his charms, but he was pleased in some perverse way. Easy success with women had been exciting when he was younger, but somehow the regal beauty and the ease with which she refused his approaches made her more attractive.
“Well, tonight we’ll have more time to talk. Did DeMille tell you I’d be taking you to the premier?”
“Premier?”
“Why, you are naive, aren’t you?” Duncan said. “It’s the world premier of The Mark of Zorro, starring Douglas Fairbanks. You’ll find it exciting. I understand Doug does everything but turn himself inside out.” He heard his name called and looked up to see DeMille waving him to the set. “I’ll pick you up at seven, all right?”
“I’d like it very much.”
Howard Duncan paused long enough to smile at her, and he was charming at such times. “I even promise not to squeeze your arm, Lylah.”
“And I’ll promise you the same, Howard.”
Duncan laughed in delight. “Fair enough—but I may change the rules later. What will you do this afternoon? Watch me win the Great War?”
“No, I’ve got to find a nanny.”
Duncan gave her a bewildered stare. “A . . . goat?”
Lylah laughed again, making a charming picture. “No, that’s what the English call a lady who cares for small children. I have a two-year-old son, and I’ve had a terrible time finding someone to keep him.”
“Well, I’ll volunteer for anything but that, Lylah. I’d like to meet your son, though.”
He left, and as the crew went into action for the next scene, Lylah left the set and made her way to the exit. Mr. DeMille had assigned her a car, and the driver opened the door, asking, “Yes, Miss Stuart?”
“Take me to my apartment.”
“Yes, Miss Stuart.”
On the way to the apartment building, Lylah thought hard about what Hollywood had proved to be. She had discovered that there was no Hollywood in the sense of a movie capital, only villages set in orange groves and onion fields with dusty roads to connect them. Scattered over the area were studios, usually barnlike structures with no charm or beauty. Inside them she had been amazed at the skill with which carpenters and plasterers could change a set. One day the actors were in a Louis XIV French palace, the next they might well be in a slum of Chicago.
Since the pictures were silent, as the scenes were shot the director would constantly shout instructions such as, “Scowl, Madeline! Look like you’re going to bite him!” Or, “For Pete’s sake, Howard, you’re supposed to be in love! Look like it!”
She had met William S. Hart, the cowboy star, and Pola Negri, the most sensuous woman on the screen, so Howard had informed her, Charlie Chaplin, and a host of minor actors and actresses she could not remember now. It was a confusing world, and she dreaded the thought of leaving the theater, which she had learned to love.
She stepped out of the car in front of her apartment, saying, “I won’t need you anymore today, Steven. Pick me up at eight in the morning, please.”
“Yes, I’ll be here, Miss Stuart.”
Lylah took the greeting of the doorman, walked across the Italian marble floor, and rode the elevator to the sixth floor. The elevator operator, a young woman wearing too much makeup, made her usual plea. Her name, or so she claimed, was Gloria Starr, and she would have killed her grandmother to get into the movies. “Did you mention my name to Mr. DeMille, Miss Stuart?”
“I didn’t talk to him, Gloria.”
A pout appeared on the girl’s full lower lip, and she retorted, “I guess you’re too busy to pay any attention to me!” As she brought the elevator to a stop, she maneuvered the car until it was six inches short of the floor. “Or too jealous of us young ones,” she snapped nastily, glaring at Lylah.
Lylah gave the girl a look of disbelief, but said only, “I don’t have any influence with Mr. DeMille or anyone else.” She stepped up to the level of the floor and made her way to the door of her apartment. It was an expensive hotel room, but DeMille had insisted that it was rented full-time by the studio and would be empty if she didn’t stay there.
When she stepped inside she was almost knocked off her feet as Adam lunged into her, grabbing her legs in a tackle. “Adam!” she cried, catching her balance. “What in the world!—”
“Playing football!” he said, looking up at her. He was a sturdy child with handsome features. He was also a willful child who would allow himself to be pulled to pieces rather than give up an idea that lodged in his round blond head. “Come and see,” he said suddenly, and grabbing her arm, he pulled her into the living room—where she saw Miss Potter asleep on the couch.
“She sleeping,” Adam announced. “Won’t wake up and play with me.”
Even as Lylah leaned over the woman, she smelled the strong scent of liquor, and her eyes fell on the empty bottle
that had fallen to the floor. Anger exploded in her, and she jerked the woman upright.
A nasty scene followed, one that she wished Adam hadn’t seen. The woman, who had been sent by a “reliable” agency, was argumentative, profane, and abusive—totally unlike the personality she’d shown Lylah earlier. When Lylah finally got the woman outside, Adam came to her asking, “She sick?”
“Yes, sweetheart, she was sick.”
“I don’t like her. You stay with me, Mum.”
Lylah reached out and hugged the boy, holding him tight. “I wish I could, Adam, but Mum has to work.”
“Why?”
“Because I need money so I can take you out to eat. Come on, let’s go.”
“Can I have ice cream?”
“Yes.”
“And candy?”
“All you want!”
Adam laughed, and the two left as soon as possible. As they walked toward the restaurant, Lylah asked herself, What am I going to do? How can I leave him alone with strangers?
Getting a contract from Triangle Pictures proved to be the simplest of the goals that faced Lylah. Cecil B. DeMille was so ardent in his praises of her after a series of tests that the owner of Triangle, Thomas H. Ince, offered her a lucrative deal for three pictures. When Lylah accepted his contract, she received a healthy advance and found a small house on the same side of town as the studio. For three weeks she worked hard on the new picture, while at the same time fighting to give Adam as much of her time as possible.
But finding a woman to serve as housekeeper and nursemaid proved to be a formidable task. She tried four women, one after another, but none of them came anywhere close to suiting her. Finally in despair she said to Howard Duncan—her costar in the film she was making for Ince—“I don’t think I can go on, Howard. It’s driving me crazy!”
The two of them were sitting in her living room, where they had come after a hard day at the studio. The picture was called Desert Love, and much of it was shot outdoors in the desert surrounding Hollywood. The July sun furnished plenty of light for the cameras, but it also scorched the skins of the actors. Duncan had been sunburned so badly he almost quit, and despite all her care, Lylah had suffered almost as much.
She picked up a tall glass of iced tea, swallowed it thirstily, then lay back against the overstuffed pillows on the couch and closed her eyes. “How many incompetent, lazy, drunken, slovenly women are there in this town?” she said. “I can’t go through them all until I find one good one!”
Duncan reached over and took her hand. She opened her eyes at once and looked at him. He laughed and released it. “You’re like a set trap, Lylah. Can’t I touch you without having you give me that look?” He opened his eyes wide, mimicking her, adding, “Not every man you meet is out to get you into bed.”
“But you are, aren’t you, Howard?”
Duncan stared at her nonplused, then threw back his head and laughed. “Yes,” he admitted, shaking his head. “I’ve never deceived you about that.”
“Why don’t you give up and start chasing those starlets who stare at you so longingly?”
“They bore me. They’ve got brains of oatmeal!” He leaned back and studied her closely, then said abruptly, “You don’t suppose I’m falling in love with you, do you?”
“Would that be so bad?” Lylah smiled at the shocked look on the handsome face. “You’re really good with children. Adam adores you. Wouldn’t you like to have some of your own?”
“Good heavens! Think of it—six or so miniature Howard Duncans set loose on the world!” His expression amused her, and he laughed at himself. “That would be rich, wouldn’t it, Lylah? As many young ladies as I’ve managed to escape from—and now to think you may lead me to the altar.”
“I’m too old for you.”
But Duncan grew serious. The thought of marriage, having been far from his thoughts for years, now seemed rather close. “You know, it might not be too bad. If Fairbanks and Pickford can do it, why not us?”
“Because I don’t want to come between you and the person you love,” Lylah said quickly.
“What’s that?” Duncan demanded.
“I’d hate to break up the romance of Duncan and Duncan.” Lylah rose, laughing at the expression on Howard’s face. “If you ever fall out of love with yourself, we’ll talk about it, Howard. Now, get out of here. I’ve got to get on the phone and try to find another nursemaid for Adam.”
“Are you offering enough money?”
“Yes, that’s not it.” Lylah handed Howard his hat and shoved him toward the door. When she opened it, she suddenly pulled him close and kissed him on the lips. Then she pushed him away as he reached for her. “For an actor, you’re not a bad fellow, Howard. Good night. I’ll see you tomorrow—if I can find a nanny.”
But she didn’t find a nanny that week, and the succession of part-time women was not suitable. She came home time after time to find Adam in poor shape. Some were too lax, letting the child do whatever he wanted, while others were so strict that they drove him to tears.
When the cameras rolled, there was no excuse. Every actor and actress was in place. This was especially true of DeMille’s pictures, and Lylah understood that she had no choice. Finally a day came when she was not in any of the scenes, and she determined to spend the whole day with Adam. She rose early, cooked a good breakfast, and then got on the phone. She arranged with the employment company to interview two applicants after four o’clock, but she had little faith in the results. She determined to place an ad in the paper, hoping that she would strike gold, but that approach, too, seemed doubtful.
She and Adam had a fine morning. They walked down the streets, and when Adam spotted some ponies for rent on a vacant lot, she stood there as he rode all six of them. “Can I have a pony?” he demanded as she lifted him off.
“Someday, when we have a house in the country,” she promised. She led him to a small cafe where they ate ham sandwiches, then ice cream, and then he was ready for more sight-seeing.
Lylah asked a cab driver what was in the city that a child might like, and he said, “Why, the zoo, ma’am.” He had a thick southern accent, and he took the two of them to a nice zoo on the outskirts. Lylah gave the cabbie a healthy tip, saying, “If you’ll come back in two hours, I’d like to go home.”
“Yes, ma’am!” He nodded happily. “Be right here!”
Adam had a fine time, and so did Lylah. They walked through the zoo, and Adam was amazed at the animals. Finally, however, he grew tired, and the two of them found a grassy bank close to a pond where pink flamingos waded in the still water. Adam watched for a time, then he came to sit beside her. His eyes were heavy, and when Lylah lay back and pulled him to her, he quickly dropped off to sleep in the fashion of a two-year-old.
Lylah herself was exhausted, and as she held his head on her shoulder, became drowsy. She looked down at Adam’s face and seemed to see the face of his father, Baron Manfred von Richthofen. And then she fell asleep and dreamed of the time back in the dim recesses of the war when she had fallen in love with the famous German ace. It was one of those dreams when she seemed to see herself from a far distance, as if she were watching herself in a play:
The snow was on the ground, and Manfred took her into the woods. They stopped close to a small creek, and he said, “Quiet now. A stag may come to drink.”
And finally a beautiful doe stepped out, and Lylah could not shoot. Manfred lifted his gun, and two shots rang out. He ran forward, put his gun down, and pulling a knife, slit the throat. The blood made a crimson fountain, and when he came back to stand beside her, his hands were bloody. He wiped them clean, then asked, “Why didn’t you shoot?”
“I don’t know. She was so beautiful.”
“Yes, but deer are put here by God for us to use as food.” And then he asked abruptly, “What about the war? Do you hate every German?”
“No, of course not! I don’t hate you—how could I ever hate you?”
The flier looked at Lyl
ah. Silence was thick in the forest, and finally he said, “We cannot be lovers. We are on different sides.”
But at these words, Lylah put her arms around him, kissing him passionately. When she drew back, she whispered, “Love isn’t a matter of politics, Manfred.”
They kissed again, and finally he said, “Lylah, we’re making a mistake to let ourselves be drawn together.”
And Lylah whispered, “I know, my dear. But I’ve been making mistakes all my life, and I can’t help it.” And she drew his head down—
Lylah awakened with a convulsive shock. She had dreamed that scene many times in the months that followed Manfred’s death, but she had thought it was over. Now she felt a bitterness, for she often felt guilt over bringing a fatherless child into the world—especially with such a father. The war was over, but many Americans had lost sons and brothers and husbands—and had strong feelings about Germans.
She sat up, abruptly aware that Adam was not at her side. Fear ran through her, but then she saw him down the slope. He was playing some game with a young woman, and Lylah drew a sigh of relief. She sat there, watching the two for a long time. The woman seemed very young, no more than fifteen or so. She had straight black hair, dark blue eyes, and an olive complexion—a very attractive girl. She was wearing a pale blue dress, and her dark eyes seemed to sparkle as she spoke to Adam. She laughed at something Adam said, and her laughter seemed to tinkle on the afternoon air.
Finally Adam caught her hand and drew her to where his mother sat. “Bonnie, Mum,” he announced. “She’s fun!”
“You two were having a good time,” Lylah smiled. “You’re very good with children. What’s your name?”
“Bonnie Hart,” the girl smiled. “You have a fine boy. I hope someday I have about six like him.”
“Well, to tell the truth, I have trouble keeping up with one like him.”
“He’s lively, but such a darling.”
“Mum, we take her home?”
Lylah laughed aloud and picked Adam up in her arms. “She’s not a stray cat, Adam,” she said. Then she sighed, “I wish I could take you home, Bonnie. To take care of Adam, I mean.”
One Shining Moment Page 5
