One Shining Moment

by Gilbert, Morris

  “I’m going to take you up on your offer to keep Adam,” Lylah said as soon as she had put down the bulky sack. “If you feel like it?”

  “Oh, I’m fine—just twisted my ankle.” Bonnie pointed to her left ankle, which was obviously swollen. “Adam won’t be any problem—but it’s a long way for you to bring him.”

  “I’d rather you kept him, Bonnie.” Lylah smiled and patted the girl on the shoulder. “You’ve become indispensable to Adam and me. Well, the taxi’s waiting. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

  “Don’t worry if you’re late,” Bonnie said as Lylah left the house. “Adam and I will be fine!”

  Lylah got into the cab, saying, “Take me to the Triangle Pictures studio. Do you know where it is?”

  “Sure do!”

  Lylah sat back, relieved that she had solved the problem of taking care of Adam—at least for a time. All day as she worked, she went over in her mind what she might do with him until Bonnie was fit. But by the time she left the studio and got into a taxi, she was no closer to a solution.

  When the taxi pulled up in front of the house, she said, “Wait for me, please.” When she entered the house she found that Bonnie had fixed supper. “Why, how did you do this on that bad ankle?” she scolded. “You’re supposed to stay off of it.”

  Bonnie smiled engagingly. “It wasn’t hard. You can cook sitting down,” she said. “Send the cab away. We can’t waste all this food.”

  The meal was excellent—chops and fresh vegetables well-cooked and seasoned just right. “This is a luxury for me, Bonnie,” Lylah said as they finished. “Sometimes I’m so tired when I get home, it’s all I can do to open a can of soup for Adam.”

  “You work so hard,” Bonnie said. “People don’t have any idea what an awful lot of work it is to make a movie.”

  “No, but I like it.” Lylah got up, insisting, “Now, I do the dishes. You read a book to Adam. He’s about to go to sleep.”

  “Not sleepy!” Adam protested. He continued to protest, but by the time the dishes were done, he was lying on the couch, fast asleep.

  “It’s a shame to wake him,” Bonnie said. “Why don’t you two stay here tonight?”

  “Oh, we couldn’t do that!”

  “Why not, Miss Stuart? There’re three bedrooms. It’ll be late by the time you get home, then you’ll have to come all the way back here to leave him. It seems a waste.”

  Lylah was very tired. The thought of the long trip, and the idea of getting Adam there, then putting him to bed again seemed monumental. “Well—if you’re sure it won’t be too much trouble, I think we will stay.”

  “Fine! We can put Adam in the small bedroom, next to mine. You can take the large one at the end of the hall. There’s plenty of soap and towels in the bathroom. You can sleep in one of my nightgowns. I think I’ll go to bed myself—but I’ll be up to fix your breakfast in the morning.”

  Lylah felt a surge of affection for the young woman. “Thank you, Bonnie.” But the words seemed inadequate, so she went over and hugged the girl. “I haven’t met too many like you! I don’t know what Adam and I would have done if you hadn’t come along.”

  Bonnie looked embarrassed, then said, “Good night, Miss Stuart.”

  “Oh, call me Lylah, for heaven’s sake!”

  “Well, good night, Lylah.” She hopped out of the room, and her door closed softly.

  Lylah quickly put Adam’s pajamas on him, then tucked him in bed. She kissed his forehead, whispered, “Good night, Sweetheart,” then left, closing the door softly.

  She took a hot bath, then put on the nightgown that Bonnie had laid out. When she looked in the closet filled with men’s clothes she remembered that Bonnie had a brother who was out of the country. She found a blue cotton robe and slipped it on. It was far too big for her, but there was no one to see. She lay down on the bed but had to study her lines for the next day’s shooting, so she opened the small case and took out the notebook.

  She lay there, her lips moving as she went over the lines for an hour. Then she suddenly jerked upright and realized that she had nodded off.

  “This won’t do!” She got out of bed and made her way to the kitchen. The coffeepot was still half-filled so she turned on the gas and waited for it to heat. As she stood there, still mouthing lines, she suddenly heard a noise and turned quickly to see a shadowy figure at the window.

  Her heart seemed to freeze, for someone was forcing the window open!

  A burglar! Lylah had steady nerves, but she’d never been in a position like this. She thought of Adam, helpless in his bed—and of Bonnie. The window gave a creaking noise, then slowly began to open.

  I’ve got to do something! Desperately she tried to think of a weapon, but nothing came to mind. The house was isolated, well off the road, and there were no houses on either side for several hundred yards.

  As the window rose stealthily, she saw the large olla, a clay water pot, beside the door. It was filled with flowers, but she knew that it must be very heavy. Quickly she moved to pick it up and was gratified by the weight of the jar.

  The window uttered one final groan, then a leg was thrown over the sill. Lylah moved in the shadows, holding the heavy olla over her head. She was breathing in short gasps, and when the man came over the sill, she brought the jar down directly on his head.

  He uttered a slight cry, then collapsed on the floor. At once Lylah turned to throw the switch. He was a tall man with a short beard and a square face. His forehead was bleeding, but he was still conscious. Lylah took only one glance, then grabbed a lamp from a table, smashed it, and using the lamp cord, tied the man’s hands behind his back.

  When she was finished, the man gave a groan, then rolled over on his back and opened his eyes. He was confused and stared up at her. “What? . . .”

  “Just lie still,” Lylah commanded. “I’m calling the police, but if you try to get loose, I’ll break another pot over your head!”

  “Who . . . are you?” The burglar had brown eyes and crisp brown hair, slightly curly. “Why did you hit me?”

  “You’re a burglar. Now, be still or I’ll have to hit you again!” She moved to pick up another table lamp and held it as a weapon. Picking up the phone, she asked for the police—but at that moment, Bonnie came through the door, her eyes wide with alarm. “Don’t be afraid, Bonnie,” Lylah said briskly. “A burglar broke in, but I’m calling—”

  But Bonnie cried out, “Jesse!” Then she hobbled across the room to drop beside the prone figure. “Jesse—you’re hurt!”

  Lylah stared at the two—and a horrible thought came to her. “Jesse? Bonnie . . . this isn’t your brother?”

  But Bonnie was weeping as she tried to untie the lamp cord. “Jesse, are you all right?”

  Lylah slowly replaced the phone. She had never felt like such a fool in her life. Idiot!—you could have killed him! Taking a deep breath, she moved over to say, “Let me untie that, Bonnie.” She freed his hands and then pulled the man into an upright position. “Let me see that cut—” She put her hands on his forehead, then drew a sigh of relief. “It’s not too bad,” she said. “No stitches.”

  Jesse Hart had a broad mouth, and it suddenly turned upward into a smile. “My name’s Jesse,” he said. “Glad to make your acquaintance.”

  Lylah stared at him in shock. Most men would have been raging at her, but his brown eyes were calm. “I . . . I’m so sorry,” she murmured. “Does your head hurt much?”

  Jesse got to his feet, and she was surprised at how tall he was. He touched his head, then said, “Not too much.”

  “Let me wash it out. Bonnie, do you have any antiseptic?”

  Soon Lylah was bending over Jesse, carefully cleaning out the ragged gash. He sat very still, listening as Bonnie explained how Lylah had happened to be there. When she finished, he looked up, and Lylah’s face was very close to his. “Why, you have violet eyes,” he said with interest. “I never saw eyes like that.”

  “Didn’t you?”

/>   “Nope.” He studied her carefully, then said, “Well, if a fellow’s going to get his brains scrambled, he might as well have the job done by a beautiful woman with violet eyes.”

  Lylah couldn’t help smiling at his strange statement. “I’ve got your bed and your robe, too. But I’ll sleep with Adam.”

  Getting the bed situation straight took some time, but when Lylah finally lay beside Adam, she thought for a long time about Jesse Hart. I wonder how old he is? She decided he was in his late thirties, a little younger than she was. I’m glad I didn’t hurt him any worse, she thought drowsily. Then she dropped off into a deep sleep and dreamed of something she could never remember afterward.

  JERRY TO THE RESCUE

  Bingo—stop chewing that rug!”

  Jesse Hart had been telling Lylah and Bonnie how he’d been thrown in jail for vagrancy in Salt Lake City. When Bonnie mentioned that the huge St. Bernard that Jesse had picked up on his travels was chewing the rug to shreds, he gave a sharp command.

  “He doesn’t mind very well, does he?” Lylah observed.

  Jesse said loudly, “Bingo, keep on chewing the rug!” When the dog continued, Jesse nodded. “See how he minds?”

  “I see. He minds when he wants to,” Lylah smiled.

  “Exactly. He’s no slave to authority.” He rose and went over and smacked the dog on the head with a rolled up magazine. Bingo gave him a reproachful look, uttered a deep wuff, then rose and walked away, insult in every move of his massive body.

  “You hurt his feelings, Jesse,” Bonnie grinned. “I’ll go feed him. That always makes him feel better.”

  After Bonnie left, Jesse returned to where he’d been lying on the floor and stretched out. “Where was I? Oh, yes, in jail in Salt Lake City . . .”

  As Jesse rambled on giving the details of his adventure, Lylah leaned back in the overstuffed chair and watched him. During the two months he’d been in town, she’d come to know him very well. He was in the habit, she had discovered, of rambling over the country collecting facts about different places and unusual people—and then coming home to write it up. He didn’t make a great deal of money, he freely admitted, but it was an easy life. Now as she studied him, she knew suddenly why she found him so refreshing. He’s not tense like most people. I think he’s the most relaxed human being I’ve ever seen.

  Suddenly she broke into his story, asking, “Don’t you ever get anxious about what’s going to happen, Jesse?” When he turned his head toward her, a quizzical look in his warm brown eyes, she spread her hands out and said with something like exasperation, “Will you make enough money to live on? What if you get sick and can’t work? What’s going to happen when you get old?”

  “I am old,” he said comfortably. “Did you know that in the Middle Ages the average life span of a person was twenty-six years. I’ve already lived eleven years longer than that. As for the rest, well, as they say in France, pomme de terre.”

  “And what does that mean?”

  “It means ‘apple of the earth’ or ‘potato.’” He saw her look of bewilderment, then grinned. “I don’t know much French.” He rolled over on his stomach and did five one-arm push-ups. “Can you do this?”

  “No.”

  “You can’t?” He stopped and sat down, his brown hair falling over his forehead. He studied her carefully, noting the dressing gown she was wearing—it was made of purple flowered satin trimmed with fine lavender lace. He shook his head. “A chameleon would have a time if you stuck him on that coat of many colors. Why can’t you do push-ups?”

  Lylah threw up her hands in disgust. “You’ve got the mind of a fluttering butterfly!” she exclaimed. Drawing up her legs she hugged them and turned her head to one side in a critical glance. “Are all writers as wild as you, Jesse?”

  “Only the good ones,” he assured her solemnly. “The bad ones—the ones who make all the big money—they’re all as boring as accountants.” He came up from the floor in a smooth motion, sat down beside her, and studied her. “I’ve never known a big-time movie star. What’s it like to be famous?”

  “It feels tired,” she said. The day had been long, and the klieg lights had singed her skin and made her eyes burn. Lylah liked his teasing. Most men were either intimidated by her position—or were convinced that all actresses were totally devoid of morals. Jesse Hart treated her exactly as he treated everybody else, and he had not made any advances in any way since he’d come home. “What does it feel like to be a writer?” Lylah countered.

  “It feels poor.”

  “Don’t you want to make a lot of money?” she asked curiously. “Everybody else does.”

  “Not everybody,” he contradicted her. “Bingo doesn’t, and he’s happier than Douglas Fairbanks.”

  “How can you know that?”

  “Look into Fairbanks’s eyes sometime,” Jesse nodded. “He smiles all the time, too much, I think. But when you look into his eyes you can see he’s not happy. So that proves money doesn’t bring happiness.”

  “And Bingo is happy?”

  “Sure. He gets lots to eat, there’s usually a nice female who comes along, and he’s got me to take care of him. As the French put it, chemain de fer.”

  “And what does that mean?”

  “It means railroad. Road of iron, literally.” He reached over and touched her nose, adding absently, “Your nose is too short.”

  Lylah laughed explosively, reached up, and captured his finger, bending it back sharply until he cried out, then released him. “Keep your hands off my nose!” It amused her that after so many years of hearing men tell her how beautiful she was that she could take pleasure in Jesse’s manner of telling her she had flaws. “My nose is too short,” she said, “but nobody seems to care.”

  “I don’t either,” Jesse shrugged. “Mine’s too long, so I guess we average out.” He looked over at Adam who was asleep on the floor. Lylah had tried to put the boy to bed, but he’d begged to stay up and play with “Uncle Jesse.” Jesse had added his plea, and now he said, “That’s a fine boy, Lylah. Smart and good-looking.” He leaned forward and studied Adam’s face, then asked, “Does he look like his father?”

  Lylah Stuart was not usually at a loss for words, but now she said shortly, “Yes, I suppose he does.”

  Her abrupt tone caused Jesse to turn to her. He was, Lylah had discovered, almost infallible at reading people. Now he studied her carefully, then offered, “You must love him very much.” When she looked at him, he said, “When a woman reacts like you do she either hates or loves very much.”

  “He’s dead.”

  “But love is stronger than the grave.”

  “I . . . don’t want to talk about it, Jesse!”

  “That’s too bad—because I’m a good listener.”

  Lylah was more disturbed than she had ever been with Jesse. Almost angrily she said, “You’re just like the rest—can’t wait to find out all the juicy details!” Her violet eyes were filled with anger, and she shook her head, sending her rich crown of auburn hair in motion. “What do you want, more material for one of your stories? Are you writing something for one of those awful tabloid newspapers?”

  Lylah rose at once, and Jesse stood up. “I guess you’ve got a right to think that, Lylah—but it’s not true.”

  Lylah paused, turned, and stared into Jesse’s eyes. He said nothing, merely stood waiting. Suddenly Lylah’s eyes filled with tears. “I . . . I’m sorry, Jesse. I had no right to accuse you like that!” She struggled to keep the tears back, but the pressures of her job kept her on the edge. DeMille was a hard taskmaster, and she left the studio each day drained and empty.

  But it was more than that, she knew. The mention of Adam’s father had brought back bittersweet memories of the man she’d loved against all wisdom. She had only had him with her for brief periods, but as she grew older she was aware of a loneliness that she’d never known before. It was harder to rear a small child, especially a boy, than she had ever dreamed, and if it had not bee
n for the Harts, she would have been lost.

  Unsteadily she said, “You’ve been so good for Adam, Jesse. A boy needs a man. I’m the world’s worst ingrate, screaming at you. It’s just that . . . that . . .”

  And then to her dismay, she began to weep uncontrollably. Her shoulders shook, and tears streamed down her face. Jesse was shocked at the fear and strain he saw. It came close to being as near bottomless despair as he had ever seen. He had once been struck in the pit of the stomach so that he could neither breathe nor speak, and this seemed to be something like that. At once he stepped forward and put his arms around her. “Maybe,” he said gently, “I can help.” As he pulled her close, he felt the quick loosening of her body and heard the sobs she could not control.

  He said nothing but held her firmly. Her hair was rich and sweet, her body full and firm against him. She had more than the tawdry beauty so prized by many actresses. Her lips were broad and full, and the planes of her face were gentle and well formed.

  And then the weight went from his arms. She gave him a strange look, and he could not know that she was thinking, I was helpless—and he didn’t take advantage—as most men would. Pulling a handkerchief from the pocket of her dressing gown, she cleaned her face, then said, almost shyly, “Thanks, Jesse.”

  “Jesse Hart’s comforting service—we never close,” he said easily, then turned, saying, “I’ll put Adam to bed.”

  Lylah knew it was to give her time to collect herself that he did this, and she went at once to wash her face. The phone rang, and then Jesse called out, “Lylah, can you come to the phone?”

  “Yes.”

  Coming back into the living room, she noted that Bonnie and Bingo had come back and were sitting on the floor. Taking the phone from Jesse, she said, “Hello?”

  “Lylah?”

  “Pa, is that you?” She had given her father the phone numbers at home, at the Harts’, and at the studio, but he had never called her, not once. Sensing a tension in his voice, she asked, “Is something wrong?”

  “Yes, there is.” Anger colored the voice of Will Stuart, and he spoke almost harshly. “Lylah, we got to do something about Christie!”