“Knew him?” Grandma crossed her arms at her chest. “I dated him.”
I almost choked on the grape at that one. “You did?”
“Sure. Dated a lot of those fellas back in my day.” She let out a girlish giggle. “Kirk Douglas. Henry Fonda. Steve McQueen.”
I did my best to absorb this news. “I knew you worked with them, Grandma, but, dated? Was this before you married Grandpa, or after he . . .” I didn’t want to use the words “passed away,” so I left the sentence hanging in midair. We rarely talked about my grandpa, but I could tell my grandmother still pined for him.
“Both.” Grandma wiggled her penciled brows and a mischievous look settled on her face. “You don’t know everything there is to know about me, KK. Trust me. Your grandmother was quite the looker, back in the day. Folks said I had star quality.”
“I’ll say.” Scott let out a whistle as he paused in front of a beautifully framed black-and-white eleven-by-fifteen photograph of Grandma, taken in the early ’60s. “You were . . . are gorgeous, Lenora.” He turned to face her, showing off his pearly whites. She appeared to be dazzled by him.
Her soft, wrinkled cheeks turned pink as she shushed him. “Aw, go on with you.” When he paused, she gave him a stern look and punched him in the arm. “No, I mean, go on with you. Keep going.”
“Ah.” He chuckled. “Well, as I was saying, you were quite a beauty back in the day and you’ve only gotten lovelier with age. Er, with time.”
I stifled a laugh and gave him a thumbs-up from behind her back. This guy was definitely a keeper. Great with kids, a fine actor, and he cared about my grandmother’s feelings. Who could top that?
Grandma Lenora paused in front of the photograph and sighed. “Those were the good ol’ days. Back then, Hollywood was really something to behold. Not like now.”
“What do you mean?” Scott glanced her way.
“Back then, the movies—and people—had substance. Women were beautiful, not . . .” Her cheeks reddened even further. “Not like these girls traipsing through Hollywood today. And back then you had to have talent—real talent. You couldn’t just depend on making it big because your parents were famous.” She looked my way and groaned. “Oops. Sorry, KK. Guess I walked right into that one.”
“No harm done.” I knew she hadn’t meant to accuse me with her words, but they’d hit the mark. No one doubted that I’d been offered so many opportunities because I was the granddaughter of the much-loved Lenora Worth. But that didn’t mean I was talentless. Right?
To his credit, Scott said nothing. Instead he continued to make his way around the perimeter of the room, gazing at every beautifully framed photograph. He paused in front of a picture of Rock Hudson and Doris Day. “I always loved their movies when I was a kid.”
“Me too.” I offered up a smile, reflecting on a couple of my favorites. Pillow Talk had always been a big hit at our house, and to this day I had half of the lines from Send Me No Flowers memorized.
Scott turned back and nodded. “They made such a great couple.”
Grandma Lenora snorted. She quickly recovered with, “Coffee, anyone?” then headed over to the silver coffee server and lifted it with a trembling hand. Coffee sloshed every which way, but I didn’t offer to help. I knew her pride wouldn’t allow it.
“Here you go, young man.” She gestured to one of the filled cups. “There’s cream and sugar, if you like it.”
“I do.” He added a sugar cube and a bit of cream to his cup.
“I was born during the Great Depression.” Grandma reached a trembling hand to grab the tiny sugar tongs. “So my parents never used sugar and cream. I guess they considered themselves fortunate just to have coffee, and they learned to like it black. I always drank mine black too. Until 1968, anyway.” She dropped a couple of squares of sugar into her cup, then added an extra one for good measure.
“What happened in ’68?” Scott asked, settling into one of the wingback chairs.
“Oh, that’s the year I got my star on the Walk of Fame.” She poured in several tablespoons of the flavored creamer and gently stirred it with a silver spoon.
Scott almost spewed his coffee at that news. “Y-you have a star on the Walk of Fame?”
“Well, sure. I can’t believe you didn’t know that. Anyway, the craziest thing happened that year. A revelation of sorts. The good Lord laid it on my heart that my depression years were behind me and I needed to start acting like it. I could afford the cream and sugar. Why not use them?” She grinned as she added another lump of sugar. “I’ve taken my coffee sweet ever since.”
Very sweet.
“Nice story,” Scott said with a smile.
It was a nice story, and I enjoyed hearing it again. Sometimes I forgot the rough patches my grandmother had gone through as a kid raised in the Midwest. I saw her only as a Hollywood legend, not the daughter of a Depression-era farmer.
Making my way to the sofa, I gave Grandma Lenora’s chubby gray calico a nudge. “Move over, Fat Cat.” He opened one eye just a slit, then closed it and dozed back off. Undeterred, I gave him a little push and he reluctantly yawned and stretched, then scooted over to the arm of the sofa.
“So, fat cat . . .” Scott gave me a funny look. “Does he have a real name?”
“That is his real name,” Grandma said, now gazing at the ornery feline. “It’s the only name he ever had.” She muttered something about all of the Hollywood fat cats she’d known over the years, and Scott chuckled.
“I love your sense of humor, Lenora. You make me smile.”
He made me smile. In fact, I felt like I was smiling from the inside out whenever Scott Murphy came around.
Carolina entered the room and swooned as she saw Scott. “As I live and breathe! It’s you, Scott Murphy!”
Embarrassment crept into his face. “Yeah, it’s me.”
Carolina gave Grandma Lenora a stern look. “You should have warned me. I would have fixed my hair. Put on a little lipstick. Here I am in my stretchy pants and faded T-shirt.”
“Oh, don’t worry about it,” Scott said. “To be honest, I much prefer a more natural look.”
I took my napkin and wiped off as much of my lipstick as I could while his attention was focused elsewhere.
“So, are you hungry, Scott?” Carolina asked.
“Am I ever!” He rubbed his stomach and all three of us women laughed. It had been a long time since we’d had a man in the house. Felt good.
We spent the next half hour eating Carolina’s delicious foods, which she served up with much chatter and enthusiasm. Between her stories and the ones Grandma told, I hardly got a word in edgewise. A couple of times I noticed Scott glance my way. I half expected to see a look of panic in his eyes, maybe a “get me out of here” expression . . . but no. He looked perfectly peaceful. Downright happy. And the happier he looked, the more comfortable I felt.
When we’d downed the last of the coffee, Grandma settled onto the fainting couch, a peaceful look on her face. “There’s something rather glorious about Saturday morning brunch in Beverly Hills,” she said. “It has always been thus.” A lingering sigh followed, which brought a smile to my face. Oh, the drama.
“I guess L.A. has changed a lot over the years,” Scott said.
She nodded. “Oh yes, but inside Beverly Hills it feels as though nothing has changed at all. It’s a world inside a world.”
“Not quite like it appears on TV, though.”
“Television shows these days don’t do anyone—or anything—justice,” she said. “But it wasn’t always that way. You can’t beat the old shows, not just for entertainment, but for wholesomeness too.”
I wasn’t sure what “old” television shows meant to her. To me, it meant reruns of Beverly Hills 90210 or The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air.
“What are we talking here, Lenora?” Scott asked. “Which shows?”
Her eyes lit up as she explained, “Why, the classics, of course. Father Knows Best. My Three Sons. Make Room for Dad
dy.”
Interesting that the shows she mentioned had something to do with fathers.
“I had the privilege of working with Robert Young,” Grandma said. “Such a gentleman. And you never met anyone nicer than Danny Thomas.” She sighed. “Now, those were the men who paved the way. True actors in every sense of the word.”
“What’s your favorite television show of all time, Lenora?” Scott asked, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. “Your very favorite.”
“Hmm. This is a tough call.” She thought about it for a few seconds. “If we’re talking comedy, nothing beats I Love Lucy. Well, except maybe The Honeymooners. I was always a sucker for slapstick.” She paused. “No, I’d still say Lucy beats ’em all for comedy.”
“I agree,” Scott said with a nod. “Great stuff.”
“They just don’t make ’em like that anymore,” Grandma said. “Of course, that’s just the sitcoms. But if we’re talking variety shows, then I’d have to say The Carol Burnett Show. Or maybe those Bob Hope specials. Was there ever anyone more entertaining than Bob?” She snapped her fingers. “Oh, but I can’t leave out Ed Sullivan. And Jack Benny. And Red Skelton.” She laughed. “And I loved Burns and Allen. Great stuff with those two. So funny. I used to laugh till I cried.”
We lost her at this point. She drifted off to television la-la land and we remained behind, simply observers as she relived some of her favorite moments. Not that I minded. Oh no. Not a bit. For through her eyes, I saw how Hollywood used to be, and I liked what I saw. These days, people were so focused on shock value, so riveted on money and ratings, that they didn’t spend as much time on the things that really mattered—the wants and wishes of the viewing public. And good, wholesome shows that provided the real deal—entertainment.
Which was exactly why I loved Stars Collide so much. It was a show we could be proud of. One I didn’t have to apologize for. One that deliberately—but gently—jarred the funny bone.
Grandma dismissed herself to the powder room, and Carolina headed back to the kitchen to do the dishes. Finally I had Scott to myself! I wanted to talk to him about what had happened between us. No sooner had I opened my mouth to begin the conversation than he rose and took a few steps my way.
“Can I sit with you?”
“O-of course.” I pushed the cat aside once again, and Scott settled into the spot next to me on the sofa. He took my hand and gazed into my eyes. I could feel the trembling in his hand, and it somehow made me feel better knowing he was nervous too.
“Kat, I want to tell you something. I feel so stupid for waiting this long. For nearly two years now I’ve known that I . . .” His gaze shifted down to the floor, then back up to me. “That I’ve had feelings for you. I can’t believe I waited this long to tell you. And that kiss was . . . it was unbelievable.”
“Mm-hmm.” I gave his hand a little squeeze. “I agree.”
“I’m glad. And I’ll do it again, if you’ll let me.”
“Oh, I’ll let you.”
He had leaned in to do just that when Grandma Lenora’s singsong voice rang out. “Come on, you two lovebirds! Let’s go outside and look at the cars!”
Scott released his hold on my hand at once, and we both turned to look as Grandma entered the room again, this time wearing a mink stole over her gown. Scott looked my way and grinned. I knew he didn’t really mind. And besides, now that we were both wearing our hearts on our sleeves, there would be plenty of opportunities in the future for stolen kisses.
Grandma led the way outside to the driveway and began to show off her car collection, starting with the ’67 Mustang, completely redone with silver paint and the shiniest chrome imaginable. From there, we oohed and aahed over the ’77 Camaro and then finally made our way to the real prize.
“This is the Pink Lady,” Grandma said, pointing to her ’57 Cadillac Biarritz. “First car I ever bought with movie money, and I’ll keep her till the day I die.”
Should I add that she’d requested to be buried in it? Nah. That was a story for another day.
Scott let out a whistle. “I’ve seen it from a distance on the studio lot, but never up close and personal like this.”
“Climb in, young man.” She handed him the keys and he climbed inside, settling in behind the wheel.
I fought the urge to say, “You look pretty in pink.”
Meanwhile Grandma seemed a bit preoccupied by something. Many times in our conversation she looked toward the gate, then glanced at her watch. What was it with her bizarre behavior lately? Scott continued to talk about the car’s features, and before long—at Grandma’s insistence—I was seated in the passenger seat beside him.
“You two look as pretty as a picture!” Grandma clasped her hands together and grinned like the Cheshire cat. A few seconds later, she let out a little gasp, and I looked up.
“What?”
“Oh, well, lookie there, will you. Paparazzi, downstage right.” She pointed toward the open gate, and I saw a fellow with stringy black hair clutching a camera. He took a few steps toward us and flashed a media badge.
“I’m a reporter for the—”
“What in the world?” I interrupted. “You know better than to come onto private property uninvited.” It was enough to be followed around the supermarket or to the beach, but for those knuckleheads to invade our privacy at home? No way. And who opened the gate? “You’re trespassing!” I hollered, my hands raised in frustration.
The fellow looked perplexed. “Oh, weird. I thought she said to come at—”
“Never you mind all that!” Grandma Lenora gave me a warning look. “Let it go, Kat. Doesn’t do any good to get angry. Besides, you want to be ready for a photo op at every occasion. You don’t want them to catch you in an ugly pose. Remember that terrible shot they got of Zsa Zsa Gabor last spring, shouting at the police officer? She’ll never live that down.”
“Didn’t that happen in the ’80s?” Scott whispered.
I nodded before turning back to Grandma. “You’re saying I should go out of my way to pose for them?”
“Well, why not?” My grandmother pulled her mink stole a bit closer and leaned against the pink Cadillac. She struck a Hollywood-esque pose, counting under her breath, “One, two, three, four . . .” Fascinating how she could do that without moving her lips.
“She’s got this down to a science,” Scott said. “You would think she’d summoned those reporters herself.”
“I have always depended on the kindness of strangers,” Grandma whispered, then gave me a wink.
I responded with the obvious. “Vivien Leigh. A Streetcar Named Desire. 1951.”
Scott looked back and forth between us, clearly confused. I’d have to explain our little game later. For now, hopefully he would just join in.
“You two stay in that car, you hear me?” Grandma said. “It’ll make a great shot for the magazines.”
I groaned, realizing she’d obviously gone to great pains to set all of this up. But why? And how would Scott respond?
Ironically, he cooperated, gripping the wheel like we were headed off on an adventure down Route 66.
“What’s with the ball gown, Lenora?” the reporter hollered, then started snapping photos.
“Rita Hayworth! Tales of Manhattan. 1942.” She removed the mink stole and flung it over her shoulder, offering them a variety of poses to capture.
“Are you doing a remake or something?” he asked.
“Of course not. No one could top the original.”
His camera continued to flash, then he paused to scribble something into his notepad as Grandma rattled off one wacky comment after another.
“Kat and Scott, are you two an item?” the fellow called out as Grandma’s chatter slowed. “Your viewers are dying to know if the on-screen chemistry is real or if it’s just great acting on your part.”
Okay, so he almost had me with the great acting line.
Still, my face warmed up as I contemplated my answer. Scott looped an arm over
my shoulders, relaxed against the leather seat, and said, “Stay tuned to this station for further information.”
For the life of me, I don’t know why I did it. But for some reason—call me crazy—I leaned over and gave Scott a playful kiss on the cheek, which, naturally, made for a great photo op.
Never mind the clicking of the camera in the background. My heart had now fully sprung to life. I really could drive off into the sunset with this guy . . . if only the paparazzi weren’t standing in the way.
5
Good Times
Bright and early Monday morning, Grandma and I headed back to the studio. As she climbed into the Pink Lady, I whistled at her powder blue dress with the tight cinched waist and full skirt. The chiffon sleeves blew me away. I couldn’t remember seeing anything so pretty. Or delicate.
“Who are we today, Grandma Lenora?” I asked.
She eased herself down onto the seat and turned to me with a smile. “I’m surprised you didn’t guess. We just watched the movie together last week, KK. Put on your thinking cap.”
I racked my brain, trying to figure this one out. Finally it hit me. “Oh yes. Grace Kelly. High Society.”
“1956,” Grandma threw in. “Have you ever seen anyone as pretty as Grace?”
“Never.” I sighed.
“I know it’s hard to believe, but she’s even prettier in real life. Beautiful inside and out. And what an exquisite figure. Born for royalty, that one.”
Now we both sighed. I did have to wonder, however, about my grandma speaking of Grace in the present tense. Odd. She dove into a story about a party she’d once attended with Grace. Then she fastened her seat belt and we set off for the studio. Of course, the morning wouldn’t be complete without driving through our local Starbucks. I got the chai latte and Grandma ordered a caramel brulee frappuccino. Yummy.
As I steered the car toward the studio, Grandma coached me on my lines for this week’s show. The longer ones stumped me. For whatever reason, I could usually remember shorter, snappier ones, but anything over, say, seven or eight words presented a problem.
After I pulled up to a red light, I shifted the hot cup from my right hand to my left. Time to get down to business. If I didn’t memorize these lines, this episode would never see the light of day.
Stars Collide Page 4
