Her daughter had no filter—an annoying four-year-old trait. “I don’t have time for a boyfriend. I work at the Beach Boardwalk on weekends for the museum. And I work during the week at the café.”
“The boardwalk with the rides and candy? I want to go!”
Mari smiled, feeling relieved Lily had dropped the boyfriend topic. “I’ll ask Abuela to bring you next weekend. When I’m done working, we can ride the carousel together and eat funnel cake.”
“With strawberries and whipped cream?”
“You bet.”
“Yay!” Lily cried, skipping toward the doors of the preschool. She dropped Mari’s hand, spotting one of her friends. Mari bit her lip. She’d lied to her daughter. She knew where Lily’s father worked. And recently it had become a problem.
FANNING HER GRANDFATHER’S photographs and postcards across her bedroom carpet, Mari scrutinized the papers like a ship’s navigator attempting to read a faded map. She’d found a wonderful photo of Abuelo and Abuela posed in front of the gazebo the night of their wedding. Mari placed that one at the top, admiring her grandmother’s dark lipstick, and how beautiful she was, with her retro waves and bright smile.
The lights of the gazebo lent the black-and-white photograph a magical quality. Unfortunately, Mari couldn’t find any other pictures with the structure in view. She would have to search the library archives, or reach out to members of the community, so that she could include more photographs of the gazebo with her grant application.
Below that picture, Mari placed the postcard of the Brown Derby restaurant in Hollywood and the picture of her grandpa with the waitresses at Mary’s Chicken Shack. Putting the two together, Mari felt certain the woman named “V” who’d written the postcard to Abuelo was Violet. She’d sifted through her grandfather’s things looking for more evidence of their communication, but had found nothing.
There were photographs of the boardwalk as it had been—Abuelo in tight swim trunks, a wide smile on his face as he posed with his arm around the large and muscular Donny Pierson, his stunt diving partner. She’d found a few other postcards, but unfortunately, they were blank. Abuelo had likely picked them up as souvenirs from the places he’d visited in his travels as a young man.
Mari looked at vintage postcards of the Empire State Building in New York, the Ferry Building in San Francisco and the Wrigley Building in Chicago. She’d found a few trinkets in the bottom of the trunk—a key chain from Texas, a blue ribbon from a diving competition, a deck of cards, a pair of dice, a matchbook. There was also a small brass key, dulled with age. What it belonged to, she had no idea. Mari sighed, disappointed she hadn’t found any other connection to Violet, aside from that Hollywood postcard. She turned it over to check the postmark—July 25, 1940.
Opening her laptop, Mari searched Violet Harcourt’s name, along with the word “obituary.” Finding the link to the magazine obituary article, Mari reread the first few paragraphs.
A BEAUTIFUL SUICIDE: LOOKING BACK AT THE TROUBLED LIFE OF MISS CALIFORNIA
September 25, 1940
On Friday September 24, around 7:30 in the evening, 20-year-old Violet Harcourt walked to the edge of the bluff on West Cliff Drive overlooking Natural Bridges. Through the mist she gazed at the ocean, 30 feet below.
In her desperate determination, she leapt, hitting a ledge before plunging into the choppy waters. Several eyewitnesses recount watching her red dress billow in the breeze, and her slender frame disappear beneath the waves.
If the postcard was from Violet, she’d arrived in Hollywood in July (according to the date stamp) and yet in September, she was back in Santa Cruz. Two months wasn’t a very long time to pursue an acting career, and Violet seemed determined to make something of herself—a feeling Mari could relate to.
Mari turned over the postcard of the restaurant shaped like a derby hat, looking at the neat blue cursive of “V.”
Dear Ricky,
I’ve made it here safely. I have to pinch myself to believe I’m really in Hollywood! I’ve never done something so reckless, and I’m a bit terrified. But you’re the reason I was brave enough to come here. Sure, I’m a fool for trying to make it as an actress, but I’d be crazier not to try, isn’t that right?
I apologize for heaping my troubles on you that night at the party. You’re wise beyond your years, and I’m lucky to have you as a friend. Thank you for giving me the courage to follow my dreams.
Mari felt a pit in her stomach as she read the words. It was almost as if the message were coded. I’ve made it here safely. I’m a bit terrified. I apologize for heaping my troubles on you.
What was Violet so afraid of? What troubles was she running from?
Looking at the picture of Violet and Abuelo standing next to each other in front of the diner, Mari saw the face of a carefree teenage girl. Her demeanor was so different in that photo from the later one. And yet it had only been taken a few years before her beauty pageant picture. What had happened in the years in between?
Mari returned to her computer, continuing to read.
Two months prior to her death, Harcourt, recently crowned Miss California, withdrew from the Miss America pageant, admitting her marital status rendered her ineligible to compete. Runner-up Evelyn Hastings took her place, inheriting the title of Miss California.
Why did Violet lie about being married? Was she determined to compete in the Miss America pageant—or did she secretly long to leave her husband? The outdated pageant rule was still in place: contestants needed to swear they were unmarried, not pregnant and not the adoptive or biological parent of a child. Just one more opportunity single mothers were denied.
Mari continued to search Violet’s name on her computer but came up short. She sighed, then clapped her hands together as she had a brain wave. The UC Santa Cruz library had an extensive online archive of materials.
Someone had gifted the university with their entire private collection of photographs and articles from the Second World War period, which had all been converted to microfiche. Mari had used these 1940s photographs before, for a history paper in college. Checking the time on her computer, Mari decided to catch the bus to campus. She still had a few hours to herself before it was time for her shift at the Jupiter Café.
IN THE QUIET comfort of McHenry Library, Mari suppressed the ache in her chest. How she missed this place—the smell of the books, the redwoods reaching their branches into the fog outside the floor-to-ceiling windows. Mari’s four years as an undergraduate at UC Santa Cruz had been the happiest years of her life. And then everything had turned upside down because of one night of partying.
Exhaling sharply, Mari logged into the University of Santa Cruz search engine to access the archived materials on file. This time when she typed “Violet Harcourt, Santa Cruz 1940,” a few different newspaper articles appeared. The first was a wedding announcement in the society pages of the Santa Cruz Sentinel from June 1939. In the accompanying photographs, Violet looked gorgeous in a fitted satin wedding dress with cap sleeves, an enviably narrow waist and a long train. Her hair fell in waves to her shoulders beneath a white veil. Her husband, Charles, looked dapper in a black tuxedo, posed with his arm around Violet’s midsection.
Mari shifted her focus to the article’s text.
HARCOURT NUPTIALS GAY AND GLAMOROUS
On Monday, June 10, at 4:00 P.M. Miss Violet Sweeting became the bride of Mr. Charles Harcourt. The wedding ceremony took place at the Church of Saint Peter. The bridal party then traveled by limousine to the Oceano Golf Club, owned by Mr. Harcourt. The lavish reception included 200 guests and a 10-piece orchestra. The bride’s wedding band is adorned with 32 diamonds to complement her Tiffany ring. She wore custom diamond and sapphire swirl clip earrings as her “something blue.” The bridal table held two lovebirds carved in ice next to the seven-tiered wedding cake. The glamorous affair was the talk of the town, and included such high-profile guests as the city chancellor and golf legend Gene Sarazen.
Upon being as
ked how he felt to be married, the groom responded, “Violet is my most prized possession.” The bride smiled demurely and replied, “I am grateful for a husband who loves me so.”
Mari shuddered. She would hate to be with someone who thought he owned her. Charles’s words had dark undertones.
Mari typed “Charles Harcourt, 1940.” Photographs and vintage postcards of the Oceano Golf Club filled the screen. Charles looked confidently at the camera in every photo, strikingly handsome, like Leonardo DiCaprio.
The Oceano Golf Club had been sold prior to Mayor Harcourt taking office, but the family had benefited from generations of wealth. In Mari’s family, her dad and her abuelo were self-made men. She admired them for their hard work, which had allowed her to go to college and live in a wonderful town.
Charles remarried a woman named Grace Vanderkamp, who also came from a wealthy family. She seemed the opposite of Violet, with a large blond, bouffant hairdo and a smile that didn’t appear genuine. Scrolling through the links online, Mari gasped as she caught an offensive headline:
OCEANO BANS MEXICANS FROM EMPLOYMENT
With heat creeping up her neck, Mari read the 1942 article. Charles Harcourt had fired every Mexican employee from his resort. “I refuse to employ gangsters, murderers and thieves at my fine establishment. They have no place in this country and should return to Mexico.”
The racial stereotypes never ended. Mexicans had historically been paid lower wages than whites and were forced to labor under unsafe conditions. But worst of all, the patriotic Mexicans who had fought for America during World War II had been denied funeral services by the military. Her abuelo had proudly served in the Philippines during the war, his fluent Spanish invaluable because he could communicate with Spanish-speaking Filipino soldiers as they fought together against the Japanese.
In fine print, the article had an addendum. “As a Quaker, Mr. Harcourt has declared himself a pacifist and unable to serve due to his religious beliefs.”
A pacifist Quaker? Mari laughed out loud at the ludicrous statement. He owned a golf resort, for heaven’s sake—he wasn’t a missionary. His money and connections had gotten him out of serving his country. Clearing her search, Mari felt eager to rid herself of Charles Harcourt and the metallic taste in her mouth. She’d come here to find out more about Violet, but now would be a good time to look for gazebo photographs.
When the screen populated again, Mari smiled. Oh, these were perfect: images of the gazebo with smiling young couples at community dances, saddle shoes on their feet and flowers in the women’s hair.
The more photographs she clicked through, the more Mari realized that many members of Santa Cruz’s Chicano and Latino community attended these dances. The crowd was largely brown, with a few working-class whites sprinkled in. This gazebo had been a gathering place for her people, who were largely marginalized. Judging from the happiness on their faces, they felt safe there, and welcomed.
With attitudes like Charles Harcourt’s pervading the public conscience at the time, Mexicans were denied entry to traditional dance halls and wedding venues. This public gazebo, though modest, had held a very special purpose.
Grabbing a pen, Mari scrawled the title of her grant application topic in her notebook: “A Place Beneath the Stars: Cultivating Community Among Santa Cruz’s Mexican Immigrants.”
She downloaded the images she wanted to use, including the link to the archive collection for proper copyright credit. She would ask Latino artists to create the diorama of the gazebo. Mari smiled, feeling she had made a good start on her grant application. The shabby old gazebo didn’t matter to someone like Travis Harcourt, but it mattered to her. The Latino community had always found a way to transform urban spaces—street vendors pushing carts, neighbors chatting over fences, sidewalk artists painting colorful murals on concrete walls. Their modest beach flats that surrounded the boardwalk didn’t look like much, but during Christmastime they boasted elaborate nativity scenes behind chain-link fences strung with colored lights.
After packing her bag, Mari inhaled the scent of the books as she walked through the library stacks. She wasn’t a student anymore, but the thought of working on her grant application gave her the rush that studying used to. Mari smiled—it was a wonderful feeling, using her brain for something other than nursery rhymes. She’d been dulled watching kids’ cartoons, washing dishes, doing laundry. For the first time in a long time, she felt like more than just a mom.
Chapter 11
Violet Harcourt
1940
So, how’d it go?” Harry raised an eyebrow, his Oldsmobile cruising down Hollywood Boulevard.
I touched my fingers to the window glass, looking at the drugstores, ice cream parlors, boutiques and shops: Kress’s, Newberry’s, J.C. Penney and Woolworth’s. There were furriers, florists, jewelry stores, hatmakers, perfume stores, dressmakers and salons dotting the length of the strip. If I didn’t land a part soon, people would begin to notice I only had one dress. And judging by how terribly today’s audition went, I didn’t have much time to prove myself before I’d no longer be a fresh face in Hollywood.
“Not well. I’m afraid I let my nerves get to me.”
Harry turned right, pulling into the parking lot of the Pink Flamingo Motel. “Sorry to hear that. Did I tell ya I got a meeting with the bigwig agent?”
“You did? Oh Harry, that’s swell.”
“We’re having dinner at Musso & Frank’s tonight. Apparently it’s the hangout of writers and playwrights—newspaper people, those types. This agent says they serve a good steak, and he wants to hear my stand-up shtick.”
I smiled, genuinely happy for Harry. “I’m sure you’ll tell wonderful jokes in such good company.”
“Thanks,” he said, wiping his brow. “Whew! This Los Angeles heat is something else, ain’t it? Say—you oughta call your fella. Surely he’ll want to know you arrived safely, and I don’t want him hunting me down with a shotgun.”
I laughed nervously. “He would never.”
Strolling through the lobby, my eyes darted to the young woman behind the desk. She flipped through the pages of her magazine, engrossed in the photographs.
“Excuse me,” Harry said, dinging the bell rather obnoxiously.
She looked up, her smile bright as a toothpaste advertisement. Now, this girl could be in the pictures. Was everyone in Hollywood so beautiful?
“How can I help you?”
“My friend here would like to use the telephone.”
“Thank you,” I said, looking at Harry. “Why don’t you head on up to the room and I’ll meet you in a minute?”
“I don’t mind waiting.”
Rats!
“What’s the number?” the girl asked.
I glanced at the cover of her magazine, Screen Secrets.
Grinning conspiratorially, I leaned over the counter. “Please, allow me. I’d hate to keep you from the latest Hollywood gossip. You can give me the scoop later.”
She winked, pushing the rotary phone toward me. “Thanks a million. I’m trying to figure out the latest blind item. I think Bette Davis has a new beau.”
Watching Harry from the corner of my eye, I bit my bottom lip. What number to dial? I couldn’t risk calling Charles. But I couldn’t very well call Mother either. Those were the only two numbers I knew by heart.
Feeling Harry’s eyes on my back, I began to sweat. Without knowing what else to do, I placed my finger in the zero of the dial and rotated it all the way around to the right.
“Operator. How can I connect you?”
“Charles! Hello, darling, how are you?”
“Ma’am,” the operator said dryly. “You need to tell me the number you’d like me to connect you to.”
I laughed, turning toward Harry. “Thank you for asking. Everything is going just swell. We’ve arrived safely and Harry has a meeting with a Hollywood agent tomorrow. Isn’t that exciting? I’m afraid my own screen test didn’t go as well.”
“I don
’t know what kind of pickle you’re in,” the girl hissed, “but I’m going to disconnect you now.”
“Thank you,” I said, a lump rising in my throat. “I will keep trying. Just like you said, I’ll knock ’em dead at the next audition. I love you too. Goodbye.”
Harry’s face softened, seeing the shine of my eyes. “Aw shucks. It’s only been a day. You miss him already?”
I nodded, blinking back tears. I hadn’t realized what speaking to an imaginary Charles would do to me. Suddenly, I felt icy cold, imagining Charles reading my note and then smashing everything in our home. I shuddered.
Harry patted my back. “I’m taking another dip in the pool. I’m sweating like a pig. Want me to wait for you?”
I waved him away. “Go ahead.”
After Harry disappeared, I turned to the receptionist.
“Can you please dial the Tropicana for me? I need to reach a guest in room one-thirteen.”
“Sure thing,” she said, setting aside her magazine.
I exhaled, watching Harry through the sliding glass door. I couldn’t keep up my charade with him, or he’d catch on soon enough. But Roxy didn’t know I was married. And I intended to make sure she wouldn’t find out.
“THANK YOU SO much for meeting me,” I said, following Roxy toward the Brown Derby, a popular restaurant on Wilshire Boulevard. EAT IN THE HAT! a sign atop the bowler-shaped restaurant boasted.
“It’s no trouble at all,” Roxy said, puffing out a ring of cigarette smoke. Her crimson nails glinted in the sunlight as she took another drag.
I eyed the shabbily dressed men leaning against the walls of the restaurant, tattered photographs in hand.
“Who are they?” I whispered.
“Gawkers,” Roxy said, wrinkling her nose. “They can’t afford a meal, so they hang around the entrance, asking for autographs. Plenty of stars dine here.”
My eyes lit up. “They do?”
“Sure,” Roxy said, tossing her brassy blond curls. “Across the street is the Ambassador Hotel. The stars go dancing at the nightclub there, the Cocoanut Grove, and then come here for late-night bites.”
Boardwalk Summer Page 8
