“This place is awesome,” the guy said, handing Mari a twenty-dollar bill and a ten. “We grew up in Michigan, and we don’t have anything like this back home. But we love living in Santa Cruz. We got married here, on the beach.”
“At the gazebo?” Mari blurted.
The girl gave her a funny look. “It’s kind of decrepit, I didn’t think it would look great in photographs.” She pointed in the opposite direction, toward the pier. “We got married there, at the Carousel Beach Inn.”
“Oh,” Mari said, hiding her disappointment. “That’s a nice hotel.”
Watching the couple walk away, she checked the time on her phone. Her mom was supposed to drop Lily off at seven, so they could get the funnel cake she’d promised. But first the raffle winners would be announced.
Mayor Harcourt took the stage, and Mari clapped half-heartedly. He smiled and waved at the crowd, his thick mustache and round belly lending him a friendly appearance, like the uncle who made everyone laugh at family parties.
He took the microphone in his hand. “Hello, Santa Cruz locals and visitors! It’s wonderful to see you all tonight.”
The applause grew louder, and people gathered around the stage, some carrying tots on their shoulders who happily licked ice cream cones.
“There are a number of special events planned to help celebrate the hundredth summer of the Santa Cruz Beach Boardwalk. Don’t miss the gymnasts from the Moscow Circus, who’ll put on a free performance tomorrow night here at the beach bandstand.”
He paused, looking at Mari. “And if you haven’t already, please stop by the Santa Cruz Museum of Art & History booth, which is displaying artifacts from the Beach Boardwalk archives that are rarely seen outside the museum.”
Mari felt her neck flush with so many pairs of eyes turned toward her, but she smiled and waved at the crowd of onlookers.
The mayor continued, “And at ten o’clock tonight, we’ll be screening one of the most popular movies ever filmed at the boardwalk. The Lost Boys. Whoo, vampires! Spooky.”
The crowd laughed, and Mari couldn’t help herself from smiling. The mayor, with his goofy dad humor, was so different from his son, Travis.
“Before I announce the raffle winners,” the mayor said, strolling across the stage, “I’d like to say how proud I am to call this city home. My father, Charles Harcourt, established roots here with the Oceano Golf Club, but he was also a man of the people, committed to helping our community. Like many, he made personal sacrifices for the betterment of his family. He sold the club and donated the proceeds to charity.”
Mari scoffed. Sacrifices? He didn’t even serve in the war! She looked longingly at the gazebo, a pale specter against the deep blue ocean. The rush of the waves drowned out the mayor’s voice. In her mind, jazz music played and Abuelo spun Abuela around the dance floor, a white flower tucked behind her grandmother’s ear.
Raffle numbers were being called out vaguely in the distance while Mari continued to watch her grandparents dancing. Her throat tightened.
“You must be the young woman in charge of the museum booth.”
Mari’s mouth fell open, startled to see the mayor standing in front of her. Lost in her daydream, she hadn’t realized he’d finished speaking.
“Yes,” she said, putting on a bright smile, though she hadn’t forgiven him for the construction project he’d approved. “Mari Cruz. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
He shook her hand heartily. “Mayor Harcourt, but you can call me Tom. I wanted to personally congratulate you on how many raffle tickets you’ve sold. I’ve heard it’s a town record!”
“Thank you,” Mari said. While his kindness seemed genuine, he was likely working in his own best interests as a politician. “I listened to your speech,” she said, her heart beating faster, “about your father selling the Oceano and donating the proceeds to charity. What charity was that?”
“The American Friends Service Committee,” Mayor Harcourt replied. “It’s a U.S.-based Quaker aid society, which was instrumental in providing relief services in Germany and later throughout Europe during World War Two.”
Mari’s jaw fell open. “The one that helped evacuate Jewish children from Europe and bring them to America?”
“That’s right.” His eyes twinkled with pride.
Mari bit the inside of her cheek. Perhaps she had the wrong idea about Charles?
“Mom!” Lily skipped toward Mari, Paulina trailing behind her. “Are you finished yet? I want funnel cake! Can we go on the rides?”
Mari wrapped an arm around her daughter’s shoulder, holding her tight. “In a minute, sweetheart. Go back to Abuela.”
“Well, hello there,” Mayor Harcourt said, bending down to eye level with Lily. “What’s your name?”
“Lily,” she said, sticking out her chest. “I’m four. I go to preschool and my favorite animal is a horse. What’s your favorite animal?”
“Lily, that’s enough,” Mari said. “Give the mayor some space.”
He studied her daughter. Slowly his smile faded.
“Ma,” Mari said, turning to her mother. “Can you take Lily over to the funnel cake stand? I’ll meet you there in a minute.”
Paulina guided Lily by the shoulders, her eyes meeting Mari’s with a look of concern. “Of course, mija.”
“Bye!” Lily shouted at the mayor. “It was nice to meet you!”
“You too,” he said, recovering his genial smile. “My favorite animal is a tiger.”
“Cool!” Lily called as she skipped away.
Mari watched Mayor Harcourt as his eyes followed her daughter. Her stomach knotted as she saw the speculative look on his face. She hoped his confusion would pass, washing away like footprints in the sand.
Chapter 13
Violet Harcourt
1940
As I followed Roxy down Hollywood Boulevard, I stopped to stare at Grauman’s Chinese Theatre. The stunning Oriental architecture was so different from anything I’d seen in Santa Cruz. Bleachers had been set up around the entrance and had already begun to fill with people, though it was only ten in the morning. Now that I noticed, cars were parked for blocks, and tourists lined the street.
“Is there a movie premiere tonight?”
Roxy nodded, pointing to a woman with a picnic basket. “Sure is. You see her? That’s how you come prepared. And if you’re really smart, you bring blankets and pillows for when it gets chilly after the sun goes down.”
“Have you been to one?”
“A premiere? Of course.”
“Oh, I would die! Can you tell me about it?”
Roxy laughed, and then paused to light a cigarette. “For The Wizard of Oz there were people standing on rooftops, craning their necks for a glimpse of the stars. Then Judy Garland arrived, stepping out of a limo in a fabulous gown. There were fresh flowers everywhere, so the air smelled like roses. The radio announcers called out celebrity names, and the paparazzi captured it all with exploding flashbulbs.”
I closed my eyes, lost in Roxy’s description. Then I opened them, determined to experience a movie premiere too. “How magnificent it sounds.”
“Oh rats,” Roxy said, stubbing out her cigarette. “That’s our streetcar.”
I followed her as we boarded the yellow bus, then dropped a nickel into the turnstile and found a vacant seat. My heart dipped into my stomach as I thought about Charles. Was he searching for me? Was he heartbroken?
I also wondered if Evie had heard that I’d departed for Hollywood. I’d lied to her, and I felt wretched about it. I ought to have told her of my plans to divorce Charles, but it had felt too dangerous to confide in my friend. Sending a letter with my return address at the Tropicana would be too risky. Yet I longed to write to Evie, to tell her of my adventures in Hollywood. And had Ricky received my postcard by now?
I’d accepted Roxy’s offer, telling Harry I’d made a friend at the audition, and that we’d be rooming together. Harry wished me the best of luck, no questions asked.
My palms began to sweat as I pictured my husband’s face, contorted with rage when he woke to an empty bed. But my heart ached. Did he miss me? Could he change?
I shivered, dispelling the thought. What was done was done. I would find a lawyer this week. I would file the divorce papers as soon as possible.
Roxy pulled the chain, and the streetcar stopped on Sunset Boulevard. The California sunshine drenched the sidewalks as if they were made of gold. I pushed Charles to the back of my mind. By golly, this was Beverly Hills!
“Oh my word,” I said, glimpsing what looked like a pink palace across acres of lush grounds. “Is that where we’re going?”
Roxy winked. “The Beverly Hills Hotel and Bungalows. It’s where the crème de la crème of society meet.”
My heels clicked against the pavement as I followed Roxy down the palm-lined footpath, trying to keep my mouth from gaping. The scent of exotic flowers filled the air. They burst from the bushes in blooms of pink and yellow. I recognized hibiscus and birds of paradise. How lovely.
When we stepped inside the hotel, I longed to twirl in circles beneath the crystal chandelier like a dancer in a film. The pink-and-mint-striped décor was opulent, yet beautifully tasteful. Watching women in dark sunglasses and stylish dresses, I wondered if they were heiresses, or perhaps starlets. I wanted to pinch myself, because it felt so much like a dream. I’d been to beautiful hotels before, but always with Charles, which meant I’d been walking on eggshells, terrified of making the wrong move. Now I was finally free to be myself.
“This way,” Roxy said, swaying her hips as we walked toward the pool and cabanas. “We’re meeting a friend of mine.”
The rectangular pool shone beneath the perfect blue sky, and the sun warmed the terra-cotta rooftop. Last night, I’d discovered Roxy’s room to be cramped, dingy and smoke filled. She’d pushed her dresses to the side of the wardrobe to make room for my things, but the gesture did little to make up for the lack of space. The Tropicana with its faded carpet and battered blinds looked like a mouse hole compared to this grand hotel.
“Who’s your friend?” I asked, trying not to stare at the tanned women wearing two-piece swimsuits and pearls. Was that Greta Garbo?
“He’s a screenwriter,” Roxy said, adjusting the white scarf tied jauntily around her neck. It perfectly complemented her curve-hugging pencil skirt. She’d let me borrow a blue sundress, which brought out the deep blue of my eyes. I’d lamented that my trunk had been stolen at a gas station, to explain why I had hardly any clothing.
Roxy led me toward the pink-and-white curtains of a poolside cabana. “Benny Bronstein. He works for one of the Big Five studios and makes lotsa dough.”
“Which studio?”
“MGM or RKO,” Roxy said, lighting a cigarette. “I can’t recall. You can ask him yourself.” She grinned. “Here we are.”
I peeked inside the cabana and gawped at the interior, the walls painted with palm fronds, and the pink couches lining the walls probably worth a fortune. A round mirror hung on the wall, adding a bit of Deco glamour to the white wicker furniture. Even the cabana was nicer than our motel room at the Tropicana.
A boyish man stood up from the couch, dressed in crisp white shorts and a polo shirt. His deep tan highlighted his blue eyes, and his thick curly hair looked as if it wished to defy the pomade he’d used to tame it.
“Roxy,” he said, kissing her on the cheek. “You made it.” He turned his gaze to me, his smile bright and inviting. “And who is this gorgeous thing?”
My cheeks flushed.
“Violet,” I said, extending my hand. “Pleasure to—oh!” Without warning he pulled me in for a kiss on the cheek, as if we were already familiar with one another.
He laughed. “Don’t be shy, doll! We’re all friends here. Sit down. What can I get ya to drink? They make a killer mint julep here.”
“I’ll have a Pink Lady,” Roxy said.
“And you?” Benny asked, smiling at me.
“I’ll have what she’s having.”
Sitting on the plush couch next to Roxy, I drank in the scene as a Negro waiter in a smart blue uniform took our orders. While Benny and Roxy treated him like hired help, I smiled with genuine gratitude.
I’d been served at the Oceano many times, and I aimed to treat each employee as I would a friend, no matter his or her background. Charles didn’t like the amiable relationships I had with the cooks and waiters, many of whom were Mexican. Oftentimes, I wandered into the kitchen to return a glass or to drop the used napkins in the laundry. He found it horribly improper and had reprimanded me with the back of his hand. Often, he accused me of flirting with the staff, which was never the case.
“Violet, Benny asked you a question.”
“Oh,” I said. “I apologize. I don’t know where my head is today. What did you ask?”
He smiled. “Roxy tells me you’re new in town. Where are you from?”
“Santa Cruz.”
“So you’re a real California girl.”
“She was a beauty queen,” Roxy said. “Now she wants to be in the movies.”
I smiled at Benny. “Roxy tells me you’re a screenwriter for one of the big studios. That sounds awfully exciting.”
Benny laughed, clapping Roxy on the back. “I’m afraid she’s misled you. I work for one of the little three, not the Big Five. I write for Universal Pictures.”
“Not RKO?” Roxy asked, pouting at him. “Say, what kinda films does Universal produce?”
“Horror,” Benny said, lighting a cigarette for himself, and then lighting one for Roxy. “Frankenstein, Dracula. You smoke?”
I shook my head.
He smiled at me, putting his lighter away. “It’s not my cup of tea, but it’s a starting point. Every studio has its genre. MGM does the lavish and star-studded films like Gone with the Wind. Warner Brothers has their gangster films like Little Caesar, and Fox does historical adventure—Sherlock Holmes and all that jazz.”
A cool breeze ruffled the hem of my dress, and the waiter arrived with our drinks. I took a sip of my Pink Lady, the grenadine tart and delicious, and the gin packing a punch. The sun sparkled on the surface of the swimming pool, and I let the alcohol pleasantly soften the edges of my surroundings.
Benny leaned toward me conspiratorially. “Roxy’s a good friend of mine, and that’s why I’ll give you two gals the scoop. John Huston has a new script, and his movie is supposed to be the next big thing. The casting call is this Saturday. It’s called The Maltese Falcon. A noir detective film.”
“After Dashiell Hammett’s novel?”
“You’ve read it?”
I nodded. “I enjoy all types of fiction.”
“Beauty and brains,” Benny said, blowing smoke from his cigarette. “Have a drink with me tonight at Don the Beachcomber and I’ll invite you to a shindig at Ernst Lubitsch’s hacienda tomorrow night. He’s a respected director at MGM. I can introduce you.”
My stomach knotted. I wore no wedding ring. What if I’d given Benny the wrong impression? Yet I couldn’t think of a reason to refuse his invitation.
“Oh well, tonight I—”
“She’ll join you,” Roxy said, slurping the remainder of her Pink Lady through a straw. “And I’ll take another one of these. Say, what a gorgeous day it is!”
I tried to ignore the feel of Benny’s eyes on my bare legs as Roxy ordered me another Pink Lady. This could be my big break. Considering the grand hotel he lived in and the people he knew, Benny Bronstein was well connected. Perhaps he already had a gal, and this was simply a friendly gesture? I had to take the chance.
STEPPING OUT OF the taxicab onto Hollywood Boulevard, I looked up at the mysterious restaurant shrouded by palm fronds. A wooden sign hanging above the door clearly marked the building as Don the Beachcomber.
Setting foot inside, I felt the humid warmth that filled the room. I studied the thatched ceiling, and the glass fishing floats in nets draped from the rafters. Everything was made of wicker and wood,
the entire place like something out of the South Pacific. Laughter traveled across the tables as men and women sipped drinks together.
I spotted Benny at a corner table. He smiled and waved me over. My shoulders relaxed as I took in the casual atmosphere of the restaurant. It was a bit too raucous to be romantic. This was a business meeting, nothing more.
“You made it,” Benny said, standing up to kiss me on the cheek.
I tried not to flinch. Charles always admonished me for speaking to other men. He’d demanded I quit working as a waitress at Mary’s Chicken Shack because he couldn’t stand the thought of me talking to male customers.
“Thank you,” I said, as Benny pulled out a chair for me.
“What can I get you?” he asked, handing me a drinks menu of tropical concoctions with bizarre names.
“I’m not sure,” I answered, looking it over. “What’s good here?”
“The Zombie. But watch out, it packs a punch.”
Benny smiled, his arms tanned beneath his tropical shirt. He couldn’t be a few years older than twenty. Yet he appeared so self-assured, like he had the confidence of a much older man. “Tell me about yourself. You got a fella at home?”
My mouth felt dry as cotton. “Oh, there’s not much to tell. No, I don’t have a beau at home.” The lie churned my stomach as I pictured Charles.
“Good,” Benny said, winking.
The waiter arrived with our drinks, and I couldn’t help pulling a face as I took a sip. “My goodness!”
Benny laughed. “Told you it was strong.” He took a sip, and then paused. “Have you always wanted to be an actress?”
I nodded. “I starred in a few stage productions in Santa Cruz. I love theater. In high school I couldn’t get enough of it.”
“If you want to see good theater, there’s the Hollywood Playhouse. It’s mostly older vaudeville stars, but for some who work there, it gives them a career boost.”
Once again, the queasy feeling began to agitate me. Perhaps this drink was too strong. Taking a deep breath, I tried to dispel the nausea. “I saw so many theaters downtown, I wouldn’t know where to start.”
Boardwalk Summer Page 10
