“This took a dark turn.”
Mari laughed. “I’m sorry. You want to hear more about Sylvester?”
“I’m kidding. Tell me more about the beauty queen.”
“Her name was Violet Harcourt, and she was the first wife of Mayor Harcourt’s father, Charles Harcourt. I don’t know why, but I can’t stop thinking about her.”
“The mayor’s father’s first wife? That’s interesting. Why do you think she killed herself?”
Mari sipped her wine. “I don’t know. It doesn’t make sense. She was this beautiful young girl, with all the potential in the world. She goes to Hollywood to make it as an actress, but gives up really quickly. It’s so sad. And get this—she knew my grandfather. But he never once mentioned her.”
“Wait,” Jason said, leaning forward. “Back up a minute. She knew your grandfather?”
“I found a picture of them together in this trunk in the attic. She was a waitress when he was a stunt diver at the boardwalk.”
“He was a stunt diver?”
“I thought I told you that. He and his diving partner had a dangerous routine where they would zip line over the beach, my abuelo dangling from the trapeze, and then drop into the ocean. It was really popular.”
Jason smiled. “You’re pretty amazing, you know that?”
Mari shook her head. “Why?”
“You have such a thirst for knowledge, for life, a passion about history—for bygone beauty queens. You come from this super-interesting family. I’m just a boring guy from the Midwest.”
“I don’t think you’re boring,” Mari said. “I think you’re pretty cool.”
“Sorry to interrupt,” Jason said, taking a sip of his wine. “Tell me more about Violet.”
And so she did, surprised by how naturally conversation flowed, as if she and Jason had already known each other for years. He didn’t think she was crazy for believing the postcard from “V” was from Violet, and rubbed his jaw thoughtfully when she mentioned that Charles sounded creepy and possessive.
With her belly full of delicious food, and her surroundings pleasantly hazy from half a bottle of wine, Mari looped her arm through Jason’s as they left the restaurant. Strolling down Pacific Avenue, she realized she didn’t want the night to end.
“I had a really nice time,” she said, as they neared the bus terminal. “I figure you need to catch one of these back up to campus. You live in faculty housing, right?”
“I can walk you home,” Jason said with a smile. “I’m in no rush, and besides, it wouldn’t be very gentlemanly of me to let you walk back alone. Or would you like me to get you a cab?”
“It’s a nice night,” Mari said, breathing in the warm summer breeze, fragrant with jasmine and ocean brine. “Let’s walk.”
As they drew closer to the boardwalk, the lull of the waves rushing in and out accompanied their silence. The gazebo stood alone beneath the moonlight and Mari’s heart ached. Perhaps it was an only child thing, but sometimes she attributed feelings to objects. As a child, she always rescued her stuffed animals that had fallen out of bed so they wouldn’t be alone on the floor. The gazebo appeared lonely tonight.
“Hey, follow me,” Jason said, tugging her hand as he began to cross the sand.
“What? Where are we going?”
“This way,” he said, smiling.
Mari followed him down the beach, and then realized where he was taking her. He led her up the creaky steps onto the gazebo’s weathered porch, where they stood together underneath the dome. The crashing waves sounded in her ears.
“You said your grandparents danced here,” Jason said softly, taking her hand in his. “Will you dance with me?”
Mari’s heart fluttered. “There’s no music.”
“Sure there is,” Jason said. He began to hum the tune to “The Girl from Ipanema” and Mari laughed as he spun her around. She closed her eyes and draped her arms around his neck, imagining fairy lights, and the click of heels against polished floorboards.
Her giggles faded when she found her mouth a hair’s breadth from Jason’s, their faces turned toward each other as their movement slowed. His arms encircled her waist and ever so slowly, he inched his face toward hers. Mari closed the distance, tingling at the kiss she’d been anticipating all night. Jason gently ran his fingers across her hips, and behind her closed eyelids she saw bursts of color.
When they pulled apart, they were smiling at each other.
“Thank you,” Mari whispered.
“For kissing you?”
“For bringing me here. So I can have this memory . . .”
Her voice turned bitter. “Before Travis Harcourt tears this place down.”
“You have a lot of animosity toward him.”
Mari’s throat tightened. The moment they shared had been wonderful. And she didn’t want to ruin it. But her words tumbled out like water from a dam.
“He’s Lily’s father.”
With the release of her secret, tears streamed down her cheeks along with years of built-up resentment. How could he want nothing to do with his perfect daughter? Lily, gorgeous Lily, she deserved so much more. Jason pulled her close, stroking her hair as she cried. But the night had already lost its magic.
Chapter 15
Violet Harcourt
1940
Through a canopy of trees, a beautiful hacienda came into view, with white stucco walls covered in bougainvillea and a terra-cotta roof. The steps leading to the entrance were lined with lanterns, and the scent of jasmine filled the air.
Though we hadn’t driven far to reach Ernst Lubitsch’s home in the Hollywood Hills, I felt as though I had entered another world. Notes of jazz carried on the breeze. My shawl slipped, revealing a bare shoulder. Roxy had lent me a lovely floor-length gold evening gown, which exposed my entire back, hugging my curves and rounding my derriere. It was rather daring for my tastes, but tonight was my chance to catch the eye of the renowned director. I needed to make an impression.
“What do you think?” Benny asked, leading me into the garden.
A rectangular swimming pool shimmered beneath the full moon, surrounded by colorful Mediterranean-style tiles in the center of a lush lawn. Tables laden with appetizers held purple candles flickering in jars, and urns bursting with flowers lined the garden path. Fruit trees surrounded the property, lending it secrecy.
“Oh, it’s marvelous.”
A jazz band performed in front of the French doors leading to the kitchen, the sweaty players strumming the base and blowing the trumpet with wild energy. With glasses of champagne in hand, glamorous women in evening gowns and fur stoles laughed beneath the stars on the patio. Men in suits puffed on cigarettes, their laughter erupting in staccato bursts. Everyone appeared loose and free, drinking and dancing.
“It’s a private party for film folk and press writers,” Benny whispered, leaning in close. “Shall I get you a drink?”
“Yes, please,” I said, though once again, my stomach felt queasy. Perhaps my unsettled business with Charles had begun to manifest itself in physical symptoms. I took a deep breath in through my nose and let it out. I would find a lawyer this week and mail Charles the divorce papers. Once that was over and done with, I would be free to enjoy my new life. Thinking of Charles brought on a wave of sadness. In spite of everything, I missed him. He wasn’t a monster all the time—he was my husband.
“Oh! Excuse me.”
I backed away as I happened upon a couple necking in the shrubbery. The girl giggled, the thin straps of her gown hanging down below her elbows, and a pale breast fully exposed. I darted toward the appetizers, eager to avoid interrupting another amorous encounter. The party appeared to be in full swing, but I raised a hand to my mouth to cover my yawn. It was quite late—nearly midnight. Benny had insisted midnight parties were very du jour—midnight swimming, midnight Ping-Pong.
I looked around the property at the tall hedges and cyprus trees, drinking in the scent of the fragrant vines that climbed t
he walls of the hacienda. Strings of Japanese lanterns illuminated the garden, making me feel like a player in A Midsummer Night’s Dream. The warm air felt tinged with magic.
Benny returned with two glasses of champagne. “Cheers,” he said, touching his glass to mine. “Shall we seek out Herr Lubitsch?”
The champagne bubbles tickled my throat. “Yes,” I said, smiling at Benny. “Let’s find him.”
We passed a group of people playing croquet on the lawn, and my kitten heels sank into the soft grass. An older woman approached, her wavy hair cropped close and a cross expression on her face.
“Benny Bronstein,” she said, her English heavily accented. “I didn’t expect to see you here.” She looked at me with a calculating gaze. “And who is this?”
“Violet Sweeting,” I said, extending my hand.
“Salka Viertel,” she replied, shaking it firmly.
Benny lit a cigarette. “Salka’s an incredible scriptwriter. She’s also a close friend of Greta Garbo’s. She cowrote the script for Queen Christina.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” I said, my stomach fluttering. She knew Greta Garbo!
“Benny B!”
Benny jerked his head to attention as a man in suspenders and a fedora threw an arm around his shoulder. “Come here. I want ya to meet somebody.”
“I’ll just be a moment,” he said, winking.
Once he’d left, Salka Viertel locked me in her unflinching gaze. “What’s your story? You want to be an actress?”
“Yes,” I said. “I suppose that’s what every woman in this town wants.”
She didn’t smile. “I was like you once—a young stage actress in Berlin and Vienna. Now I have a salon for German and Austrian émigrés at my bungalow in Santa Monica.” She frowned. “Here in Hollywood, there’s a place for us.”
“How lovely,” I said, feeling foolish at the frivolousness of my acting dreams in light of the war in Europe.
Her gaze intensified. “You don’t need a man’s help to become an actress. Benny Bronstein is not the mensch that he seems.”
I opened my mouth to reply, but Benny returned, draping an arm casually around my shoulder. “Sorry, doll. I had to catch up with an old pal. Shall we go inside?”
Salka’s eyes held a warning.
“Sure,” I replied, and then smiled at Salka. “It was nice meeting you.”
Benny steered me toward the French doors, and the music grew louder. “I hope she wasn’t too much of a sourpuss. Old European Jews . . . they kvetch a lot.”
“She was kind,” I responded, annoyed at Benny’s misconception. My stomach knotted, wondering what Salka meant about Benny not being a mensch.
In the large and airy kitchen, women and men danced to the music, their sweaty bodies jostling up against one another. I admired the cut of a gorgeous green silk evening gown as it swished back and forth. Diamond earrings and necklaces sparkled in the light, and I thought of my jewelry box at home in Santa Cruz, filled with baubles. All of my jewels were a show of Charles’s wealth and power. It was silly to miss them.
“Look, there’s Ernst Lubitsch,” Benny said, leaning toward me.
I craned my neck to see an older dark-haired man with strong features. He stood in a dining room off the kitchen, speaking with two others. His dark eyes met mine, and then his brow furrowed as he noticed Benny. A cold feeling passed over me.
“I may have imagined it,” I said. “But he didn’t seem pleased to see us.”
Benny laughed. “He’s a serious guy, a member of the Hollywood Chess Club. He plays with Josef von Sternberg. They used to be enemies at Paramount, but now that Lubitsch is at MGM, they’re friends. That’s just how he is.”
I frowned, not sure that was what I’d seen.
“Here,” he said. “Have another glass of champagne.”
“All right.” I accepted the glass, though I’d hardly finished the first. Pressing my lips together, I watched the powerful director slip away. I’d come here for one reason only—an introduction, like Benny promised.
“Did you meet Ernst Lubitsch at the chess club?”
Benny shook his head. “I got to know Lubitsch at the Tele-View Theater. Remember the one I told you about? In April, when the westward blitzkrieg through Europe started, he and the other Europeans living here in Hollywood would go every week for an hour of current news.”
“Oh,” I said, sipping my champagne. “Did you strike up a conversation there?”
“We did. And sometimes we eat lunch at the Brown Derby. He’s a regular.” Benny’s eyes darted to a woman standing in the corner smoking a cigarette. “So is Louella Parsons over there. She’s the biggest gossip in town, always perched at her booth in the Brown Derby, eager to criticize someone’s table manners.”
I recognized the same busty, dark-haired woman I’d seen at the Brown Derby. She pursed her crimson lips at me, her eyes calculating. Benny placed his hand on the small of my back. I nearly flinched at the contact, his warm hand against my bare skin. The room felt too hot and crowded.
“Why don’t we step outside for a moment? Get some air?”
“Sure,” I said, allowing Benny to lead me outside. I looked back over my shoulder, hoping I’d get a second chance to acquaint myself with Mr. Lubitsch.
Benny led me through the garden, around the side of the house to a secluded area surrounded by orange trees. The soft gurgle of a fountain sounded in the distance, and the noise of the party faded to a pleasant hum.
I smiled, “This is much bett—”
Benny grabbed a lock of my hair and pressed his lips against mine. His tongue forced its way into my mouth, and he tasted of champagne and cigarettes. I pushed against him, feeling vomit rise in my throat.
“Get off me!”
He bit his lip, a wild look in his eyes. “Oh you want to play coy? Show me what’s under that dress.”
He tugged down the thin straps, pawing at my breasts. Tears pricked my eyes as I swatted his hand away. “Stop! Don’t touch me!”
When he didn’t listen, I pulled back my hand and slapped him hard across the jaw. The look in his eyes changed and my blood ran cold. It was the same glassy-eyed look Charles would give me before a beating.
But Benny didn’t strike me. Instead he gripped my wrists.
“What’sa matter with you? I bought you drinks at Don the Beachcomber. I brought you here. Show a little gratitude.”
He grabbed me again, taking a fistful of my hair and pressing his mouth against mine. I fought him, scratching at his skin with my nails, but he tugged the thin straps of Roxy’s gown until one broke loose.
I bit his lip, hard.
Benny pulled back, touching his bleeding lip with one finger. “You little cocktease. You want me to hurt you? Roxy didn’t tell me you’d put up a fight.”
He unbuttoned his pants, his eyes wild. “I did my part, now you do yours. That’s the deal.”
“What? There’s no deal. Take me home.”
Benny laughed, but his eyes didn’t smile. “You think you’re going to make it as an actress? You ain’t got no talent. But you do have a nice pair of tits. Give me what I want and I’ll give you an introduction to a director.”
Tears streamed down my cheeks as I pulled up the broken strap of Roxy’s gown. The hem had been trampled in the dirt. Wiping my eyes, I struggled to back away from Benny, then tripped and fell to the ground.
“I don’t know what Roxy told you, but I’m not that kind of girl. Neither is she.”
“Oh yeah? Why do you think they call her the Mouth?”
I wanted to respond—she’d told me it was because she talked too much, but then with a sinking feeling, I wondered if I knew Roxy at all. Did she sleep with men for favors? Had she slept with Benny?
He chuckled. “Because she knows how to use it. And you’re going to do the same. Get on your knees.”
“Hey! What is happening back here?”
Ernst Lubitsch appeared with two burly men in suits. His dark eyes
widened as he spotted me, and then narrowed when he turned to Benny.
“Out! What did I tell you the last time? You are not welcome here.”
“Hey now,” Benny said, raising his arms as the two men grabbed him by the collar of his jacket. “We were only having a little fun, weren’t we, doll?” He looked at me.
I cringed with shame, covering my exposed breast. “No,” I whispered. “Please, can you call me a cab home?”
Ernst Lubitsch looked at me with pity. I couldn’t bear to make eye contact. I could never introduce myself to him now. What if word got out about this?
With a warm hand, the director helped me to my feet, and then pointed toward a door at the side of the house. “In there, you will find a bathroom. Clean yourself up, and I will have someone call you a cab. But then I’m afraid I must ask you to leave.”
“Of course,” I said, my cheeks burning. “Thank you.”
“Violet,” Benny called as the men hauled him in the other direction. “Violet! I’m not leaving without you.”
Ignoring him, I hobbled down the footpath, the heel of my shoe broken. Wiping the tears from my cheeks, I felt disgusted with myself for attending this soiree with Benny. Did he even know Ernst Lubitsch? Or was he a habitual party crasher?
I pulled open the door to the side of the house and slipped off my heels; the cool tiles felt nice against my feet. Turning a corner, I found a bathroom. When I glimpsed my face in the mirror, I gasped. Oh, what an absolute disaster!
Fresh tears streamed from my eyes as I turned on the tap to wash my face. Mascara ringed my eyes, and my lipstick was smeared clownishly around my mouth.
Scrubbing my hands and face vigorously, I tried to remove the stain of Benny Bronstein. How had I been so foolish? I had trusted Roxy—had thought she was my friend. But I had no friends in this town.
Using a washcloth and a bit of lotion from a drawer, I removed my makeup, and then cleaned the scratches on my arms and face. With shaking fingers, I managed to tie the broken spaghetti strap of Roxy’s gown back together. I braced myself on the sink, nausea rolling through me like a tidal wave.
Vomit spewed forth unbidden, and I let out a sob. The taste of bile burned my tongue, along with the sickeningly sweet remnants of champagne. Suddenly, I brought a trembling hand to my mouth. I hadn’t used the Kotex in my purse. My period was due to start the week that I left Santa Cruz. But it never arrived.
Boardwalk Summer Page 12
