by Denise Dietz
“You were never poor, dumb or insecure in your life, Flory. Talk to me!”
“About our script? Well, we all know Scottie will die soon. Frankly, I can’t believe she’s lasted this long. She eats sushi every day for lunch, with tons of garlic. No mints. No mouthwash. And Cal has to kiss her.” Drew winked, but Maxine didn’t respond. “Okay, okay, my suggestion is to speed up the bits between Charl and Pandora.”
“We’ve been considering that. Maybe we could even have Pandora rebel, act gutsy, fight back.”
“Max, I’ll make a deal with you. Cut Cal’s part, at least temporarily, and I’ll drop negotiations for Jon Griffin’s new film. My Movie of the Week just wrapped. Dick Clark has scheduled me for a Pyramid guest spot. I promised to shoot a perfume commercial with my sister, Maryl Bradley. In a few short weeks, Cal can solve Hannah’s murder. Am I being fair?”
“What about Judith’s idea? Buried treasure?”
“Every soap is dealing with exotic locations. I think it’s a waste of money. Romance equals ratings. Lots of sex and ‘mental rape.’ We can dig for buried treasure in Lady Nan’s basement. Our ratings soared during Tabby’s pregnancy. By the way, I thought the miscarriage was a cop-out.”
“Say la vee. Rosebud Cosmetics insisted. No, demanded.” She shrugged again. “They weren’t ready for a relationship between Tabby and Malcolm, even though we swore up and down it would be platonic, a peck on the cheek. But some biggie didn’t want white pecking black.”
“Are you considering another story line for Delly?”
“Not really. Pandora has served her purpose. What can we do with Pandora after Charl is cured?”
“But the viewers love her.”
“Viewers are so fickle, my dear.”
“I think you underestimate our fans.” He glanced at his watch. “Are we finished? Anissa’s waiting for me at home.”
“What? Are you two living together?”
“Not in the sense you mean. We’re sharing my apartment while she recovers from Randy’s suicide.”
“But that was six months ago.”
Furious, Maxine tried to hide her reaction. Did Mr. Respect leave the beautiful Anissa untouched?
A shame Pandora couldn’t be released from the mental ward while Charl stayed locked up forever.
After all, Delly was no threat.
* * * * *
Summer had slipped away faster than a Venice Beach roller skater navigating a slippery boardwalk.
With that thought, Delly braked her Audi for a stoplight, heard the clutch squeal, and wondered if one oiled a clutch. She knew nothing about the mechanics of a car engine, and could care less. She’d rarely driven in Manhattan. Subways had transported her east side, west side, all around the town.
It’s September. I hate September. It reminds me of Mr. Hailey’s candy.
Why did she suddenly remember that? It had happened a million years ago, the day she’d name-joked Hans Jewish Andersen and Delilah Old. Sweeping her bangs away from her forehead, she peered into the rearview mirror.
Delilah Old. Christ, she had wrinkles. No, not wrinkles. Eye-smudges. She looked like a damn raccoon.
Pandora has to be young, not old.
For a person who’d once denounced soaps as junk, Delly had, pervasively, changed her mind. She now thought about soaps day and night, and was almost as passionate as Maxine about ratings. Today she wore a Morning Star T-shirt. Her new script perched on the passenger seat, surrounded by outdated trade newspapers, a sweater missing three buttons, and a Chien coffee mug. On top of the Audi’s dash was a magazine devoted to soap stars, headlining Drew Flory. This Saturday he’d appear in a made-for-TV-movie.
Geese honked. No, cars honked. The light had turned green. Her clutch squealed. The Beatles sang about a yellow submarine.
“Panda has lots of studying to do, Ringo,” Delly told her car radio. “Lots of lines to learn. No time to fix supper. Maybe Jonny will order a pizza. No. Better not ask Jonny. He’s mad ’cause Panda’s been a naughty girl.”
The radio announcer introduced Jim Croce, and the musical strains of Bad Bad Leroy Brown drifted from the one dashboard speaker that still worked. “Bad bad Pandora Poe,” Delly sang. “Bad-est kid on the whole damn show.”
Jonny had no right to be mad. It wasn’t as if Delly was having an affair with another man. Jonny couldn’t understand that Delly didn’t visit Judith’s house. It was Panda who played with Judith on the bad bad satin sheets. In fact, bad bad Pandora Poe had accepted another Brentwood invitation for Saturday night.
“Boy oh boy,” Delly told the radio. “Jonny’s gonna be mad at Delly.”
But Panda had to see Judith. The new script, right there on the seat, had Charl starting a fire. During the confusion, Charl would steal a nurse’s uniform. The last page of the script had Panda trapped in the fire.
“You are one silly Panda,” Delly said. “The writers can’t kill you off. They need you for Charl’s alibi. Her knife’s hidden inside your baby. On the other hand, Charl’s meaner than a junk yard dog. Charl could take my baby away. Then they wouldn’t need Pandora.”
Pulling into her driveway, parking behind a silver Rabbit convertible, Delly scowled. Why did Jonny always drive the new Rabbit? Then she remembered that it had been her own suggestion since Jon had a business luncheon at Paramount.
She rescued her script from the debris, entered the house, and admired her cozy love nest, now an antique showplace. The two royal blue director’s chairs, glass coffee table, and Jon’s desks and file cabinet were the only pieces of furniture that remained from their early weeks in Hollywood.
Surveying the living room, she felt her mouth turn up at the corners. Their couch was an Empire gilt-bronzed meridienne. The TV, VCR, and stereo components rested on a seventeenth century English Coffer. A refinished mahogany Chippendale table held the framed photos of her family. An American highboy of curly maple stood nearby, flanked by an Arrow Banks rocking chair. Velvet throw pillows, embroidered with silver and gold birds, covered the couch.
Jon sat in front of his new computer. He raised one eyebrow, but didn’t stop tapping away at his keyboard. God, she loved his hands.
Walking into the bedroom, she ran her own hands across the polished wood of an antique four-poster, bought at auction, guaranteed to have been at least one night’s respite for George and Martha Washington. Then she pulled a knee-length red kimono from her painted Burgess wardrobe. Next to the wardrobe was an English chest with one of her most prized possessions on top—a late nineteenth century puss-in-boots inkwell, whose cat peeped out from the inside of a shoe.
Her doll collection now included an early baby doll that said Ma-Ma when its arms were pulled. She had cashed one entire pay check for a French Jumeau fashion doll of unglazed porcelain, whose enormous eyes and pout reminded her of Samantha.
Most of her salary was lavished on antique furniture and dolls. Sometimes she dragged Jon to auctions or flea markets, and he had bought an authentic Humpty Dumpty mechanical bank of heavy cast metal with bright enamel paint. Circa 1890, it was in perfect condition, but the evil grin on the clown-like face bothered her. Maybe it brought to mind a long-ago birthday cake and Samantha’s snide comment: Your ’nitials spell dog.
“No, they don’t,” Delly told Humpty. “Not anymore.”
Was that the real reason she’d changed her name to Diamond?
Belting her robe, clutching her script, she strolled into the living room and curled up amidst the plump couch pillows. For a while she watched the swinging pendulum on a Seth Thomas Post Office clock. Eight-oh-five. Eight-ten. Her stomach growled. Was Jonny hungry? He hadn’t said one word and his keyboard sounded angry. Well, she wasn’t going to speak first.
“George and Martha wouldn’t approve,” she said. Jon’s bare shoulders glistened with creative perspiration. Staring at the white space between his bronzed back and the waistband of his jeans, she felt an almost overwhelming desire. “We’re not keeping up with tradition, Jonn
y. Didn’t President and Mrs. Washington screw themselves silly inside every Colonial home and tavern?”
“Do you honestly believe George and Martha screwed in our bed, Delly?”
“Yes. Why wouldn’t they?”
Jon stopped typing. “Georgie’s wooden teeth would have hurt Marty’s ponderous bosom.”
“Little Joe Cartwright craved a ponderosa bosom,” she said. Not great, but good enough for a grin, she thought.
Jon didn’t crack a smile. Abruptly, he threw a mug filled with pencils against the wall. The pencils landed in pick-up-stick positions as Jon said, “Why are you doing this to us, Delly?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Pendergraft called to confirm.”
“Oh, that. Panda has to see Judith.”
“Don’t give me that Panda shit.”
“Jonny’s mad at Panda. Bad, bad Pandora Poe.”
“Quit Morning Star, Delly. It’s not worth your romps on the casting couch.” Rising from his chair, he ran across the room, grabbed her script, and hurled it toward the pencils.
She screamed when he clutched the lapels of her kimono, wrestled her to the floor, and straddled her body. Then she stopped struggling. “Don’t be mad, Tarz.”
He groaned. “What am I going to do with you?”
“For starters, you can take off your jeans.”
“Please quit the show.”
“Please make love to me.”
Delly felt his weight crush her breasts. Her legs circled his butt. He slid inside, withdrew, slid inside again. “Ah, Jonny, don’t tease.” There was a loud series of knocks on the front door. Jon raised his head, listening. “Don’t stop,” she gasped, arching her back. “I wish . . . I want . . .”
He lowered his head and nosed her robe apart. She felt him leave a trail of feathery kisses down her belly until he reached the dark, moist triangle between her thighs. His tongue snaked out and caressed, while his fingers typed erotic messages across her swollen nipples.
The door knocks were punctuated by the doorbell. Once again, Jon raised his head. “What the hell?”
“Ignore it,” she managed, on the verge of an orgasm. “Girl Scouts selling cookies. Religious nuts.”
“Are you expecting someone? Anissa?”
“No.”
“Did you order a pizza?”
“No.”
“Maybe Paramount sent revisions.”
“At night? Jonny, please . . . rats!” She watched him step into his jeans and walk toward the door. Every sound was exaggerated. His footsteps. His hoarse cough. The zipper on his jeans. Her heart slammed against her chest. Her spit tasted salty and bitter, as if she’d swallowed semi-sweet, chocolate-covered peanuts. Sitting up, she tried to re-wrap herself in the folds of her robe and tidy her tangled hair. Then she heard a familiar voice.
“Well, it’s about time. My cab drove away. I saw two cars in the driveway and lights in the window, so naturally I assumed you were home. Did I interrupt anything important?”
Chapter Nineteen
“This isn’t how I pictured your decor,” Samantha said as she explored the living room.
“How did you picture it?” Delly remembered her sister’s habit of caressing surfaces, and her stupefaction turned to prickly petulance when Sami’s fingers traced the English coffer.
“I don’t know, Dell. Beaver-Cleaver-ish, maybe.”
“Come on, Sami, that’s not me.”
“That’s my perception of you.” She glanced around. “This stuff’s pretty, I guess, but it’s so old.”
“Older stuff’s worth a fortune,” said Jon, grinning at what he probably thought was meaningless familial banter.
Delly knew better. She wanted to erase Jon’s grin with her knuckles. Instead, she said, “What are you doing here, Sami?”
“Aren’t you glad to see me?”
“Sure,” she replied, thinking how most sisters would have hugged, kissed. But Samantha wasn’t demonstrative with women, not unless she wanted something very badly. “Why didn’t you call, Sami? We had no idea you planned a visit.”
“This isn’t a visit. I’ve left Jules.” She shrugged off her London Fog. Beneath the trench coat, she wore designer jeans and a short-sleeved sweater in her favorite burnt-orange color. Flinging her coat toward the rocker, she fumbled inside her purse until she’d extracted a crumpled cigarette pack and a gold-plated lighter. “Do you mind if I smoke?”
Yes!
“No,” Jon said.
Studying Sami’s tight jeans and sweater, Delly decided that her sister looked more voluptuous than fat. Palomino hair tumbled down Sami’s back in a carefully-contemplated shag. Her makeup was applied flawlessly, with more flair than flash, and her skin resembled the porcelain Jumeau doll.
“You must be Delly’s boyfriend,” she purred, extending five dark red fingernails toward Jon.
“Guilty.” Shaking Samantha’s hand, he grinned again.
“Can . . . may I have a drink? I hate flying, always count the nuns and babies on board. I figure God won’t strike down nuns and babies.”
Jon laughed. “I’ll prepare one of my specialty drinks. Better yet, I’ll fix drinks for all of us.”
Delly watched him head toward the kitchen. Then, squaring her shoulders, she faced Samantha. “How are the kids?”
“Fine. The twins are almost potty trained. Isn’t that a dopey word? Potty? Sounds like a plant. Uncle Sam gave me this marvy British nanny for Chanukah. Remember the guest room where we used to stay when we were sick? I swear it still smells like crushed grapes. Remember how we hated tea and Daddy would sweeten it with grape jelly? Jules took out the grape arbor and built a jungle gym for the kids. Nanny sleeps there.”
“Where? The jungle gym?”
“No, silly, the guest room. Was that a joke?”
“Yes. Does Jules know you’re here?”
“He does now. I sent him a telegram.”
“Of course. A telegram. Why am I not surprised? What did you tell the kids?”
“That I’ll bring them to Hollywood when I’m settled.” She crushed out her cigarette in a cut-glass candy dish. “Will wants Sting’s autograph. How come you look so shocked? I couldn’t arrive on your doorstep with four screaming brats.”
“Brats?”
“Actually, they’re all sweet, especially Juliet, but I couldn’t intrude on you with an entourage. You don’t have room for Nanny, so you’d have to baby-sit.”
“Me? Sami, I’ve got a full-time job.”
“You do?”
“Yes. I play Pandora on—”
“That’s not full time.”
“I beg to differ. I rehearse, study lines, and—”
“Well, that’s why I didn’t bring the kids.”
Jon returned, balancing three steaming mugs. “Coffee, Kahlua, and raspberry liqueur,” he said, setting the mugs on the coffee table. “My specialty.”
Samantha gave him a deliquescent smile. “That looks marvy,” she said, “but I really must count calories. I’ve lost thirty pounds. Is it okay if I bunk in your house for a while?”
Watching her sister turn her luminous gaze on Jon, Delly gulped her drink too quickly and burned the roof of her mouth. She slipped into the kitchen, filled her mug with straight liqueur, then walked back in time to hear Jon say, “So naturally we want you to stay with us.”
“How long?” Delly said.
“Until I get acclimated,” Samantha said. “Why? Is there a problem?”
“Not really. We have a second bedroom. But Jon and I both need peace and quiet, especially Jon.”
“Then I’d better find myself a hotel.”
“That’s stupid,” Jon said. “You’d have to pay for meals, rent a car—”
“Well, okay, if you insist. Trust me, I’ll be mouse-quiet. Jon darling, would you fetch the largest suitcase?”
“I’ll fetch them all.”
Delly felt the potent liqueur hit her stomach like a fireball. June Cleaver
wouldn’t consume raspberry thunderbolts of forked lightning, but then June wouldn’t buy expensive antique furniture. Ward would piss his pants over the Arrow Banks rocker, great for making love in, especially when one wanted rocking. Did Ward and June make love? Sure they did. At least twice. Wally and the Beaver. I’m heading for the click too fast. Better slow down.
What the heck. How often did a beloved twin sister drop in out of the blue for a permanent visit? Only Samantha could have planned her arrival so perfectly. Only Samantha could have timed her entrance during the climax.
Making an effort to walk straight, Delly entered the kitchen and refilled her mug. When she returned, Jon had carried all but one piece of luggage through the hallway, into the guest room. Samantha opened the remaining suitcase and pulled out two denim jackets lined with mink. She tossed a small jacket toward Delly, then handed the other, larger jacket to Jon.
“Thanks,” he said. “I’ll wear this to my next Paramount meeting. They always make more concessions if they think you’re solvent.”
“Too expensive,” Delly said. “We can’t accept—”
“Don’t be silly. You should see the markup on furs. Where’s your piano?.”
“Piano?”
“You know, that funny-looking piece of furniture with eighty-eight black and white keys. Mom plays one.”
“Sami, we have no room for a piano.”
“Yes, you do. If we move this dopey couch closer to the TV, we can squeeze the piano over there, in the corner.”
“It’s not a dopey couch and we don’t need a piano.”
“I do, Dell. I’ve been taking voice lessons from this darling gentleman who used to star in operas. I had to audition to become his student, but he liked me and put me ahead of the others on his waiting list. I need the piano to practice on. La, la, la, and all that shit. I’ll buy a small one, I promise.” She fondled the family pictures. “You can put these on top, Dell, just like Joan Crawford did in her movie Daisy-something. Or was that Lana Turner? God, I love Lana Turner movies. Some people even think I look like her. What do you think, Jon?”
“There’s a resemblance.”
