Joshua took his wallet out. “And just when I was about to ask you to the movies.”
Sally laughed in surprise. “Are you kidding?”
“Unless you’d rather go bowling. There’s a new alley at the other end of town.” Joshua slid out of the booth and held his hand out to help Sally. As soon as she straightened, she let go of his hand, falling into step beside him as they walked to the door. She didn’t reach for it this time, and smiled at him as she went out. He’d always liked her dimples.
“Do you even know what’s playing?”
“Sure.” He grinned. “Lady and the Tramp.”
“Ohhhh.” She widened her eyes effectively. “Sounds racy!”
They stood in line talking for almost half an hour before reaching the ticket booth. Joshua stood in line again to buy hot dogs, popcorn, sodas, and Junior Mints before they went into the theater. Sally tucked her arm through his. The theater was filling up fast and they found seats on the right side, halfway down. Joshua remembered the night he brought Abra to the movies and she’d stared hungry-eyed at Dylan, who looked straight at him, smug and triumphant, daring him to try to hold on to her if he could.
Wherever Abra was now, whatever she was going through, he couldn’t let his imagination come up with answers. It would drive him mad if he thought about all the grim possibilities.
Sally looked at him. “Are you okay?”
Joshua let the past and Abra slip away. There was a time for all things. He couldn’t come to her rescue. Only God could save her. “It’s been a while since I’ve been inside this theater.” Not since Abra. Not since a last friendly date with Lacey before she moved away. He pulled himself into the present.
“Me, too.”
The lights dimmed and the music started. Joshua relaxed, enjoying Sally’s company.
Abra awakened when Mr. Moss tapped on the door the next morning. “Open the door.” She pulled on a robe and turned the lock. He handed her a small paper bag. “Toothbrush, toothpaste, cotton undies. Hope they’re the right size. There’s a hairbrush in the bathroom drawer. Take a shower. Don’t bother washing your hair. Just get dressed and come on out to the kitchen.”
She washed and dried herself quickly. The white panties fit perfectly. His wife’s bra and white blouse were both too small; the black capris hung on her hips; the flats flip-flopped. She brushed her hair and swept it up in a ponytail, using one of the rubber bands she found in a bathroom drawer.
Mr. Moss set a newspaper aside and stood. He was dressed in tan slacks and a white shirt. He pulled a chair out for her. “Sit. We don’t have much time. You have an appointment at Murray’s Mane Event this morning. The wizard himself will be working on you, not one of his minions.” He set a box of shredded wheat cereal in front of her. “Eat.”
She poured cereal into a blue-and-white porcelain bowl. “May I have milk and sugar?”
He set a carton in front of her. “Yogurt is better for you.”
She frowned. “What is it?”
“Just put it on your cereal and eat it. We don’t have time for a science lesson.” He’d already finished and put his bowl in the sink. “We have a big day ahead of us.” He laid out a schedule and talked so fast, she wondered if she should be taking notes. Her hair appointment was just the first stop. “I’ve already told Murray the look I want.”
A blonde, no doubt. Men seemed to be crazy about blondes.
“He’ll have someone do your makeup and your nails.” He was looking at her like a bug under glass. “Then we’ll do a little shopping, get you an appropriate outfit before going to lunch in Toluca Lake so we can test the waters.” He didn’t give her time to ask what that meant. The telephone rang. He got up, crossed the room, and answered. “We’re on our way down.” He hung up. “Let’s go.”
A yellow cab waited at the curb. Mr. Moss gave instructions to the driver and paid him in advance. He put his hand on her shoulder. “Take the elevator to the sixth floor and tell the receptionist I sent you. Murray will ask lots of questions. Do not tell him your life story. I haven’t made it up yet. In fact, the less talking you do, the better. Remember that. It’s important.” He smiled slightly as he assessed her. He patted her cheek in a fatherly way. “Be brave, little girl. You’re about to go on a journey others only dream about.”
Murray’s salon had a waiting area with plush chairs and stacks of magazines and a stunning receptionist behind the counter. Abra told her Franklin Moss had sent her. “I’ll let Murray know you’re here.” The young woman smiled. “Please make yourself comfortable.” Abra sat and looked over copies of Photoplay, Silver Screen, and Movie Spotlight.
“And you would be Franklin’s new protégé.” A man spoke from the doorway. He came into the waiting room and extended his hand. “Murray Youngman.” He wasn’t what she’d expected. Alfredo had been effeminate and effusively friendly, his bleached-blond hair slicked back like a greasy DA’s. Murray stood six foot, wore Levi’s, a button-up white shirt, and cowboy boots, and had a crew cut much like Joshua’s. His fingers closed around hers firmly, and he looked at her intently. “Franklin told me what he wants, but I can’t say I agree. How do you feel about it?”
She didn’t know what ideas Mr. Moss had, and she wasn’t in a position to rebel anyway. “Franklin’s the boss.”
“You’ll hardly know yourself.”
“That’s not such a bad thing in some cases.”
An odd expression came into Murray’s brown eyes. “Are you sure you know what you’re doing?”
“I don’t, but Franklin does.” She looked to the right and left as he led her into the salon. It wasn’t one big room with stations down each side. It was a series of small private cubicles, with only a few of the doors open.
Murray answered her silent question. “Our clients like privacy until they’re camera ready.” He ushered her into a small room. The first thing he did after seating her was to rake his fingers into her hair. “Nice and thick, natural wave, feels silky already.” His smile was genuine and warm. “Wash first.” He turned the chair and lowered the back, pumping a lever at the bottom as he combed his fingers into her hair at the nape of her neck, lifting the mass and draping it into the sink. Leaning over her, he turned on the water, testing the temperature in his hand as he studied her face. “You and I are going to become good friends.”
She wasn’t so sure.
He asked a lot of questions as he worked. She gave evasive answers.
She glanced at the clock on the wall. He noticed. “It’s an ordeal, isn’t it? Keeping secrets.” He stood behind her, raking his fingers back through her hair and binding it loosely. He put his hands on her shoulders. “We’ll finish as soon as the makeup artist is done with you. Sit tight.” He ran a finger over her brow, tucking in one errant lock. “No peeking.”
He’d told her before he started mixing his magic that he wanted to see her honest reaction when she saw the finished look. To that end, he had turned the chair away from the mirror. Murray stepped out into the hallway. “Tell Betty she’s ready.”
A gorgeous blonde came in with a box that opened into tiers of makeup. “You have perfect skin.” She studied Abra with a professional air and began to take tubes and brushes from her supplies. “Don’t worry. I won’t take nearly as long as Murray.”
He came back the moment the woman began to tuck her things away. She didn’t ask what he thought. It wasn’t necessary. He worked briefly on Abra’s hair. “Franklin knows what he wants.” He turned the chair around. “Now, let’s see if you agree.”
Abra stared at the beautiful ebony-haired girl in the mirror. “Is that me?”
Murray smiled. “That’s the first unguarded thing you’ve said since you sat in that chair.”
She had never looked more beautiful in her life. “I thought he’d make me a blonde.”
“I would have kept you a redhead.” Murray put his large, strong hands on her shoulders, kneading them as he met her gaze in the mirror. “Franklin didn’t want you t
o be one more blonde among a sea of blondes. In my opinion, a lighter red would’ve been beautiful, but black makes you exotic, especially with those pale sea-green eyes of yours. You’re like a mermaid from the mists.” He dug his fingers into the thick mass of wavy curls, lifting it. “Men will see your eyes first, then the rest of you.” He let her hair spill from his hands over her shoulders and breasts, leaving her in no doubt of what he meant.
The receptionist appeared in the doorway. “Franklin Moss is here.”
“Your Svengali awaits.” Murray turned the chair so she faced him. He took her by both hands, and drew her up from the chair. He stood so she couldn’t get past him. His expression turned grave. “Be careful.” He let go of her. “I will see you in two weeks.”
“Two weeks?”
The grin didn’t reach his eyes. “We don’t want your red roots to show, now, do we?”
Mr. Moss’s eyes glowed when he saw her. “Exactly what I want.” He gave something to Murray that made the hairdresser’s brows rise.
Abra was eager for praise when they got into the car. “You like it?”
“I see you do.”
“I’ve never felt so beautiful in my life.”
“We’re just getting started.”
Mr. Moss took her to a boutique, where he introduced her to Phyllis Klein. The woman looked her over the same way Dorothea Endicott had back in Haven. “I see that gleam in your eyes, Phyllis, but I didn’t bring her here as a model. Something understated that will make people look at her, not the clothes she’s wearing.”
“As if anyone wouldn’t.”
Mr. Moss looked at his wristwatch. “And we don’t have much time.”
“I won’t need more than a few minutes. I know exactly what you have in mind.” Phyllis whisked Abra into a dressing room, took quick measurements, and went out again. She came back with a simple gray dress and high heels.
Abra began to undress. Phyllis took one look at the bra and told her to wait. She came back with another. She tossed the black capris, flats, and white blouse into a corner like rags for the trash bin and helped Abra dress. “Perfect.”
The dress fit every curve, the belt accentuating her small waist. The high heels added three inches to her height and defined her calf muscles. Phyllis opened the door. “Let’s see what Franklin thinks, shall we? Not that I have any doubts.”
His brows rose slightly, and he told her to turn around so he could take a look. Like a marionette on strings, Abra put her arms out and turned slowly. Phyllis’s laugh held a touch of smugness. “I don’t have to ask if you like it.”
“The other items we talked about this morning?” Mr. Moss sounded all business.
“I have her measurements. I’ll make a few alterations. We can have a fitting on Friday. I’ll send over a few outfits this afternoon. Did you want the black capris and—?”
“Throw them away.” His eyes hadn’t left Abra. “The gown. We haven’t talked about colors.”
“Trust me, Franklin.” Phyllis assessed Abra again. “Lavender, I think.” Mr. Moss was already guiding Abra to the door.
The Southern California sunshine blinded Abra. She felt his hand at her elbow. “We’ll have to get you sunglasses.” He gently guided her.
“Where are we going now?”
“For a little walk.”
“I’m not used to high heels.”
“Take my arm. I’m parked two blocks down.” He put his hand over hers. “Set your own pace. We’re in no hurry.”
“Aren’t we going to be late?”
“We don’t have a set meeting time.” She felt the air of excitement about him. “Don’t look at your feet. Chin up. Look straight ahead.”
“I might trip.”
“No, you won’t. We’re just taking a little stroll. I have hold of you. Take a deep breath. Let it out.”
She gave a nervous laugh. “My piano teacher used to say the same thing.”
A man in a business suit walked toward them. He slowed as he came closer. Abra ignored him. Mr. Moss glanced back briefly and chuckled under his breath. Two more men passed. Abra felt relief when they reached the black Cadillac. Mr. Moss unlocked the passenger door. He didn’t say anything until they were both seated inside the car. “You’ll get used to the attention.”
“Will I?” She felt a breathless mixture of pride and discomfort.
Mr. Moss pulled easily into traffic. “When we get to the restaurant, walk the way you just did—chin up, shoulders back. Don’t look around. Don’t look at anyone unless it’s me. Got that? If anyone approaches us and asks you a question, let me do the talking.”
The restaurant was small with an open-air feel to the dining room, which flowed together with potted ferns tucked here and there. The manager recognized Franklin. “This way, Mr. Moss.” Abra felt his hand at her back again, warm and gently guiding. He greeted several people casually in passing. He made no introductions. When they were seated, he ordered for both of them. She didn’t like fish, but didn’t argue. Her neck and shoulders ached with tension.
Mr. Moss kept telling her what to do. “Turn your body a little to the right. . . . Cross your legs. Slowly. We’re in no hurry. . . . Tilt your head a little to the left. That’s it. . . . Smile as though I’ve said something witty. . . . Lean forward. Look at me. . . . Breathe, little girl. Breathe.” Abra wished he would stop calling her that.
“We’re about to have some company.” A conspiratorial smile touched his lips. “Albert Coen is one of the biggest producers in Hollywood. He’s had his eyes on you since we walked in the door. Don’t speak. Stay seated. When I introduce you, nod graciously and smile. And don’t look surprised when I say Lena Scott. That’s your new name.”
She drew in a soft gasp of protest. “Why did you change my name?”
“It suits the new you.” His eyes held a glint of warning, though he looked calm and self-possessed, all business. “Get used to it.” He lifted his fluted glass of champagne. “To the Franklin Moss and Lena Scott partnership.” When she lifted her champagne glass of orange juice, he touched it lightly.
A man’s deep voice spoke and Franklin glanced up, feigning surprise. “Albert. It’s good to see you.” Standing, he shook hands with a balding man with a dark mustache and a nice suit. The man looked at the other chair, but Mr. Moss didn’t invite him to join them. Abra smoothed her skirt over her knees and folded her hands loosely in her lap. She acknowledged the introduction with a slight nod and a remote smile. She crossed her legs. Mr. Moss was pleasant, but offered little information. When Coen asked a question about her, he expertly changed the subject.
In the last twenty-four hours, the girl who had run away from Haven with Dylan Stark had completely disappeared. She looked different. She felt different. She had a new name. Who am I? Who am I going to be? Whatever story Franklin Moss made up for her, she doubted it would be anything close to the truth. He would get around to telling her soon. He’d have to if she was going to play the role that would make her into the person they both wanted her to be. A movie star. Someone desirable. Someone people would remember. Someone no one would ever forget. Or want to throw away.
Norma Jeane Mortenson had become Marilyn Monroe, hadn’t she?
She drew in a slow, deep breath as the men talked above her, and let it out slowly. Abra Matthews is dead. Long live Lena Scott.
CHAPTER 9
A pedestal is as much a prison as any small, confined space.
GLORIA STEINEM
ABRA JOINED MR. MOSS for breakfast, trying not to grimace when she saw the box of Post Grape-Nuts and a container of yogurt waiting for her. He’d told her the camera added five to ten pounds. Better to be under rather than normal weight, as long as it didn’t lessen her other attributes.
Mr. Moss closed Daily Variety and tossed it on the table. “We have a busy day ahead of us: pictures with Al Russell, lunch at the Brown Derby, dinner at Ciro’s. Eat quickly.” He glanced at his Vacheron Constantin. “We’re leaving in fifteen minutes.”
“I don’t know what to wear, and I’ve only brushed my hair.”
“Your hair is fine. A makeup artist will be at the studio, and Phyllis is sending over a wardrobe. Now, let’s move.”
She finished her bowl of cereal. He put the box in the cabinet and the yogurt in the refrigerator. She guessed she wouldn’t be having any more than a cup of food before tackling a full day.
Al Russell didn’t look much older than Mr. Moss, and he was equally lean and fit in casual slacks and a button-down blue shirt unbuttoned at the collar, a tie pulled carelessly loose. Mr. Moss made the introductions. Abra held out her hand, and Al took it, an amused smile touching his lips. He held on to her hand as he scrutinized her from head to foot. “She’s got that special something, hasn’t she?”
Mr. Moss looked noncommittal. “We’ll see. Everything arrive?”
“Racked and ready in the dressing room. Shelly’s laying out her war paint and brushes as we speak, but I don’t think this girl is going to need much to make her camera ready.”
Mr. Moss led her past the receptionist watching them, through the gallery of framed photographs of famous actors and actresses, and into a large studio with partitioned sets, cameras on tripods, mounted lights, reflective umbrellas, fans, and props. He knew his way around. “Over here.” He opened a door into a small room where a brunette with a flawless, polished-perfect face stood dressed in a white-belted red polka-dot dress and high heels. A carrying case lay open, displaying a vast array of beauty supplies.
The woman smiled brightly. “Franklin! It’s so good to see you again.”
“And you, Shelly.” He drew Abra forward between then. “This is Lena Scott. We’re working on a full portfolio today. Go for the siren look.”
The woman studied Abra’s features with a professional air. “Nice cheekbones, patrician nose, flawless skin, mouth a little full, and eyes to die for.”
“Make her sizzle.” He closed the door as he left.
Shelly shook her head. “I would have suggested ingenue. You have that wide-eyed look right now. When did you sign with Franklin?”
Bridge to Haven Page 19
