They pulled up in front of an eight-story gray building with Egyptian men and women carved in stone relief. A uniformed doorman emerged as Mr. Moss came around to open Abra’s door. “Good evening, Mr. Moss.”
“Yes, it is, Howard.” Mr. Moss handed him the keys and said he wouldn’t be needing the car again tonight. Abra felt the heat rushing into her face. She supposed she should be grateful he would let her spend the night even if her audition didn’t turn out to be what he hoped. She felt his large hand spread against the small of her back, pressing her forward through the door Howard held open for them. “Fill up the tank and check the oil, would you, please?”
“Yes, sir.”
Abra felt more embarrassment than the night Dylan had checked her into the Fairmont Hotel. Mr. Moss was as old as Peter Matthews, or close to it.
The Otis elevator took them to the top floor. Mr. Moss stepped across the hall and unlocked a door. There was only one other door, farther down and on the other side of the hallway. “Home, sweet home.” He inclined his head and she stepped forward into a black-and-white world. The living room looked Spartan; furnishings utilitarian, expensive, and modern. A bank of windows opened to the dark night and a sleeping apartment building across the street. The only color in the room came from three large framed pictures hanging on a white wall: three different views of a man in a short robe embracing a marble figure that had apparently just come to life.
Mr. Moss shrugged out of his black suit coat, folded it shoulder to shoulder, and laid it over the back of a white leather chair. He loosened the black tie and unfastened the top button of his white shirt. “Jean-Léon Gérôme’s work. What do you think?”
A tiny warning bell went off inside her. She silenced it. It seemed
a perfectly appropriate set of paintings for a talent agent. “Pygmalion and Galatea.”
“Smart girl.”
Pulling her gaze away from the prints, she went to a baby grand in one corner. “Do you play?”
“Some, but you didn’t come to hear me.” He’d stepped behind a counter. “A drink first. Take a seat. You’re wound up tighter than a two-dollar clock. I’m not going to compromise your virtue.”
As if she had any virtue left to compromise. She sat on the edge of a white sofa. How could she relax when the next hour would determine what happened to the rest of her life? She heard the clink of glass and ice, the grate of a cap being unscrewed. Mr. Moss walked toward her, studying her as he handed her a glass of dark sparkling liquid. She frowned at it, remembering the nightclub. “What’s in it?”
“So suspicious. I suppose it comes from experience.”
She held the cold drink in cold hands. “Dylan gave me a drink once that had me dancing on a stage.”
“Where was this?”
“North Beach. San Francisco.”
He made a derisive sound. “Dylan has always been a class act.” His expression changed to one of curiosity. “Were you any good?”
“Good enough to start a fistfight and get the place busted by police.” Or so Dylan had told her. She didn’t remember much from that night.
He nodded toward the glass in her hand. “It’s rum and Coke. You didn’t look like a Scotch-on-the-rocks girl. And I’ll never give you drugs unless you know about it and they’re prescribed by a doctor.”
He talked like everything was already settled. She took a tentative sip. She usually didn’t like alcohol, but this tasted good.
Mr. Moss sat at the other end of the sofa, his expression pleasant. He looked full of confidence, perfectly at ease. Despite the distance between them, she felt a tension in him, an undercurrent of
excitement, expectation. He said this audition wasn’t about sex, but she still wondered. He rested his arm on the back of the couch. “A few things you might want to know about me before we get to your audition.” His smile was wry, as though he could read her mind.
He gave a monologue, summarizing his life. He’d graduated from Harvard Business School, apprenticed in a New York agency geared for Broadway performers, before coming west and joining the most prestigious and powerful Hollywood talent agency in the business. He’d done well, bringing in several clients who became big stars. He had never been fired in his life—despite the rumors to the contrary. He had made a lot of money, still had most of it. Since leaving the agency, he had signed contracts with several actors, every one of whom now had steady work, which meant a steady income stream as well. He liked to gamble. He had been looking for another project. And yes, he’d had an affair with Pamela Hudson of the bright lights, and yes, it had caused a lot of grief, not the least of which was his wife walking out on him and taking his two children with her. Not that he minded all that much. They’d married young and grown in different directions.
“Divorce is never simple and sometimes expensive. My biggest regret is what the affair did to my children. They haven’t forgiven me for cheating on their mother.”
“And your wife?”
“She has the house in Malibu, which makes her and my children very happy. They like the beaches. I have this apartment, which makes me happy. I like being close to the action.”
Everything he had said had come too fast for her to absorb. “How many children do you have?”
“A boy and a girl, ages fifteen and thirteen.” He finished his Scotch and got up to pour another. “My daughter would like to lop off my head and give it to her mother on a platter. My son doesn’t speak to me. The fallout from Pamela.”
“Are you still in love with her?”
“I have more regret over my wife than her. Oh, well.” He gave a harsh laugh. “Right now, my only interest in any woman is professional. It took the golden goose flying to another man’s nest to bring me to my senses. Good thing I invested the commission I made from Pamela before she spread her wings to fly.” He smiled without humor. “Not that she went far. She’s pregnant. By the time she has the baby and gets her body back in shape, she’ll be forgotten. And I give her marriage two to three years max. She’ll come out of the divorce with a couple of million, but not the career she envisioned when she snagged her director. Not what she could have had if she’d stayed the course.” He shrugged. “At least she’ll have enough to keep her from ever having to work as a carhop at a drive-in again.”
“Is that story true?” She and Penny had read about Pamela Hudson in a movie magazine. “You really met her at a drive-in?”
His smile was full of cynicism. “She leaned over to take my order. Let’s say I got a good look at her assets and lost my head.” He got up and took Abra’s half-empty glass. “You look like you’re feeling better.”
Perhaps it was his openness, his businesslike manner. “Would you like me to play for you now, Mr. Moss?”
“Go ahead.” He poured himself another drink. “I’m all ears.”
She ran an experimental hand over the keys and found the piano perfectly tuned. Making herself comfortable on the bench, she played scales and chords to warm up. It was a lifetime ago that she had played. She felt more at home now than she had since leaving Haven.
She relaxed. Music poured into her mind and she played what she knew best, a medley of hymns. Every note reminded her of Mitzi, Pastor Zeke, Joshua, the church filled with people she’d known all her life. She lifted her hands abruptly, clenching them.
“Something wrong with the piano?”
“No.” She paused. “I don’t think I’m playing what most people want to hear. That’s all.” He was sitting on a barstool, watching her closely. “What would you like me to play?”
He looked surprised. “You’re giving me a choice? Play whatever you want.”
She started with Bach’s Toccata and Fugue in D minor. Then Debussy’s “Clair de Lune” spilled through her hands. She thought of Dylan and played Hank Williams’s “Your Cheatin’ Heart” and the Orioles’ “Crying in the Chapel.” Pulling her mind away from him, she sought for some other inspiration and Mitzi popped into her head. Holding back tears, Abra launched into an impassioned rendition of “Maple Leaf Rag.” When Mr. Moss started to laugh, Abra stopped. She lifted her hands away, fingers splayed, heart breaking. What was so funny?
“Well, you are a surprise! And believe me when I say I’m not surprised very often.” He finished his drink and left the glass on the bar. He came over to the piano. “Dylan had no idea you could play like that, did he?”
“He knew I played for the church.”
“Definitely not his kind of music. You already said you can dance. Can you sing?”
She corrected him. “I danced when I was drunk on something and didn’t even know what I was doing. And I guess I can sing, as well as anyone else. I could probably yodel, too, if someone taught me how.”
He lifted a hand as though to stop her from saying more. “It doesn’t matter. You move like a dancer. You have nice tone to your voice. You know what? You’re the real deal.” He looked excited, eyes glowing. “We can do it.”
“Do what?”
“Make you a star.”
She stared at him. Was he serious? Her heart pounded.
“It’s going to take hard work on both our parts. I’m willing. Are you?”
She caught his excitement. “I can work hard, Mr. Moss.” She was eager, but nervous. “But where would I live?”
“Here. With me. And don’t look at me like that. I have two extra bedrooms and they have locks on the doors. Come on.” He nodded the way. “Take a look.”
Still nervous, Abra followed him down a hall. He passed an open door to a room with masculine blues and browns, a double bed, and signed, framed posters of Yogi Berra, Bob Grim, and Joe DiMaggio on the wall. He swung another door open, revealing a more feminine bedroom beautifully decorated in pastel pink, green, and yellow. It had white French provincial furniture—a queen-size bed, dresser, side tables, and lamps. It even had a private bathroom with a claw-foot tub and separate shower, everything in pink-and-white tile with gilded-framed mirrors and pale-green towels and rugs. Penny would love it.
“This is my office.” Mr. Moss opened another door across the hall, revealing a bigger room with a large brown leather swivel chair, mahogany desk with stacks of files, telephone. Next to it was an iron safe. Four filing cabinets stood against one wall. Movie posters and glossy portraits were on display, Pamela Hudson noticeably absent. A typewriter sat on one side of his desk with stacked trays of writing supplies. He gave her a few seconds to take it all in and then led the way to the door at the end of the hall.
“This is my room.” He opened the door into a suite much bigger than Peter and Priscilla’s living room. It was filled with dark wood, rich fabrics, and masculine identity. When he went in, Abra didn’t follow him. He looked from her to his king-size bed and back, with a sardonic smile. “No?”
She wondered if everything hinged on her saying yes. She swallowed hard. Mr. Moss didn’t press the issue or look disappointed.
He came out of the room and closed the door behind him. “Another first.” He smiled at her. “Good girl.” She followed him back to the living room.
“Decision time, Abra.” He sat at the end of the couch again, relaxed, watchful. “You can go back to Tower Road and beg Dylan to take you back, knowing he won’t. Or you can move in tonight, work with me, and become a star. Which is it?”
Was it really such a sure thing? She stood on the edge of a precipice, trembling.
“Take the leap.” He gave a soft laugh. “Any other girl would be diving at the opportunity I’m offering. But you’re not like other girls, are you? I knew that the first time I saw you. I’ve been watching you for a while.”
She remembered him standing by the pool. “Did Dylan know?”
“Most likely.” His smile held no humor. “What do you want, Abra?”
“I want to be . . .” A little catch in her throat kept her from saying the rest.
“Rich and famous?”
“Somebody.”
She wouldn’t be invisible anymore. She wouldn’t be the disposable child. She wouldn’t be Dylan’s cast-off girlfriend. Dylan would regret throwing her away. Penny and her gang of friends would envy her. She’d be
somebody
.
“I’ll make you that and more.” He rose with an air of satisfaction, everything decided. “Come on back to my office.” He walked with purpose. He opened a file cabinet, fingered through files, and pulled out two documents. Dropping them on the black leather desk blotter, he plucked a silver-and-black fountain pen from the top drawer and put it on top of the papers. He pulled the chair back. “Sit. Read. Take all the time you need. Ask anything you want.”
“I don’t even know what to ask.”
He looked inexplicably sad. “Where on earth did you come from, little girl?”
“I was born under a bridge and left to die.” She hadn’t meant to say that.
He tilted his head, studying her. “Nice story.”
“True.”
“Obviously, someone found you.”
“Then gave me away.” And now, Dylan had given her away as well. What would this man do with her? “No one has ever wanted me around for long.”
He frowned slightly, searching her face, then dismissing the notion. “If you sign that contract, you’re putting yourself in my hands for a long time. And I’ll make you into someone the whole world wants.”
Could he really do that? She studied him for a moment and saw he believed it. She wanted to believe it, too. Abra picked up the pen, flipped through the pages, and signed the blank line.
“Impetuous youth.” Mr. Moss’s tone was enigmatic. He took the pen from her fingers. When he leaned over her, she felt the heat radiating from his body, the warmth of his breath in her hair. He signed the line below hers with a flourish. He flipped through the second copy and pointed. She signed again. He signed and put the pen back into the drawer, opened the iron safe, and tucked one copy inside. He nodded toward her copy, still on the desk. “You should keep that safe.”
“Where do you suggest? In my underwear?”
He laughed and held out his hand. “Give it to me.” He tossed it into the safe with his copy, closed the door, and spun the dial. He opened a box of file cards, pulled one up, jotted a telephone number on a tablet, picked up the telephone, and dialed. Smiling confidently, he winked at her. “Dylan! My young friend. I called to thank you. Who? Franklin Moss here. Who else? . . . Two in the morning? I had no idea you’d be in bed so early. . . . No, I’m not drunk. Quite the
contrary. I’m feeling better than I’ve felt in a long, long time.” He listened again, then laughed. “In answer to that question, yes, she surprised me. I just signed her.” He leaned his hip against the desk, grinning at her. “You still there, Dylan? . . . Yes. That’s exactly what I said.” He tore the telephone number off the notepad, wadded it, and pitched it into the trash can. “I always know what I’m doing. . . . No. Don’t bother sending anything over. She’s starting fresh.” He dropped the telephone receiver into the cradle. “Finis. That, my girl, was the end of a dark era. A new dawn has come.”