Duchess (24 page)

He nodded, as if realizing it for the first time.

A tear fell off her chin. And then, because it felt perfect, she kissed him. Curled her hand behind his neck. Touched her forehead to his. “I'll never let you go.”

“Cut!”

McDuff's voice silenced the set, and for a long second, everything hushed.

She leaned back from Hale. He met her eyes. Smiled. “Beautiful,” he said.

She got up and turned for McDuff. He was nodding, but her gaze fell past him to Rolfe.

He stood on the sideline, hands in his pockets, his mouth a fierce line, his eyes in hers. He wore a leather jacket, probably from his flight days, a derby, and the wind catching a white silk scarf. Strong. Stoic. Or…no, he turned away, ran a hand across his cheek before returning it to his pocket.

“That was brilliant!” Sophie ran up, throwing a jacket over Rosie's shoulders. “I was crying. I don't think there will be a dry eye in any theater in America.”

Or, for her. Because as she watched Rolfe standing there, in the middle of his war-torn set, she realized he'd won the battle for her heart.

Of course she loved him. His kindness, the way he believed in her. The applause she saw in his smile, his eyes.

Yes, she loved Rolfe Van Horne. The thought caught her up, stilled her. Spread a strange heat through her.

Loved him. Not like she'd loved Guthrie, with a sort of relieved wonder, and not like Dash, a begrudging fondness, but…love. The kind that made her trust him. Believe in him.

Give him her heart.

“That's a wrap, folks. Congratulations,” McDuff said.

The crew erupted in applause.

Rolfe pulled his hands from his pockets, adding to the cheer. But she couldn't deny the worry that seemed etched in his eyes.

“C'mon,” Sophie said, pulling her toward her dressing tent. “You need to get out of those wet clothes.”

“Is Rolfe okay?” Rosie ducked inside the tent, the ground covered in a carpet, electric lights strung over her mirror, a canvas chair the extent of the luxury. She made sure Sophie closed the door before stripping off her wet, muddy clothes. She took a towel and dried herself. “I need a bath.”

“Especially before dinner tonight.” Sophie pointed to an envelope on her dressing table. She picked it up and found an invitation to dinner written in Rolfe's short, crisp handwriting.

“Dinner out. I wonder why the fuss?”

Sophie handed her a robe, not meeting her eyes.

“Does he have something special planned?”

“I don't know,” Sophie said. She ran a hand under her eyes.

“Sophie?”

“You know I don't profess to understand Rolfe's choices.” She reached for a pair of trousers, held them out for Rosie.

Rosie stood there. “You mean me.”

Sophie looked up, smiled, and a surprising warmth entered her gaze. “No. That I understand perfectly. I'm really going to miss you.”

Oh. She wasn't sure why, but the words filled her up, and she tasted them, like chocolate on her lips. She leaned over and hugged Sophie. “I'm not leaving yet. We still have months of appearances and promotions to do.”

Sophie didn't argue, simply held her tight. “You've surprised me, Roxy Price. Thank you for that.”

After her bath, Rosie climbed into the pants then donned a cashmere sweater, a leather jacket, a knit hat, before exiting to the party.

Rolfe was nowhere to be found.

But she intended to give him an evening that would make him stick around. And perhaps, somewhere under the crystalline stars, she'd tell him the truth.

Yes, there could be a happy ending for Bridget and Colin. For her and Rolfe.

The sun hung low on the horizon before she made it back to the hotel. Rolfe had long vanished in the hum of the revelry, the champagne, the toasts, the dismantling of the set. The villagers watching the production joined in, and she spent an hour signing autographs.

The hotel clerk stopped her as she entered the lobby, the gaslights dim across the simple oak furniture. So much of the hotel had been rebuilt after the war, but the furnishings remained sparse. She'd hardly noticed.

“A car will pick you up at eight,” the clerk said.

Maybe. But she knew the location of Rolfe's room. And perhaps in the privacy of his chambers she might confess that he'd changed her. That she'd give him what remained of her heart.

“Thank you.”

She stared at her closet too long, not sure what to wear, finally deciding on something simple. A black silk dress, a pair of hosiery, dancing shoes. But really, where would they go in Etain?

She'd be happy simply sitting in the hotel café, drinking café au lait and eating a croissant. She debated wearing the pearls Dash had given her then left her neck bare. Checking the time, she slipped out of her room.

Rolfe had the suite at the end of the hall, a room that overlooked a private courtyard below. His also came with an outside staircase—she'd seen it one night as they'd returned to the hotel.

She padded to the end of the hall, a hum in her chest. The last time she'd felt this way, well, maybe she'd never felt this way. With Guthrie, her love for him came slowly, day by day in his arms, long after they'd married. And Dash, well, perhaps Dash didn't count. Because love wasn't a contract or an escape. Love was a surrender.

She knocked on the door and heard Rolfe's voice inside. She eased the door open, expecting him to be standing before her, a smile on his face, waiting.

Instead, he had his back to her, a private telephone to his ear. He held the base in his hand, gesturing.

And, he was talking German. She didn't know enough of it to understand it all, but the guttural sounds, the anger in his voice—she backed out of the room.

The door creaked as she began to close it and Rolfe stilled. Turned.

His eyes widened as his gaze landed on her.

“Sorry,” she mouthed, but he was already hanging up.

“What are you doing here?”

It didn't sound like him. Not the way he snapped at her, the annoyance in his eyes. “I—”

“Are you ready to go?” He wore a pair of black wool pants, a dress shirt, a hunting jacket.

“I—I—” She took a breath. “I wanted to talk to you about post production. The plans for promotion.”

She heard her studio voice, the one that took over when her world felt angled.

He made that strange face again, the one she'd seen on set, a fierce line to his lips. Then, he sighed. “I needed to talk to you about that. That's why I wanted to take you out for dinner.”

It was? Oh. Funny, she hadn't seriously entertained any other alternatives to his dinner purposes. In fact, she'd seen…well, him proposing had flitted through her mind once or twice.

“Good. Because I have a number of ideas.” Oh, shoot, now her voice trembled, because no, no, for a moment, she'd believed herself today on the set.
You do love me
.

She stepped into the room. Maybe he wanted to take her back to Belgium during post-production, to plan their tour strategy. Didn't he say it might take a year, even more? And then to America, to promote the film there.

By then, well, by then he'd realize just how much—

“I'm sending you home, Rosie.”

Her mouth opened. Dried. She closed it. Found herself biting her lip. Then, a feeble, almost pitiful, “What?”

“We're done filming. It's over.”

“But, we—I thought we needed to do promotion?”

“I can do that without you.” He wasn't looking at her now, had picked up his derby, crunched it in his hands.

“Without me. But, I thought the plan was to make me a star in Europe and then—”

“Does everything have to be about you, Rosie?” He lifted his gaze, red in his eyes. “You know, life is more than movies. And certainly more than Roxy Price.”

She closed her mouth. Felt a fist crushing her chest. “I know that.”

He narrowed his eyes. Sighed. “You've played your part here and done it brilliantly, just as I asked. Now, it's over. Go home to America, Roxy. I—I don't need you anymore.”

  P
ART
T
HREE
  

1938
DUCHESS

Ten days of trying not to call herself a fool and still she couldn't purge Rolfe's words from her mind. “
I don't need you anymore
.”

Of course not. Because, like he'd said, she was just playing a role. Including, apparently, her role in his arms.

Had he been playing a role also?

Please don't stop kissing me
.

She pressed her hand to her mouth, swallowing back the ache in her throat.

She closed her eyes. “Never, Rosie,” he'd said.
Never
.

More lies. She didn't know where they started and stopped with him.

At least he'd arranged her travel home. First a train to Paris then a ship across the Atlantic to New York. She'd debated stopping in to see her mother and Finn, but why? So her mother could see the destruction on her face?

Thirty-six hours and four stops on the TWA DC-2 flight, thankfully in her own sleeper berth, and in an hour she'd land on California soil, the last year a memory.

She might never forget looking out the train window from the station in Verdun and seeing Rolfe on the platform. He'd arrived conveniently after the train boarded, electing to allow Hale and Sophie to accompany her to the train. Hale had his own compartment, heading back to the Netherlands. Sophie would take an afternoon train to Belgium.

Rolfe seemed to be dismantling their crew as haphazardly as he put it together.

He stood there, scanning the windows as if he might want to jump aboard, change his mind. She leaned away from the curtain, deciding to hate him. It felt better than the ravaging pain in her chest.

She ignored Hale's knocking and request to accompany her to dinner. She couldn't bear for her public to see her with swollen eyes. See, this was why she should never give away pieces of herself.

At least she hadn't confessed her love for him, or worse, let herself give in to their ardor. Not that he pressed, but more than once she'd wondered why she hadn't just invited him back to her room.

At least she still had that—her honor. In a way.

“Miss Price?” She heard a voice beyond her curtain and drew it back. A stewardess in a blue uniform and matching cap leaned over. “We're nearing our destination, Miss Price. May I help you back to your seat?”

Rosie had already dressed and now climbed out of her berth and found her seat in the passenger compartment. “How much longer until we land?”

“Thirty minutes or less, ma'am. May I offer you some coffee?”

Coffee. Not café au lait. She shook her head as she belted herself into her seat.

Thirty minutes to figure out how to take back her life. She'd telegrammed ahead to inform Irene and Sammy of her arrival. The thought of seeing them could buoy her heart, remind her of what she had to return home to. And the studio—she'd dive into reading scripts, find something immediately for herself. Perhaps Fletcher had a role he needed filled.

Even if she had to take a B movie, she'd fill the gap between now and when
Red Skies over Paris
finished production.

Maybe Rolfe would call her then for a tour—

No. She wouldn't return to him. Ever. She could promote the film on her own if she had to.

“
Trust me
.”

Sure.

She watched out of the window as the landscape below slid by, the rolling hills, ranches tucked into valleys, the mountains that rimmed the ocean beyond, the lush landscape of Los Angeles, filled with palm and sycamore trees.

Yes, she'd take back her life and forget Rolfe Van Horne for good.

The heat hit her like a furnace as they opened the doors to disembark. The sun shimmered off the tarmac and the wind seared her face, whipping her scarf away from her head as she climbed down the stairs.

The sun glinted against the shiny silver hull of the plane and she reached for her sunglasses. The air smelled briny, salty, even musty after the fresh breezes of Austria and France.

A driver met her at the foot of the step, a young man in a uniform. “Miss Price?” he asked, reaching for her night case.

“And you are?”

“Clive Baxter,” he said. “I'm with Palace Studios. Mr. Fletcher asked me to meet you and take you home.”

“Take me to the studio, Mr. Baxter,” she said, and followed him to the car, a shiny Rolls convertible baking in the sunshine. She already felt sticky in her two-day-old attire—a pair of wide-leg black silk pants, a white silk halter-top, a white thin woolen jacket. She tugged her cloche hat lower in case anyone might recognize her.

First she'd stop into her office and freshen up. Then she'd track down Fletcher and interrogate him on what remained of her studio.

Los Angeles had changed little in her year away. Clive drove her into the city, down Hollywood Boulevard, past Musso and Franks Grill, the Roosevelt Hotel, Grauman's Egyptian Theater, and finally over to Santa Monica Boulevard and onto Palace Studios.

They'd replaced the sign and gated the entrance. She didn't know the new guard, but he waved Clive through.

Fresh marigolds lined the entrance walk, and the palm trees bordering the parking lot had grown, brushing the sky with their fronds. She thanked Clive, taking her night case. “You'll send a car to the airport for my luggage?”

“Of course, ma'am,” he said.

“Please have them deliver it to my house.”

He nodded as she turned toward the office.

How much, really, could change in a year?

She entered the building, the fans in the windows humming through the reception area. They'd remodeled, added blue velveteen chairs, a white brocade sofa, gold standing lamps, a glass desk where sat a young woman with dark wavy hair, red pouty lips. A girl destined for the casting couch, despite her prim two-piece black suit. She looked up, smiled.

“Can I help you?”

Rosie stopped. “What's your name?”

“Jane,” she said. She had a nice smile, despite her distracting curves. Perhaps she would avoid Rooney's clutches.

“I'm Roxy Price,” Rosie said, extending a gloved hand. “My name is on the letterhead.”

“Oh—my—” Jane stood, extended her hand. “It's an honor, ma'am.”

“I'm just heading back to my office. Could you please tell Fletcher that I'm here?” She turned, heading down the hall.

“Miss Price—”

“That's all, Jane,” she said, throwing up her hand in a wave.

Her door was closed, but as she grabbed the handle, it turned. Maybe they'd needed to get inside to clean it.

She opened the door and stilled.

Rooney sat in her chair, his feet up on her desk, reading. He gnawed on a cigar and a record player scratched out a tune, some dark crooner in the background.

He looked up and his mouth opened. “Darling. What are you doing here?”

“This is my office, isn't it?” She advanced into the room. Or maybe not. Rooney's pictures lined the credenza, shots of his Hawaii location hung on the wall, along with movie posters, and at least three photographs of him arm in arm with young starlets.

And the room smelled like him. Cologne, cigar smoke, and arrogance.

“Get your feet off my desk.”

He drew in a long breath then complied. “Roxy, I think you and Fletcher need to talk.”

She dumped her coat, her night case on the sofa. “Go find him. And get a box for your debris.”

He got up, dropping the screenplay on the desk. “Listen, doll, things have changed since you were here. A year's a long time.”

“Out. Get. Out.” She pointed toward the door, advancing toward the desk. Her gaze fell on the screenplay. “Is that Margaret Mitchell's book? About the Civil War?”

“Roxy, you're back!”

She turned and found Fletcher in the doorway. He'd added a paunch in the last year, his hair wispy as he attempted to comb it over the expanse of his melon head. He still wore the moustache, however, and his eyes still pinched even as he feigned a smile, came over to kiss her cheek.

She endured it then pressed him away with her gloved hand. “What's going on here? Why is Rooney in my office?”

Fletcher reached for her hand, but she yanked it away, folded her arms.

He pursed his lips, all attempts at good humor, at welcome, gone. “Things have changed around here, Roxy.”

“Like what?”

“Like the studio directors voted you out of power.”

“You can't do that.”

“You were absentee for a year. We had to start making decisions. The bylaws say that if you are incapacitated or abdicate your role—”

“I did neither.”

He shook his head. “We had the votes.” He reached out to her again, but she backed away.

“Where's Irene?”

“She's on leave right now. Listen, Rosie, this is for the best. You, better than anyone, know how difficult it is to get backing. We needed the pull and resources of the board to extend the studio's credit—”

“So you can finance Rooney's epic about the Civil War?” She turned and grabbed for the script before Rooney could stop her. “I thought Jack Junior optioned this.”

“He let it go. One of our independent directors optioned it.”

She dropped the screenplay on the desk. “I told Irene to go after this if it came available.”

“And that's what we did,” Rooney said. “If we distribute it, it's going to make us millions.”

“Of course it is.” She set her jacket and case down on the davenport. “Who are you thinking to play Rhett?”

Fletcher glanced at Rooney. Shoved his hands into his pockets. “Grayson's in the mix. Along with an actor from MGM.”

“I can work with anyone. What's the shooting schedule?”

Fletcher looked away. Rooney snuffed out his cigar.

Her mouth dried. “I'm playing Scarlett,” she said.

Rooney reached out for the script. “No roles have been cast yet.”

“Scarlett. It's my role.”

“No.”

She turned to Fletcher, her jaw tight, her stomach clenching. She hated the tremor in her voice. “I found it. I love this book. I want it.”

“Rosie, listen, don't be unreasonable. This is not your role.”

“Who do you want for Scarlett?”

She could hear her voice reverberate down the hallway and didn't care.

“Joan screen tested for it.”

She stilled, something hot and white coursing through her

“It was offered to Norma Shearer, but she just turned it down,” Rooney said. “We're still looking. We've narrowed the field to a few. Maybe Loretta Young. Or Katharine Hepburn.”

“And not me?”

“Not this time. Roxy, it's not a role for…a woman of maturity.”

“I'm thirty-five. Grayson is two years older than me.”

“It's Hollywood, darling.”

She wanted to throw something at him. “And the role of Melanie?”

“We're looking at Joan Fontaine.”

Her mouth opened, closed. “I'm still a star. I could play either of those roles.”

“I'm sure you could. But—” Fletcher perched on the edge of Rooney's desk, folded his arms, and shook his head. “But things are different now.”

“Why? What's so different from a year ago? I'm stronger. My hair is back. I'm even a better actress.”

“But Roxy, you have to face the truth,” Rooney said, sliding back into his chair. “It's over. You're no longer a box-office star.”

Rosie just had to get home and talk to Irene. Irene would know what had happened with the studio, the board of directors. With the
Gone with the Wind
screenplay.

She'd know how to help Rosie resurrect her career.

Most of all, under the glow of Sammy's smile, Rosie could remind herself that she hadn't lost everything.

Clive waited for her under the shade of a palm tree in the parking lot. She climbed into the back of the Rolls and closed her eyes as the summer heat seeped into her pores, dribbled down her back.

“Where to, Miss Price?”

“Home, please.” Home.

She needed the cool respite of her home, the marble floors, the white walls. Serenity. She'd sit in the garden, watch the swans, thank Dashielle for finding them their sanctuary in Beverly Hills.

He'd left her that, at least.

Clive pulled up to her circle drive and helped her out. She let him retrieve her night case and follow her to the door. The gardener had managed to keep all her lilies, hydrangeas, roses, and peonies alive, and they fragranced the entrance.

She found the door locked and had to ring the bell. She recognized Louise through the thick marbled glass of the side transom and smiled. She hadn't changed—graying hair piled upon her head, a thick girth that refuted any argument. Louise made her feel safe, if not cared for.

The housekeeper opened the door, and she received her first real smile. “Miss Price. So delightful to have you back! We were all expecting you tomorrow, I'm afraid.”