“Do I pass inspection?” Abra turned around.
Franklin crossed the room slowly, his expression enigmatic. She noticed the lion’s head gold cuff links when he reached out to brush a wayward strand of hair over her shoulders. A matching tie tack held his black tie. He stepped back and smiled. “Classic and classy.” He gave a single nod of approval.
Abra touched her hair. “Is it all right now?” The glistening black waves hung to the middle of her back.
“Perfect.”
Franklin talked about the movie business, directors they might see, the one they had met at the Brown Derby, and how he wanted her to act when they went into Ciro’s. Abra drank in every word, eager to be a part of the exciting world he knew so well. Dylan had hidden her away. Franklin Moss wanted to show her off.
The plain exterior of Ciro’s gave no hint to the baroque interior or the glamorous patrons. Abra’s heart raced with elation as she spotted Humphrey Bogart and Lauren Bacall. Wasn’t that Frank Sinatra with Ava Gardner? Everywhere she glanced, she recognized faces of the rich and famous.
Franklin guided her as though he belonged here. As long as she was with him, she did, too. When men and women greeted him, he paused and introduced her as Lena Scott. As they moved on, Abra sucked in her breath and looked back over her shoulder at Lucille Ball and Desi Arnaz. Franklin’s hand tightened, and she almost tripped over her own feet. He steadied her as she faced a platinum blonde in a body-hugging white dress and fur stole. It took only a second to recognize Lana Turner. “Oh! Hello.” She was even more beautiful in person than on a movie screen.
“Hello to you, too.” The actress laughed softly and smiled at Franklin. “Another sweet young thing.” They exchanged quick air kisses on each cheek. “It’s good to see you again, Franklin.”
“You’re as ravishing as ever, Lana.”
“Pamela was a fool to leave you, darling. But I see now how easily she’s been replaced with something even more lovely.” Smiling, she admired Abra. “More curves than Pamela, raven hair rather than blonde, and those sea-green eyes so full of mystery.” She laughed and gave Franklin a smile that hinted at conspiracy. “Are we ready? I chose this spot because Hedda is less than twenty feet away. Her photographer is inching over.”
“I owe you one.”
Abra looked at Franklin. “Who’s Hedda?”
Lana Turner’s laughter sounded real this time. “Where did you find this innocent? At the Greyhound bus station?”
“I got her out from under the roof of Lilith Stark.”
Lana grimaced. “Lilith is a nasty piece of work.”
“Lana!” A man spoke from behind Abra. “How about a picture?”
“Of course.” Lana slipped an arm around Abra’s waist. “Smile pretty.” She turned Abra and leaned close as though they were the best of friends. A flash of bright light half blinded Abra. Lana withdrew her arm immediately and raised her hand in friendly adieu. “Have fun, you two.”
Franklin reclaimed Abra, guiding her to their table, where a waiter stood ready to take their drink orders—Scotch neat for him, iced tea for her. Abra gave a breathless laugh, her heart pounding. “I can’t believe I had my picture taken with one of Hollywood’s biggest stars!”
Laughing, he patted her hand. “We’re just getting started.” He ordered for her, salmon this time. She didn’t care. She was too happy and excited to be in Ciro’s among the stars to think about eating. They watched a floor show while finishing dinner. Their waiter cleared their table as the dance band started. Franklin took her by the hand. “Let’s dance.”
She cast a nervous look at the couples doing the rumba.
He helped her up from her seat. “Just relax and follow my lead.” He escorted her onto the dance floor and took her into his arms. He kept his eyes on her face, but she had the feeling he knew exactly what was going on everywhere in the room. He drew her closer. “Are you happier now? Even though you’re living in a fifteen-hundred-square-foot apartment with a man old enough to be your father, rather than a pretty little Beverly Hills bungalow with Dylan?”
“Are you kidding?” She shook her head. “I’ve never been so happy in my whole life! I’m still trying to figure out how I got so lucky.”
His expression warmed. “I’m glad you feel that way.”
She imagined the days and months ahead with Franklin as her mentor and friend. From now on, she would awaken with the expectation of something good happening, rather than being constantly on edge, wondering what mood Dylan would be in when he walked through the door. She had a chance to make something of herself. “I don’t think I’ll ever be able to thank you enough for what you’re doing for me.”
Franklin gave her a cool smile. “They all say that in the beginning.”
“I mean it.”
“I’ve been waiting for a girl like you for a long time. I thought Pamela was the one, but she was weak and too easily distracted. I need someone smart, ambitious, willing to be trained. I need a girl who won’t complain when she has to work hard. There’s no limit to what I can do with a girl like that.”
“I’m that girl.”
Franklin gazed at her, eyes glowing. “Yes, I believe you are.”
Joshua sat beside Sally in the middle row of the Swan Theater. Sally’s tears unnerved him. News had hit the papers last month that James Dean had been killed while speeding in his Porsche 550 Spyder. Now everyone was lining up for Rebel Without a Cause. Judging from the sniffles throughout the theater, Sally wasn’t the only one who couldn’t stop crying. Joshua couldn’t wait for the movie to end. Noting Sally’s soggy hankie, he pulled out his own and offered it to her. “Are you going to be all right?”
She blew her nose. “I’m fine.”
When the movie let out, they went to the café for a light supper. Bessie took one look at Sally’s red-rimmed eyes and grinned. “I saw the movie, too.”
Sally grimaced. “I’m a mess! This is ridiculous. I never cry at movies.”
“I cried buckets when I went two days ago.” Bessie put her hands on her ample hips and raised her voice, making sure it carried through the open kitchen door. “I had to go alone because Oliver doesn’t go to a movie unless it’s a Western with guns blazing!”
Brady Studebaker came in. By the look on his face, Joshua guessed he wished he was the one sitting in the booth with Sally. When Bessie welcomed him by name, Sally swung around just enough to catch a glimpse before she turned back again. Her expression was hard to read, but Joshua felt an undercurrent of something. “Brady.” Joshua waved their friend over. “Why don’t you join us?”
Brady slid into the booth so he was facing Sally. “Have you been crying?” He speared Joshua with a threatening gaze.
Joshua lifted his eyebrows. “We’ve just been through two hours of James Dean.”
Sally blushed. She said men didn’t understand about romance.
Brady muttered two foul words under his breath and turned away.
Sally glared at him. “What do you know about it?” She seemed about to say something more, but she pressed her lips together.
Brady returned her glare and slid out of the booth. “You two look good together. Be happy.” It sounded like an indictment, not a blessing. “See you around.” He didn’t sit at the counter. He walked out the front door.
“He makes me so mad!” Sally said through her teeth.
Bessie looked from the door to Joshua. “Did you say something to chase a customer away?”
“Not me.” Joshua shook his head. “I guess he had somewhere else to go.” Sally looked ready to cry again, and he had a feeling her emotions had nothing to do with James Dean’s tragic death. He crossed his arms on the table and leaned forward. “What’s going on, Sally?”
“Nothing.” She wilted under his scrutiny. “We can talk about it later.” She seemed determined to forget Brady had ever walked into the café.
Sally was quiet on the ride home. Joshua glanced at her. “Ready to talk now?”
 
; “It’s nothing.” She sighed. “Brady and I ran into each other at Eddie’s last Friday.”
“Eddie’s?” He laughed.
“I know it’s a high school hangout, but I was feeling nostalgic. Brady saw me and came in. We talked. He took me for a drive.” She gave him a guilty glance. “I haven’t been out with him since high school, Joshua. He took me to the senior prom. Remember?” She gave a bleak laugh. “No. Why would you? You were all hot and bothered over Lacey.”
“Was I?”
She looked at him. “Weren’t you?”
He laughed. “We’re getting off subject. We were talking about you and Brady.”
“He kissed me. He said he loved me.”
“In high school or last Friday?” He could almost feel the heat of her blush.
“Both,” she said quietly and then got mad again. “Of all the nerve!” She sat up straighter. “I told him I was dating you. He wanted to know why I let him kiss me. As if it was my fault! I said I didn’t. He said . . . Oh, never mind what he said. He’s an idiot!” She spent the next five minutes ranting about Brady and what a big head he had and how he didn’t know the first thing about love. And what sort of guy kisses a girl when she’s not even expecting it and he knows she’s going out with someone else?
Joshua tried not to smile. Poor Brady. Joshua had been dating Sally for almost six months and hadn’t had a clue about Brady’s feelings until tonight, when he walked into Bessie’s. He sighed. He and Sally had done some necking in his truck a few times. They might have gone further once if Abra hadn’t come into his mind. What sort of man kisses and fondles one woman while thinking of another? He’d been ashamed. When he let go of her, she asked what was wrong. He didn’t tell her he was afraid he was using her to forget someone else.
He remembered the day he came home from Korea and saw Abra on her front steps. One look at her, and his pulse had rocketed. Sally had never elicited that kind of a response in him. Tonight he realized he wasn’t making Sally’s heart race, either. But Brady was.
It was time to change this relationship. They needed to get back to being friends again, and give up pretending it could lead to anything more. “You blushed when you saw him.”
“I did not!”
“Your head snapped around when Bessie said his name. I saw your face, Sally.”
“You don’t have to be jealous about Brady.”
That was just the problem: Joshua wasn’t jealous. He felt relieved. “Maybe it’s time we talked about what is and isn’t happening between us.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
She seemed distracted, not crushed. Joshua smiled slightly. “Yes, you do. We’ve gone as far as we’re ever going to go.”
She flared. “Are you saying this just because Brady Studebaker came into Bessie’s tonight and made a scene?”
A scene? “I’m saying it because you’re all worked up right now, and it’s not because of me.”
“I’ve had a crush on you since grammar school, Joshua Freeman. I used to sleep with your picture under my pillow and dream about marrying you someday.” She sounded more angry than hurt.
He could be blunt, too. “And now you know, just like I know, we’re not in love with each other. We wanted to be. We gave it a good try. The problem is we’re both tied up in knots over other people.”
She leaned her head back in exasperation. “Brady makes me feel all riled up inside. I feel comfortable with you.”
“Is comfortable what you want?” He pulled up in front of her house and stopped. “Or are you just worried you’ll have a relationship like your mother and father’s?” Joshua got out and came around to walk her to the door. “A friend offers comfort, Sally. And encouragement.” He leaned down and kissed her cheek. “Call him.”
She shook her head. “I can’t.”
Joshua went by the Studebaker Sign Company the next day. Brady was dialing Sally’s number before he left. The day after that, on his way home from work, he saw Brady and Sally sitting together in the town square. He laughed, glad they hadn’t taken too long.
1956
Abra tried to ignore the pounding in her temples as Murray parted and painted dye into her hair. She closed her eyes against the pain, knowing it came from the endless tension and stress of playing Lena Scott for Franklin. He had taken her to another party last night. They’d been at parties every night this week. It was all about being seen, never about relaxing with friends—not that she had any. Franklin used parties the same way Lilith Stark had, except he wasn’t looking for dirt. He was on the hunt for new opportunities.
Directors and producers treated Franklin with respect. He might have made a fool of himself with Pamela Hudson, but he knew talent when he saw it. Word got around he had a new protégé. People wanted to meet her. Franklin introduced Lena, and received a few offers. He told her she wasn’t ready to work yet. She still had a lot to learn, and he threw her into twelve-hour days of acting lessons and a tutor to work with her on elocution. He paired her with a personal trainer who worked her until she begged for mercy. She had fittings for a new wardrobe, photo sessions, a doctor who prescribed vitamins, as well as uppers and downers, which Franklin doled out judiciously.
Over the last year, the luster of meeting movie stars and studio bigwigs had begun to wear off. It hadn’t taken Abra long to realize everyone was looking for a way to climb higher, get more publicity, a better part, a new contract, sometimes a new agent. One woman had offered Franklin “anything” if he’d take her on as a client. He recommended someone else, but not before Abra felt a little less secure, a little more easily replaceable.
She still did whatever Franklin told her to do, but would that ever be enough? She hadn’t counted the cost of putting her life in someone else’s hands. Sometimes, Dylan’s cruelty seemed less frightening than Franklin’s growing demands for perfection.
Murray set the bowl of black dye aside. “You’re wound tight today.” He stripped off his gloves. “Things not going well?”
“On the contrary. I’ve already had one walk-on part, and Franklin is getting calls. I have an audition tomorrow for the lead in a new movie.” She didn’t say she’d end up a zombie if she got the part.
“That’s good news.” Murray’s tone implied otherwise.
Her shoulders sagged. She was too tired to sit up straight, too tired to care if her posture wasn’t exactly the way Franklin wanted. When Murray put his hands on her shoulders, she started in surprise.
“Lena, you need to relax.” He clipped her hair up to let the dye set. “And a massage wouldn’t hurt.”
“I don’t have time.”
“Tell Franklin to add one to your schedule.” He looked concerned.
Everything was going so well. Franklin said so. His instincts and knowledge had worked with Pamela Hudson. Abra could trust him. She loved wearing beautiful gowns and having her hair and makeup done. She enjoyed being in the same room with famous movie stars like Susan Hayward and Victor Mature and meeting directors like Billy Wilder and Stanley Donen. She even enjoyed attending acting classes. Franklin coached her. Whatever he told her to do, she did. She cooperated, remembering the bargain she’d made and the promise she’d given him to work hard.
What she hadn’t understood was how very hard it would be . . . and how much of her life Franklin wanted to take over.
He controlled her daily schedule. He was either with her, waiting for her, or had someone ready to take her where he wanted her to go. He told her how to act when they arrived at whatever he had set up. Parties served as a place to make contacts with people who could help move her career forward. They didn’t waste time with people who didn’t matter. Before each introduction, Franklin told her what to say, what subjects to avoid. He maneuvered her in close when pictures were being taken. “It’s all about being in the right place at the right time with the right people.” And he made sure she was. She had movie magazines to show for it. Maybe Penny would see one. But would Penny even recognize her
?
It was a heady feeling to be among so many rich and famous people, a rarefied atmosphere, an environment of competition and caution, hope and disappointment. Everyone looked like they were having a marvelous time, but there was always the undercurrent of more than small talk and light laughter, handshakes and drinks.
If there wasn’t a party going on somewhere worthwhile, Franklin took her to a club where stars hung out, big stars who might like her and mention her name in the right ear. He got her in the door the same way Dylan had. Men approached, but Franklin was always close, watchful, protective. She drank Coke; he drank Scotch neat. If anyone asked for her telephone number, he gave them his card. “You’re not here for romance. You’re here to work.”
Sometimes Franklin reminded her of Lilith and Dylan Stark. He knew how to work a room.
Murray kneaded her shoulders. He hadn’t said much, but then how would she know if he had? She hadn’t been paying attention as he had first rinsed, then conditioned her hair. Now she felt his concentrated stare, but she avoided looking at him in the mirror.
“You look depressed.” Murray studied her face. “What’s bothering you?”
She gave a shrug and a practiced smile. “I wish I knew.”
He checked the roots of her hair. “Thinking about your past life?”
Franklin had come up with her story and had kept it uncomfortably close to the truth, because “reporters will always dig into your past when you’re famous.” He made her into Cinderella: A child with no parents, passed from one family to another, she grew up, talent and potential beauty unnoticed, in a small northern California farming community. A friend offered her a ride to Southern California. Franklin spotted her in a crowd. Shades of truth. He laughed and said a story like hers would bring a thousand girls to Hollywood, hoping to be the one in a million noticed by an agent or director who knew how to make a star. They’d believe it didn’t matter if they’d never been off a farm or out of North Dakota. They could be discovered in a diner or a bus station or walking along a sidewalk.