The story, set in New Orleans before the Civil War, moved slowly. Her fiancé had a plantation and slaves who practiced voodoo. A wedding took place, Abra dancing happily with her dashing groom, who died tragically when he fell from his horse a few days later. While she grieved, her mother-in-law went to the slaves, who performed a ritual that guaranteed her son would be raised from the grave. And arise he did, as a zombie who strangled a prospective suitor of his buxom young widow before he disappeared into the bayou. Later, he came back on a rampage, lurching out of the darkness to grab one victim after another. Thankfully, the producers left the feasting to the imagination, though whenever someone screamed on-screen, a dozen girls in the audience screamed right along with her.
The music changed, warning the audience that the dead scion’s beautiful bride—attired in a flimsy, frothy chiffon and lace gown and asleep in the canopy bed—was in danger. Twice before, the zombie had stood on the lawn gazing up tragically at her window. This time, he opened the creaking gate door of the mausoleum and began his slow, clumsy, plodding walk toward the mansion. The girl tossed in bed and then sat upright, her nightgown barely covering her ample breasts.
Joshua felt a jolt seeing her in such dishabille. The heat spread and centralized when she swung the sheets aside, revealing slender, shapely legs. How many other guys in this theater were feeling what he was?
The girl called out for the servant, who was at that moment being attacked downstairs. Pulling on a flimsy robe, she ran to the window, looking out into the moonlit night. A wolf howled.
Joshua rolled his eyes, wondering if a werewolf was about to come bounding out of the woods to save the day.
The zombie climbed the stairs. It opened the door and moved sluggishly into the lamplight. The girl would have to be deaf as a post not to hear the thud and drag of those feet coming across the wooden floor of her bedroom, but there she stood, leaning out the open window, yearning for something, or someone, her black hair in waves down her back. She turned. Of course, it was too late.
Abra’s scream went right through Joshua. It sounded so genuine it raised goose bumps all over his body.
The funeral scene was held in an old cemetery. The casket was open, Abra playing dead in a white wedding gown and veil, bougainvillea blossoms scattered across her breasts like dark drops of blood. Her brothers wept as they slid her casket into the shelf of the family mausoleum and then locked the door behind them. Fade out to night. Moss hung from the trees. Mists rose as the moon rose. The zombie stood at the mausoleum gate. He broke the lock with his bare hands and entered. In the next scene, he had somehow managed to extricate his bride from her casket. She had turned into a zombie, too, of course, but unlike her ghoulish on-screen husband, she was exquisite, though her facial expression and eyes were devoid of life, her face death-white in the moonlight. When the zombie took her in his decaying arms, she moaned in ecstasy. In the last scene, the couple walked hand in hand through the mists of the bayou. Together. Forever.
Joshua thanked God the movie was over.
A boy sitting two rows in front of Joshua snorted loudly. “Man, was that ever dumb!”
“There’ll probably be a sequel.”
“The movie stinks, but did you get a load of that girl? Va-va-voom!”
“Oh, yeah. She’s worth the price of another ticket.”
“When she leaned out that window, I thought she was going to fall right out of her dress.”
The boy laughed. “Let’s watch it again.”
Feeling sick, Joshua went outside to get some air. The sun had set while he was inside the theater. He got in his truck and drove out of town. He parked where he always did and hiked into the hills. Sitting with his back against a boulder, he looked up at the stars. He wanted to drive down to Hollywood and find her. He wanted to make her come home. Then what? Hog-tie her?
His heartbeat slowed, but his thoughts still tumbled. Abra looked so different. Only someone who loved her and knew her well would recognize her. Others might think Lena Scott looked remarkably like Abra Matthews, but they would dismiss the very idea that a Haven girl could ever become a movie actress, let alone one who oozed sex like a practiced courtesan.
Maybe Lena Scott was Abra’s doppelganger.
Joshua raked his hands into his hair and held his head. He was a man and he wasn’t blind. She’d grown up and filled out over the last three years. She was no longer a red-haired, dewy-faced teenager, but a raven-haired, sultry woman who played innocence with worldly eyes. It wouldn’t just be teenage boys lusting over her. And those two boys weren’t the only ones who wanted to watch her again.
Abra was a B movie star.
But that scream. The look in her eyes. Was that acting?
Joshua grabbed a rock and heaved it into the dark shadows on the hill below. Letting out his breath, he stopped and looked up at the night sky, the stars cast across the heavens like sparkling dust particles. He’d wait. He’d keep on waiting until he felt the nudge to do something more than wait. Even if that never happened.
Joshua parked on the side street. Dad was still up. The kitchen light was on. Joshua came in the back door and found him sitting at the table. “Sorry I’m so late.”
“I wasn’t worried.”
“Have you eaten?” Joshua pulled sandwich fixings from the refrigerator. “I could fix you something.”
“I had dinner at Bessie’s.”
His dull tone made Joshua glance at him. “You saw the movie poster.”
“Yes.”
“I went to the movie.” He took out a butter knife, opened a jar of mustard, and smeared some on a slice of bread.
“And?”
“She’s a good actress.”
“She always was.”
Franklin poured himself a glass of Scotch and sat on the couch with a script. “Play something.” Abra moved to the piano bench. “Not scales.” Franklin looked irritated. He’d been reading scripts for days, looking for the right vehicle for Lena Scott’s next sojourn into the celluloid world of make-believe. “Something soft.”
She played quietly, humming like Mary Ellen. “I’m pressing on the upward way, new heights I’m gaining ev’ry day; still praying as I’m onward bound, ‘Lord, plant my feet on higher ground.’”
She hadn’t realized she’d begun singing until Franklin spoke. “The voice lessons are helping. I like that piece you’re singing.” He’d set the script aside. “Sums up our quest, doesn’t it? Trying to reach higher ground.”
Abra lifted her hands from the piano, realizing she’d been playing a hymn medley Mitzi had put together as a prelude. She got up and stood at the windows looking down over the busy street. Franklin hated ragtime and she hated the blues. She hadn’t intended to play hymns, but they seemed to come out of nowhere. Was God playing some kind of cruel joke? “Can we go to a music store so I can pick out some sheet music?”
“You haven’t got time for that. We’re trying to make you into an actress, not a concert pianist.” Franklin picked up the discarded script, tossed it on the coffee table, and patted the space beside him. “Come here.” His tone raised her hackles, but she went like a dog called to its master. Franklin draped an arm around her. “You’re far away today. What’re you thinking about?”
Franklin controlled too much of her life already. She didn’t want him inside her head, too. “Is the script good or bad?”
“Forget the script.” He tipped her chin and kissed her. She fought the desire to draw back, get up, and move away. He’d be hurt or angry; one always led to the other. He’d say things that would make her feel even guiltier. “Hmmm, you smell so good.”
“Murray’s trying some new products on me.”
“Tell him I approve.”
She wasn’t in the mood for what he had in mind, and she tried to distract him with business. “Tell me about the script.”
“Pretty good Western.”
“Can you see me riding a horse and shooting a gun?” He’d probably arrange more les
sons to make sure she could do both, if he thought the script good enough.
“You’d play a prostitute with a heart of gold like Miss Kitty Russell on Gunsmoke.”
Nice. Right up her alley. “Miss Kitty is a saloon proprietress, not a prostitute.”
“Two years with Dylan and Lilith and you’re still naive.” He got up and went to the bar. She followed, watching him replenish his glass with Chivas Regal. He mixed rum and Coke and slid it across the counter to her. He always gave her a drink before broaching unpleasant subjects. Like acting. He was beginning to realize she might never be comfortable in front of cameras. It took two months to shoot Dawn of the Zombies and she had been sick every day of it. She’d never get used to people watching her through a lens. She felt like a germ under a microscope. Everything was studied, criticized.
“Did you ever see Stagecoach?” Franklin clinked his glass with hers. “This is down that same dusty road.”
She sipped. He’d made the drink strong. “I hate acting, Franklin.”
“Everyone is an actor, Lena, and you’re a natural.”
Didn’t he ever listen? “I get sick every time we go on set.”
“Stage fright comes with the territory. A lot of actors get it. Sometimes it gives your performance a certain edge.”
There was no point in arguing. He wasn’t going to let her say no. She stopped sipping. Just thinking about making another movie made her tense up. All those people standing behind the lights watching every move she made. It was especially disconcerting when she had to wear a gauzy nightgown.
Franklin straddled the stool beside her and talked about the script. She finished her drink and got up. He made another while she paced. He kept talking.
“Can we go out for a walk, Franklin? I feel cooped up in here.”
He set another rum and Coke on the counter, told her to sit down and drink it. He said it would help relax her, make her think straight.
She picked it up, drained it, and set it down. “Are you happy now?” She stretched out on the sofa. Her muscles did relax. She felt warm and fuzzy. He talked about business, movie reviews, competitors, auditions coming up. She hated auditions.
He sat on the edge of the sofa and brushed the hair back from her forehead. “You’re not even listening, are you?”
“I hate acting, Franklin.”
“I know.” His hand moved down over her body. “But you’re very good at it.”
She didn’t like the way he said it. “I’m good at screaming.” The reviewers praised that part of her performance, though not as much as how she looked in a flimsy nightgown. “I’m never going to be Susan Hayward or Katharine Hepburn.” Why not say it aloud? “Or Pamela Hudson.”
He took his hands away. “Didn’t you read the papers? Her last movie was a bust. Her career is over.”
“I don’t think she cares, Franklin.”
“Oh, she cares. Take my word for it. I know her. You forget I slept with her for a year before she took off like a witch on a broom. She married to further her career.”
Abra felt languid. “She’s expecting another baby.”
“Yeah. She didn’t realize her middle-aged Romeo wanted a family.”
Pamela’s husband wasn’t much older than Franklin, but Abra thought better than to mention that fact.
“Babies are the kiss of death for a career in this business.” His laugh had malice in it. “I can imagine what she was thinking when her husband suggested you as the star of his next movie.”
She stared at him. “Is that true?” She couldn’t help but feel flattered.
“Ah.” He grinned. “I see a little spark for acting in your eyes.” He shifted away and stood. “I said no, of course. You’re on your way up, not down.”
“I thought he was one of the best directors in the business.”
“A director is only as good as his last movie. His mistake was putting Pam in the lead role. She always thought her looks would carry her.”
“You had faith in her once.”
“As long as she listened and learned, she had potential. Now she has nothing.”
“She has a husband. She has children. She has a life.”
“A life? You call dirty diapers and chasing kids a life? Your life is exciting. You’re going to be bigger than she ever dreamed she could be.” He’d made her another drink.
Abra sat up and took it. Liquid courage. “All this hard work you’re doing isn’t really about Lena Scott, is it, Franklin? It’s about getting back at Pamela Hudson.”
His eyes turned glacial as he considered her, but he warmed quickly. “Maybe it is, a little. Wouldn’t you like to get back at Dylan, make him regret throwing you away?” He laughed and swallowed his Scotch. “We’re a pair, aren’t we?”
“Vanity of vanities; all is vanity.” Good old King Solomon knew what he was talking about.
He changed the subject. The new acting coach had told him she was a quick study. Franklin knew she was good, but he intended to make her better. She knew he had lofty goals. He would wheel and deal until Lena Scott was number one in the box office, and then he’d shoot even higher. Why not an Academy Award? What about a play on Broadway, and a Tony? He’d never be satisfied.
“I’m twenty years old, and I don’t even know how to drive a car.”
He gave her a surprised look. “Where would you go?”
“Anywhere. Nowhere. Somewhere away from this apartment!” And you, she wanted to add. She wanted to get away from his constant demands, his insatiable ambitions, and his physical hunger.
He came over to her. “You’re all tensed up again.” He touched her body like the sculptor in the painting, admiring his work.
She got up and sat at the bar.
Franklin stood, too, and looked annoyed. “I told you it wouldn’t be easy. You said you could do the work. I spelled it all out for you. You signed the contract. I’m just keeping my part of the deal.” He came over and stood in front of her, hedging her in again.
“I know, Franklin.” She felt so tired sometimes. She was running a race she couldn’t win.
“So there it is. We’re in agreement. It takes time and dedication on both our parts. We made a pact. I’ve dedicated my life to you.”
“You have other clients, don’t you?”
“No one like you. They’re all bit players, character actors, and they’re all doing fine, I might add.” He cupped her face. “You’re special, Lena. I love you. I’m doing all this for you.” He looked so earnest, so sincere; she knew he believed everything he said.
She flinched when the telephone rang. He gave her a light kiss. “It’s the offer I’ve been waiting for.” He stood by the telephone and winked at her. He let it ring three more times before answering. “Tom! Good to hear from you.”
Abra went back to the piano. It was the one place in this black-and-white world where she felt at home. She played a few notes. Franklin snapped his fingers at her and shook his head. She wanted to pound out “Maple Leaf Rag,” but she closed the piano like a good little girl and headed for her bedroom. Franklin cupped the receiver. “Sit on the couch.”
She flopped onto the couch, stretching out full length. She closed her eyes, wishing she could close her ears, too. Then she wouldn’t have to listen to him selling her like a used car. Lena can do this; Lena can do that; Lena can do anything you want. If she couldn’t, Franklin would make sure she learned how.
“Can she swim?” He didn’t even look at her. “Like a fish.” He listened for a minute and then laughed. “A mermaid? Sounds intriguing. Send the script over. Can’t this week, Tom. No way. Her schedule is packed. You’d better send the script by messenger if you want her to read it anytime soon. Offers are flooding in.”
A slight exaggeration. There were only seven scripts on the table. A mermaid? How long would the director want her to stay underwater? She was already drowning.
“Are you kidding me?” Franklin’s laugh was genuine this time. He listened and gave a cynical chuckle.
“Well, I didn’t see that coming. It sounds right up his alley. I suppose Mommy can make it happen.” He hung up, his mouth twisting. “Dylan turned in a treatment for a TV game show. He’s trying to line up sponsors.”
Franklin launched into the story line of a mermaid who rescues a fisherman who fell overboard in a storm.
Abra sighed. “So now I’m going to be a mermaid instead of a prostitute with a heart of gold?”
Franklin rummaged through the scripts and tossed one onto her stomach. “Sit up and read through it. That one will show another side of your talent.”
Abra recognized the title and dropped it on the floor. “I don’t know how to sing or tap-dance.”
“You’re learning.”
“Franklin!” She felt a bubble of panic. “You just told Tom Somebody-or-Other to send over his script by messenger!”
He picked up the script she’d dropped like a hot potato and waved it at her. “This is better for your career, and Tom’s production won’t be ready to roll for four months. You’ll have time to do both movies, providing Tom’s script is as good as he says it is.”
Abra’s heart fluttered like a trapped bird in his hands. The more she struggled, the tighter his fingers closed around her. “I’m not Debbie Reynolds.”
“She didn’t know how to dance either when they signed her for Singin’ in the Rain. She learned on set when Fred Astaire found her sobbing under a piano after a dance scene with Gene Kelly.”
“I’m not Esther Williams, either!”
“Stop worrying all the time! You can do it.”
“I can’t!”
He lost patience. “You can and you will. I get you the parts and you learn what you have to learn to do them. That’s your part in our plan. Remember?” He tossed the script on the couch. “Read it! It’s a good movie, good money, and we’re not turning it down!”
Good money? She shook inside, fear and anger driving her. “I haven’t seen a dollar from all my work on that zombie movie yet.”
He turned, eyes narrowing. “Are you suggesting I’m cheating you?”
“I didn’t say that!”