“My mother said to fall in love with a man from your own village.”
“She’s right. But I’ve had a little too much of my own village lately, if you know what I mean.”
Alda laughed. “Hollywood.” She stood to go. “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me. I have never had a single romance work out. I should be coming to you for advice.”
“I think Mr. Gable is interested in you.”
“Please God no! He’s a wolf.”
“Even with you?”
“The only reason he has decent manners around me is because I’m the only woman in his sightline. And you know what? That’s all right with me. I’ve had enough of the dramatics. I like being alone.”
Loretta meant it. She wanted no part of an on-set love affair with a man who was famous for them. To that end, Loretta kept the image of Mrs. Gable at the train station at the front of her mind like a purple billboard. She’d had enough of married men, their problems, their indecision about whether to stay or go, and especially their desire for amusement outside of their responsibilities. She hoped that someday she would meet a nice fellow who was kind and devoted to her. If he didn’t come along, that was fine too. She made her own money, owned her own home, invested in real estate, and took the best scripts she could get from the offers that came her way. The rest was up to fate, and for now, she could live with that.
“How does this look?” Loretta asked Alda, placing a freshly baked apple pie on the rack next to the dozen she had baked that afternoon. The crust was golden brown. Loretta brushed it with butter, glazing it, and sprinkled sugar on it.
“Looks like snow,” Alda said. “Ruby would be proud of you.”
“I didn’t think I could bake a pie. Much less a baker’s dozen of them.”
“All it takes is a recipe,” Elvira the cook said as she stirred the stew on the stove. The cook was only in her thirties, but she had the countenance of an old gray barn, weathered with loose hinges on all the joints.
“And time. Nobody saw how bad that first batch of dough turned out.”
“And they’ll never find out neither,” Elvira said. “I don’t believe in showing weakness in the kitchen.”
Clark Gable burst into the kitchen, with Bill Wellman and Jack Oakie in tow.
“What’s for dinner, girls?”
“Stew,” said the cook.
“Again?” Gable complained.
“I don’t know how to feed a hundred people if I don’t make stew.”
Gable took the ladle from her and stirred the stew. “Now, Elvira, surely you have some recipes in your file that you can make for us that don’t involve carrots, potatoes, and chunks of meat so tough it’s like chewing rubber stoppers.”
“I am following the menus approved by Mr. Wellman.”
“Don’t blame me, Elvira. I checked chicken cordon bleu for dinner tonight.”
“Yeah, well, the truck with the chicken got stuck in the ice in Bellingham.”
Gable assumed a full-tilt flirt. “There’s got to be something else in that icebox. Elvira dear, couldn’t you change it up it for me?”
“Why should I do it for you?”
“Because he’s Clark Gable,” Loretta interjected.
The men laughed. “You could do it for me—I’m Jack Oakie.”
“Elvira is not impressed by Hollywood,” Loretta reminded them.
“The last picture I saw was Birth of a Nation. I have no idea who you people are.”
“Don’t you find us charming anyway?” Gable teased.
“Not really. Your girlfriend made pies.”
“My girlfriend?”
“She means me,” Loretta said. “I guess I left the script lying around and Elvira read between the lines.”
“You made these?”
“I have many skills. Many I didn’t know I possessed,” Loretta admitted.
“Tell the folks dinner will be ready at six,” Elvira announced.
“I’m going to put my feet up till then,” Wellman told Oakie.
“I’m going to have a cocktail myself,” Oakie said, following him out. “Don’t even need a glass.”
“I’ll let the front desk know about dinner,” Alda said, following the men back to the inn.
“The pies look delicious.” Gable was impressed.
“Thank you.”
“I haven’t had a woman cook for me in years,” Gable admitted.
“How’s that possible?”
“Well, I’ve had women feed me, but they didn’t do the baking. They hired a cook for that.”
Elvira rolled her eyes.
“I like a woman who knows her way around a kitchen.” Gable smiled.
“You must be madly in love with me,” Elvira said. “I live at this godforsaken stove.”
“I will fall madly in love with you if you come up with something for supper besides that godforsaken stew.” Gable laughed and left for the inn as Loretta sprinkled the pies with sugar.
“That one there is trouble,” Elvira said. “Long, tall licorice whip. Those eyes are like cue balls rolling around looking for the corner pocket. That one could hurt you.”
“You think so?”
“Who does he think he is? Rudolph Valentino?”
“I hate to tell you, he might be bigger than Valentino.”
“Not to me.”
Loretta smiled to herself as she finished her chore. Women hold on to their first crush at the movies until the day they die. Of course no one could top Valentino—he was Elvira’s youthful ideal. Loretta hoped Gable held the same allure for the audiences of 1935—she could use a hit. Nothing wrong with a screen idol who could pack them in all the way up to the last row in the balcony. Gable was good for business, which made him good for her business. Loretta had her eye on a hotel she wanted to buy, one that was close to home, one she could see from her driveway. If The Call of the Wild did well, she was going in for a piece of the Beverly Hills Hotel, figuring it was a smart investment. Mr. Gable didn’t need to know that he was part of her business plan, a means to an end, but the thought of it made her chuckle.
The sun had set on Mount Baker. The hotel had placed oil lamps along the path from the hotel to the dining hall. The snow crunched under Loretta’s feet as she walked between the pools of light. She had gone back to the inn to catch up on her mail and bathe before supper. She wore dungarees, a plaid workshirt, and chamois-lined leather boots that laced from her ankle to her knee. Over her ensemble she wore a fluffy ankle-length fox coat that, while it was stylish, was the warmest coat she owned.
Loretta smiled to herself. She had packed stylish clothes and shoes for the location shoot, including silk slippers, velvet slides with a kitten heel, and high heels. Every single pair was inappropriate, and every pair remained in satin shoe bags in her suitcase in the closet. She had lived in these utilitarian boots since they dropped their luggage.
As she approached the barn, lit up from within against the black sky on the white mountain, she could hear the laughter and conversation of the crew. Their joy spilled out into the dark night, the only sign of life in the wilderness. She pushed the barn door open and stepped into the dining hall, which was hot and noisy. Loretta scanned the community tables, but it seemed all the seats were taken. At the far side of the room, Alda sat with Luca and his crew. She stood up and offered her seat, but Loretta waved her off.
The mood was raucous, rolling big laughs filling the big barn, underscored by the chatter of conversation and the clatter of pots. Elvira directed the kitchen staff to place baskets of fresh cornbread on the tables. She shook her head as the men seized the squares like panhandlers grabbing gold nuggets.
As Loretta looked around the room, she noticed the hotel maid sitting with the assistant cameraman, which didn’t surprise her—if there was a woman within a hundred miles, and she could make it up the mountain, she’d probably end up with one of the crew from The Call of the Wild. Loretta chuckled to herself. I guess Gable wasn’t the maid’s
type, after all.
Gable was sitting at the back table with Jack Oakie and some of the crew. He motioned to Loretta to join them and kept his eyes fixed on her as she made her way through the crowd.
Loretta slipped into the seat next to her costar, who was in mid-conversation when she joined them. Gable served Loretta a slice of cornbread and handed her the butter. She listened as they recounted how difficult the filming had been that day—the camera had frozen, Buck was contrary, and Oakie went down in a snowdrift so deep he sank like an anchor.
Gable reached under the table and squeezed Loretta’s hand.
“Rough day.”
“It’s a monster out there.”
“How are we going to navigate that river?” Loretta wondered.
“We’re not. It’s got whitecaps.”
Loretta exhaled nervously.
“Don’t be afraid,” Gable said. “I’ll be with you.”
“You’re going to save me?”
“Only if you need it.”
Loretta poured herself a cup of hot coffee. “And who will decide if I need saving?” She poured Gable a cup too.
“Me, of course. I’ll have to keep my eyes on you at all times.”
“Too late for that.”
Gable threw his head back and laughed.
“I’m from a family of girls—one brother, but really, it’s a sorority. And I don’t mind being second place, or even third.”
“What do you mean?”
“How did you lose the hotel maid?”
Gable blushed. This time it was her turn to laugh.
“Turns out she doesn’t like actors,” Gable grumbled.
“Smart girl.”
When it came time for dessert, Gable stood up and hit a fork against his bottle of whisky. “Folks, I have an announcement.”
The chatter in the room died down. “Now, we’ve been on that mountain all day, risking life and limb. And we did our best, and evidently, according to Mr. Wellman, we got some great stuff.”
The crew cheered.
“But that wasn’t the only hard work today. Our own Loretta Young was in the kitchen, baking pies like our grannies of old. She sliced the apples and rolled the dough and practically spun the sugar. So, my friends, please, a round of applause for Miss Young, who is not only a fine actress but a great baker.”
The men stomped their feet, whistled, and applauded. Loretta took a bow. She grabbed Gable by the neck and mimed strangling him. He pulled her onto his lap. There was a medley of wolf whistles.
Alda looked across the room at Loretta and Gable. The last thing Gladys Belzer had whispered to her as they were getting in the car to go to the train station was, “Keep Gretchen clear of Clark Gable.” It was obvious to Alda that she had already failed.
Loretta sat by the fire in the great room. Most of the crew had retired for the night. A few stragglers sat on the opposite side of the fireplace, their feet propped on the stone bench in front of the grate.
“I don’t think I’ve ever been this cold,” Gable said.
“If I could crawl into that fireplace, I would. We’re spoiled. Just a couple of southern California crybabies,” Loretta said. “I thought you turned in.”
“Can’t sleep.”
“Me neither,” Loretta admitted.
“I get the feeling you’re missing someone.”
“A little. How about you?”
“A little.”
Loretta laughed. The thought of Gable missing anyone a little was funny to her. He was so big in every way. Loretta wondered who he was missing, and in what numbers. Was he was missing the divine Joan Crawford, who gave up Douglas Fairbanks for him? Loretta had read all about it in Modern Screen. Turned out the actors checked the magazines for updates on their peers, just as the fans did. Fairbanks was a good man, so Gable must really be something, for Crawford to have ended her marriage over the affair.
Gable sat down next to Loretta. “You have a boyfriend?”
“Maybe.”
“It’s a secret.”
“Or maybe mystery is all I have left on this mountaintop. Look at me. I look like a lumberjack. I’m hardly alluring.”
“I disagree.”
“You would. It’s either me or Elvira. You don’t have much of a selection up here.”
“That’s true.”
Loretta pretended she was insulted. “Anyway. Doesn’t matter. I’m here to do a job.”
“Wellman told you to steer clear, didn’t he?”
“Yep.”
“You only have to listen to the director on the set.”
“He’s pretty persuasive.”
“So am I.”
“I’ve heard.”
“What do I have to do to get you to like me?”
“I haven’t thought about it.”
“So you don’t like me.”
“I don’t know you well enough yet.”
“That’s fair.”
“You’re married.”
“Mrs. Gable is not happy with me.”
“She seemed fine at the train station.”
“She was being polite. We’re separated.”
“Agh.” Loretta turned away from Gable.
“What’s the matter?”
“Why does every married man say that?”
“In my case it happens to be true.”
“Does your wife know? It didn’t look like it on track four. She was waving that white hanky like she was docking the Queen Mary.”
“That’s because she cares about bad publicity.”
“And you don’t?”
“In my fashion.”
“Mr. Gable, why don’t we try something novel?”
“I’m game.”
“Let’s be friends.”
“Friends. Okay.”
“Great.” She smiled.
“But if your feelings change?”
“They won’t.”
“How do you know for sure?”
“Let’s just try and stay alive and get this picture made. I’d like to see a palm tree again.”
“Me too, Gretchen.”
“You know my name?”
“Made it my business. I have a little file on you. I know a lot of things. You know, things I’ve read in magazines.”
“You should never read those magazines. They’re trash.”
“I find the information in them very helpful. I got to know you before I met you. Found out some fundamentals.”
“Like what?”
“You sew.”
“That’s true.”
“They got your eyes wrong. They call you blue-eyed in the magazines. You have gray eyes.”
Gable liked to think that he was an arbiter of feminine beauty. He found something to like in almost every woman he met. Sometimes it was something small, like a delicate wrist or brown eyes the color of chocolate or a laugh that sounded like music, or it could be the entirety of the woman. If she was a dancer, the graceful line of her back and legs could send him into a tizzy.
Loretta Young was more than the sum total of her beauty. When he closed his eyes to envision her, he didn’t revel in one aspect of her physical attributes because he couldn’t choose. He liked to fall in love with his leading ladies; it was good for the work. Loretta made him feel things. He wanted to impress her and please her, but more importantly, he wanted to get to know her. That was not typical for Gable, as he liked to keep conversation light, and promises of any kind to a minimum. When he was around Loretta, his emotions were on high alert. It was more than sexual attraction, though that was present, and he appreciated it always. Loretta was something more altogether, and he looked forward to solving the mystery.
Gable remembered how she’d moved so elegantly through the train car infested with men, her tapered fingers touching the shoulders of the crew as she made her way to the booth. Gable liked beautiful hands on a woman. He didn’t know why, but it was the first thing he looked for. He also liked the way Loretta’s front teeth had a
slight overbite, which pushed her upper lip out in a way he found sensual. Her face was luscious. He had studied countless women along the way, but her full lips and cheeks and her gray eyes framed in dark lashes were irresistible. “Gray eyes are very rare, you know.”
“Mama calls them rainclouds. You have them too. What are your rainclouds?”
“You first.” He sat down across from her before the fire. “If we’re going to be friends, I want to be useful to you. You have to know what makes a person sad to figure out how to make them happy.”
“What makes you think I’m sad?” The last thing Loretta wanted to share with her new costar was the story of her romantic travails. Hadn’t she spent an afternoon telling Alda to keep her past to herself?
“Is there anything you’d change, if you could?”
Gable was so sincere in his question, she didn’t hesitate to share, just as she would in a confessional. “I did a stupid thing. I got married when I was seventeen. My mother almost killed me. You know how when you’re in a scene and the director is watching you, you can be inside the scene but watching yourself at the same time?”
“Yeah.”
“I stood outside myself as I said ‘I do,’ knowing it was wrong.”
“You were a kid. What does a seventeen-year-old girl know about anything?”
“I’ve been working since I was four years old. I knew the score.” Loretta sighed. There was a deeper meaning in admitting her mistake, and Gable picked up on it.
“You have a right to make mistakes.”
“Not when you know better.” Loretta pulled her knees to her chest, locked her arms around them. “And I know better.”
Loretta hoped that Gable got the point. She’d had enough pain with a man who was unavailable, and she certainly wasn’t going to repeat the drama with Gable.
“Why were you waiting for the mailman?”
She smiled. “I like getting mail.”
“Fan mail?”
“Alda handles that. I look for ‘Confidential’ on the envelope. I like letters from friends who really know me.”
“Or want to get to know you better.”
Loretta’s work in pictures had taught her that there was no closer relationship than the creative one, actor to actor, nothing but the task at hand, a scene to perform, with words written by others, to convey emotion and sentiment between you.