Still, Loretta was wary of getting involved with an actor. Temptation came with every rehearsal of every love scene. The hours between scenes when the crew was setting up were an opportunity to converse and connect, to learn about one another, and as an extension of that, an excuse to make plans outside of work. In her mind, the birthday kisses with Gable at the door were just that. She had no intention of pursuing a relationship with Gable beyond Mount Baker, and while she was here, all her efforts would go into reining in her feelings. She just wished it wasn’t so cold, and that she weren’t so lonely.
She could only justify her feelings and their kiss with what she’d observed of Ria and Gable on the train platform. Gable wasn’t lying to Ria, and she wasn’t lying to him. She wasn’t the dutiful wife in an authentic marriage; she was the presentational wife, strictly scenery, like the painted backdrops in the silents that flew down from the flyspace on to the sound stage. On camera the bricks looked real, but upon close inspection the wall was just a veneer. Ria was playing a part for all to see. Loretta knew an actress when she saw one.
The Gables’ marriage was an arrangement, and while Loretta didn’t know what it meant, she was certain it was not love. She’d promised herself she would never be involved with a married man after Spencer Tracy, but the situation with Gable was different. She felt in control of her feelings for Gable because she understood him. When a woman falls for a man with a roving eye, she had better plan on being on the move.
All movie sets are an alternative to real life. Like life, it’s a living story, with words and settings, expectations met and unmet, relationships, and within them, feelings. The difference between life and a movie is that in a movie, everybody shows up the first day knowing the ending.
The cast and crew of The Call of the Wild were living on a mountaintop, in a snow globe, removed from the ordinary world to one that they had created on their own. The air was thin on Mount Baker. It made breathing shallow, hearts beat faster, heads light. If an actor was prone to poor judgment at sea level, he didn’t stand a chance at this altitude.
The actors had been removed body and soul from the place that anchored them in reality, away from home, far from the bonds of marriage and the pull of family responsibility. It was possible to forget loved ones temporarily; the work at hand was so intense and required such concentration, there was no room to think of anyone else. When the work was dangerous, and the days long and rigorous, there was no time for anything but work, and the work itself bound everyone together.
Even if you wanted to connect to loved ones at home, it was impossible to call. Telephone lines were unreliable in bad weather, and it was difficult to write letters, as an actor’s time was not his own. Every wife left behind was afraid that she and the children would fade like an old memory in the face of the excitement, romance, and danger of making a movie.
And danger was everywhere. It wasn’t likely that the worst would happen—but if it did, how would they make it off this mountain? How many search parties had disappeared above Bellingham in blizzards, in the cliffs of Mount Baker in the event of an avalanche?
Why else would Zanuck have insisted on round-the-clock plowing, to keep the road open for his crew and stars? He must have thought the danger through—but in Loretta’s mind, the danger was a reminder that there is only the moment. It was essential that she be honest about her feelings. She’d invited Gable to dinner because she wanted to get to know him better. She wanted his attention, but she also wanted to understand him.
Loretta piled the blankets on to her bed. She was slipping out of her clothes and into her pajamas as the phone rang.
“I’m sorry I got out of hand there,” Gable said.
“It’s my birthday.”
“That’s not an excuse. The circumstances of my life are complex.”
“I know.”
“And I don’t have anything to offer you.”
“I’m not looking for anything.”
“You want that fence with the roses.”
“That’s a dream.”
“You should have your dream. I hope it comes true. Some man should love you enough to give it to you.” Gable paused. In that moment, Loretta could read his thoughts. He wanted to tell her that he wished he could be the man to give everything to her—the house, the fence, and the roses—but he learned long ago to never make promises he couldn’t keep. Gable was used to getting everything he wanted without making commitments. She could see that he wanted to, so that would have to be enough.
“Thank you, Clark. For looking out for me.”
Loretta pulled the covers over her. She was drifting off to sleep on the wings of the kisses of Clark Gable when she felt something in the bed.
She reached under the covers and found the stack of fan magazines. She picked them up and dropped them onto the floor beside the bed. Tomorrow morning, she’d use them to build her morning fire.
Alda and Luca were curled up in front of the fire in her room. Since they returned from dinner, they’d spent most of the night kissing. Perhaps it was the wine, or the fire, or the fact that two sticks rubbed together make sparks and therefore heat, but whatever the reason, they were in love, and basking in the warmth of it.
“What do you really know about Mr. Gable?” Alda asked suddenly.
“Are you kidding me? I’m kissing you like my life depended on it, and you’re asking me about Gable? God, I hate the movies sometimes.”
“I’m curious.”
“I knew him when he wasn’t a star. He’s the same guy, really. He just wears better shoes.”
“I like him.”
“He’s a good one. He’s a bit of a hound with the ladies, but they all are. Women see them up there on the silver screen, and they feel like they know him, so they skip the chitchat and head straight for the bedroom. It’s not his fault. He walks into a room, and there’s no mystery. Not if they saw Red Dust.”
“But he’s acting.”
“He’s so natural it doesn’t look like it. I’m telling you—I’ve been with him when he’s minding his own business, fixing something under the hood of his car, and women flock, like they’re birds and he’s the sun. Who wouldn’t take advantage of a situation like that? A guy would have to be crazy.”
“Would you?”
“I’m not Clark Gable.”
“As Luca Chetta, do you take advantage of those situations?”
“What are you asking?”
“Have there been a lot of women in your life?”
“Alda—”
“I don’t want a number.”
“I’m thirty-four years old. There have been many women. I am a normal, flesh and blood male.” Luca leaned in to kiss her.
“Any special woman?”
“Not until you.”
“I like that answer.”
“When I saw you on the train, I knew you were for me.”
“How did you know?”
“Something about you. Something familiar.”
“Because we’re Italian?”
“Maybe. It’s a bond that seems natural and easy too. I don’t have to explain myself. It’s just one of those things that you know. Hits you on the head like a steel beam.”
“Luca, there’s something I want you to know about me.”
“Sure.” Luca made himself comfortable in front of the fire. Lying before the hearth, he looked at her.
Alda looked down at her hands, searching her empty palms for the right words as though there was an open book with the answers. “I didn’t go from my parents’ house to the convent.”
“Where did you go?”
“I fell in love.”
Luca sat up and looked at her. “Go on.”
“I got in trouble.”
“What kind of trouble?”
“I was eighteen and foolish. I fell in love with a boy who came to Padua during the summers.”
“Okay,” Luca said.
His frosty reaction was not what she had anticipated. “
It’s not important.”
“Sure it is. If you felt the need to tell me about it, it must matter to you.”
“At the time it did.”
“Do you still love the guy?”
“No, no.”
“What kind of trouble did you get into?”
Alda didn’t appreciate the accusatory tone in his voice, and she was surprised by it. “I am not going to talk about this anymore.” She stood and went to the window.
“You might as well tell me the truth.”
“I always tell the truth.”
“You’re keeping something from me.”
“If that were true, I would have not brought this up.”
“What were you waiting for?”
“I waited for my own reasons.”
Luca stood and faced her. “So I’d fall in love with you, and there would be no turning back?”
He was spoiling for a fight. Alda recognized the signs; she’d been raised by a traditional Italian man in a country full of them. But that was the past; now things were different. Alda was an American, and with that came the gift of reinvention and the notion that a woman could work and take care of herself all of her life, whether she chose marriage and motherhood or not. Gladys Belzer and Loretta Young had taught her this by example, but instead of enjoying the great gulps of independence that were pure oxygen to her growing intellect and character, Alda found herself in love with a man whose progressive ideas were fine for everyone else but not for her.
“You should go,” she said quietly. She wanted to be alone to sort this out in her own way.
“I’m not leaving until you tell me what happened with this clown in Italy.”
“He’s not a clown.”
“Now you defend him.”
“You don’t know him.”
Luca threw his hands in the air. “You’re not a virgin.”
“No, I’m not.”
“You said you were in the convent. Is that a lie?”
“No.”
“But you’re not a virgin.”
“It’s not a requirement of the convent.”
“It should be.”
“It’s a good thing you don’t make the rules. If you did, there would be few nuns and practically no priests in the Holy Roman Church.”
“I don’t care about the church. I only make the rules for me, for my own life, for the morals I believe in, and I demand the same of my woman.”
“Your woman. Who is she? Who is this virtuous virgin without sin who is so perfect in every way that she has lived alone on a mountaintop waiting for you to claim her? Please, introduce me to her. Shall we pick one from the long list of women you have bedded? Where are they? I’m required to accept your past, as though your experiences are a gift that will only enhance mine. I’m to believe that everything you’ve done to this point made you a better man, but I confide that I was in love once, with one good man, and that makes you angry. This is not love.”
Luca had not heard a word Alda had said. He spun on his heels. “I can’t believe this. You’re spoiled.”
Alda drew a deep breath. “I’m not a bin of potatoes. There is nothing spoiled about me.”
“I was raised a certain way.”
“I’m sure your fine upbringing came in handy when you made love to numerous women whose names you can’t remember. You’re allowed to do whatever you want, while your wife gives up everything to you, including her innocence. You belong on the pages of a dime novel.”
“You should have told me.”
“I told you the story not because I’m ashamed of it but because it’s a part of who I am. You have not only disappointed me, I pity you for your ignorance.” Alda quickly gathered Luca’s coat and hat and gloves. She flung the door open and threw the clothes at him. “I am not going to atone for my sins twice, once to my God and the second time to you.”
He turned to say something more to her, but she was finished.
“Get out.”
Alda slammed the door in his face, bolted the lock, and slammed the chain into the slide. Twenty-six years of rage rose within her. She had spent her life in service to others—first to her parents, then to the sisters of Saint Vincent. She was angry on behalf of every woman who had to live in a man’s world by a man’s rules.
Alda had missed the roar of the American 1920s, as young women broke away from the Victorian constraints their mothers had known and got jobs, bobbed their hair, and dared to travel without chaperones. Alda had come into her own with the first paycheck she received from Loretta Young Enterprises. She remembered the moment she opened her first bank account, deposited her first paycheck, and began to save money. It was a transcendent moment when Loretta showed Alda how to wire money to her family in Italy. Alda felt empowered by her ability to earn money and decide how and when to spend it. With financial independence came self-confidence, and with that came the peace of putting the past behind her, including her mistakes. She didn’t need Luca Chetta to take care of her, she only needed him to love her, but that he could not do unless she met his criterion of moral perfection. He could keep his requirements!
This would be Luca and Alda’s first and last argument. Loretta had been right. If you want to keep a man, tell him little of your past and keep your feelings to yourself.
If Luca Chetta thought he was better than Alda Ducci, it would be her pleasure to spend the duration of the filming of The Call of the Wild proving him wrong.
8
Gladys Belzer had placed antique Tuscan urns spilling over with bright red beach roses on either side of the entrance of Sunset House. The January sun flickered overhead as warm breezes floated through Bel Air.
Gladys had opened the windows, letting in the fresh air, as she repainted Loretta’s room and wallpapered her bathroom while she was off on location. The scents of fresh paint and glue were all but gone from Loretta’s suite; gone too was the color scheme of pale pink and cream, replaced with soft green and a wallpaper of periwinkle-and-gray toile.
Ria Gable drove up to the entrance of Sunset House unannounced. She got out of her ice-blue Ford coupe and surveyed the exterior of the house and the view, deciding it was a better setting than her own on the other side of Doheny. Mrs. Gable’s hair was done in black marcel waves, cropped to a lacquered bob. She wore a trim navy blue suit with a foxtail fur slung over her shoulder. Her kelly-green leather pocketbook matched her pumps, all custom-made.
“Mrs. Gable.” Gladys smiled warmly and came from behind her desk. “What a lovely surprise.” Gladys occasionally ran into Mrs. Gable at the fine design houses in Los Angeles, where they could both be found poring over large sample books of wallpaper, fabric swatches, and paint colors.
“Mrs. Belzer.” Ria forced a smile as she removed her gloves and took a seat. While Mrs. Gable was not a beauty, she made up for it in sartorial splendor. She dressed in couture clothing, topped with unique hats, courant accessories, and expensive jewelry. Ria looked as good as she possibly could for a woman seventeen years her husband’s senior.
“Would you care for tea?” Gladys offered.
“No, thank you,” Ria said. “I hear an accent. I hadn’t noticed it before. I didn’t know you were from the South.”
“My mother was a native of North Carolina.”
“To a Texas lady, the Carolinas might as well be Canada.”
“Oh no, it’s still the South. If you need proof, I can make you a pot of soup beans and a pan of cornbread.”
“That won’t be necessary.” Ria smiled, but it was more of a polite clench. “I don’t usually intrude without an invitation, but I was driving by, and I thought we should have a talk.”
Gladys had figured out as soon as Ria walked in why she might have dropped by, but she was going to make Mrs. Gable work for the pleasure of confronting her. “I understand that you do your own decorating, and admirably, so I don’t believe you’re here to talk draperies and rugs.”
“I’m here about your daughter.”
“Which one?” Gladys asked innocently. “I have four.”
“I’m here about Loretta.”
“She’s on Mount Baker, shooting a picture for Bill Wellman.”
“With my husband. I wish you had accompanied your daughter to Bellingham.”
“I didn’t have to—she’s with her secretary, Alda Ducci, who is a former novice from the convent at Saint Elizabeth’s.”
“She’s with a nun?”
“A splendid chaperone, don’t you agree?”
“Perhaps the nun has her head in a prayer book. From all reports, she’s not keeping an eye on your daughter.”
“I’m not aware of any reports.”
“Your daughter is making a play for my husband.”
“That couldn’t possibly be true.”
“And why not?”
“She’s not interested in him.”
“Every woman in the world wants Clark Gable.” Ria removed a tiny shred of lint from her skirt.
“That puts you in a terrible position.” Gladys could see that Ria was desperate. She could empathize with her pain, having survived two unfaithful husbands.
“I want you to talk to your daughter and tell her hands off Mr. Gable.”
“I won’t do that,” Gladys said politely.
“I should have known you have no control over her. I suppose it’s fine with you that she seduced Spencer Tracy, also a married man, and has now moved on to my husband?”
“It’s none of your business who Loretta spends time with, and you don’t have your facts straight about Mr. Tracy, who happens to be a good friend of our family.”
“I think I do. I have eyes. I read. Your daughter falls in love with all her leading men. She’s known for it. She admits it herself! Her reputation precedes her.”
“As does yours. And mine. And whomever else you want to gossip about.”
“I don’t believe this is gossip.”
“Ah. So it’s gospel truth. Look, Mrs. Gable. It must be difficult for you. You are relatively new to Hollywood, and you don’t have the benefit of my years of experience in and around show business.”