All the Stars in the Heavens

  “Alda!” Loretta went to help.

  When the man under the portico heard the name, he turned to face Alda, who looked away as soon as their eyes met.

  Loretta picked up the basket. “The berries are fine. Are you okay?” She handed Alda the basket. “Alda, are you all right?”

  “We must go,” Alda said.

  “Why?”

  Alda didn’t answer. Loretta looked around and saw the man from the portico—in his late twenties, tall and slim, with sandy curls, brown eyes, and Greco-Italianate features—walking toward them purposefully. A smile broke across his face as he came closer to them. Loretta looked at Alda and then at the young man, back and forth, trying to make sense of the situation.

  “Alda?” The man put his arms around her. Alda blushed.

  “Enrico. Come stai?”

  Enrico stood back and took Alda in appreciatively.

  Alda had blossomed into a lovely, sophisticated woman since going to work for Loretta. The days of cutting her own hair were over when Loretta pushed Alda into the beauty chair in her dressing room on the studio lot. LaWanda had taught Alda simple makeup. Her thick eyebrows had been arched and shaped and filled in with a waxy charcoal stick. Her lips were lined in soft pink, and a dusting of powder on her cheeks made her brown eyes sparkle. Alda’s wardrobe was no longer composed of hand-me-downs from the Young sisters’ closets, but custom designed, her suits fitted at the studio. On this day, her trim figure was lovely in a pink gingham skirt and a flowing white blouse, and she wore gold hoop earrings her husband had given her. With the gold band on her hand, that was all she needed to be chic.

  “Ciao, mi chiamo Gretchen,” Loretta said from behind her sunglasses. She extended her hand and they exchanged pleasantries, but Enrico didn’t take his eyes off Alda.

  “I’m going to take these berries home,” Loretta said softly to Alda.

  “No, no, I’ll go with you.”

  “No, you stay with your friend. I’ll see you later.”

  Loretta walked through the market. She turned to look back at Alda and Enrico. The cacophony of the market, with its busy proprietors and eager customers, faded away like the words on the pages in a book flipping in a breeze. It seemed that Alda and Enrico were alone in the center of Padua, facing one another in the pink light.

  “I thought I’d never see you again,” Enrico began. “I spent a lot of time in church on Feast Days when the nuns of Saint Vincent prepared the church. I imagined I’d see you there.”

  “I didn’t become a nun.”

  “I can see that.” He smiled.

  “I stayed in America and got a job.”

  “Where?”

  “Hollywood.”

  “So the cars, the airplanes, the riches, turned your head.”

  “No, the nuns threw me out.”

  “That can’t be!”

  “Oh, it’s true.” Alda found herself burying her left hand in the pocket of her skirt, hiding her wedding ring. She recalled her nun’s habit with the deep pockets, which put her in the frame of mind to confess. “I was a postulant for three years, then a novice, and when it came time to say my final vows, I was let go. Mother Superior didn’t think I was suited, so I became a secretary.”

  “Ah.” Enrico smiled at her. “You were busy answering other people’s letters; that’s why you never answered mine. You forgot about me.”

  “I couldn’t.” Alda blushed. “I didn’t.”

  “How long have you been here?”

  “Most of the summer.”

  “Why didn’t you come and find me?”

  “I’m busy with my family.” It was true; she enjoyed spending time with her mother, helping her father in the fields and her brothers in the shop. She looked after Loretta. Alda had returned to the place that defined the perimeter of her heart, which for so long had been filled with love for her family and for Enrico. This was her heart before she left Italy, before she met Luca. She had changed.

  The long summer had not been good for her marriage. Every letter from Luca implored her to come home. He had written that he was “no good alone,” and she wondered what that meant. His letters were brief and needy. Her husband was an artist, therefore he was impulsive and self-involved. Patience was not Luca Chetta’s virtue.

  “Alda, I have something that I’ve longed to ask you.”

  “All right.”

  “Why did you run away?”

  “There was no place for me here. I couldn’t stay. It would hurt my family. My father had just taken over the vineyard.”

  “I remember.” Enrico crossed his arms over his chest. “We made a scandal.”

  “I had hurt them enough.” Alda and Enrico had been brazen. They had stolen away together overnight. When Signora Ducci found her daughter missing, she went to the police, who put out a search party and found her the next afternoon with Enrico. He was ordered home, while she, in shame, returned to her family.

  “We all hurt,” he said. “I had hoped to marry you.”

  “Do you believe that we could have made a life together then?”

  “My mother was seventeen when she married,” he offered.

  “Your mother is a better woman than me.” Alda smiled.

  Enrico grinned at Alda. She had never seen a more appealing smile, not even in Hollywood. Time had no bearing on her heart’s desire; she remembered everything about their time together; including the terrible ending, when she disappeared from his life. At the time, she had no choice. Alda would have no part of ruining his life or his good family name, once her own had been compromised. She planned to keep their child together a secret. She bore the grief alone when their son was stillborn.

  Enrico still had the carefree countenance of the young man she remembered while she, having suffered the worst grief, did not. Nothing in the world would make her tell him the truth about what really happened; the only gift she had to give him was a clear conscience.

  A striking young brunette carrying a newborn in her arms herded three other children under the age of five to the fountain where other children were splashing about. “Enrico!” she hollered. “Andiamo!”

  “I’m coming, Vera,” he said.

  “Your wife and children.” Alda’s hopes sank, and she wasn’t sure why. Surely she knew that Enrico would move on, as she had. But it was the children, four of them, who reminded her of all she didn’t have.

  “You should go.”

  “I would like to see you. We could make an arrangement.” He looked off at his wife, who was busy with the children. “Let’s make a plan.”

  “I can’t.”

  “You don’t want to?”

  “I’m married to a brilliant Italian American artist named Luca Chetta.” Alda’s hand with her wedding band found its way out of her pocket. She brushed her hair off her face in the breeze.

  “You found an Italian in America.”

  “It’s not so hard to do. There are thousands of them.”

  “You have children?” Enrico asked.

  “Not yet.”

  “You must have babies. It helps.”

  Alda said good-bye as Enrico went to his wife, lifting one son on one hip and his daughter on the other. Alda took a final look at her first lover as he kissed his children. She was so pleased for him. That’s how Alda knew she really loved Enrico; she wanted his happiness more than her own. As for their son, Michael would remain in her heart and memory; she would bear the burden of his loss alone. It was her gift to her first love.

  The Scrovegni Chapel was tucked in a corner of Padua like a forgotten book on a shelf. Loretta pushed the door open and was met with a rush of cool air. The interior shutters were latched closed to protect the paintings and antiquities from the light. Loretta blessed herself with the holy water and knelt in a pew behind a marble pillar, taken in by the fresco before her. In glorious swirls of emerald green, coral, and gold, Giotto had painted scenes from the life of Jesus and Mary as though he were telling the story of any mother and son.
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  The door creaked behind her, and Loretta turned to see Alda entering the church. Alda did not see Loretta; she walked up the side aisle to the shrine of Mary, knelt, and then buried her face in her hands and wept. Loretta left the pew and joined Alda, kneeling next to her.

  “Who was that man?” Loretta whispered.

  “I was in love with him.”

  “Did he break your heart?”

  “I broke his.”

  “Then he should be the one crying.”

  “I didn’t leave Padua to be a nun.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Enrico and I had a baby. He was stillborn. I never told him.”

  Loretta finally understood Alda’s need for solitude and silence. Loretta had mistaken them for vestiges of Alda’s life in the convent, but now knew why Alda needed to feel separate from the world from time to time. She assumed that Alda missed her family and Italy. Now she understood the depth of Alda’s pain, or at least she could relate to it, now that she was going to be a mother.

  “After I had the baby, I couldn’t stay here. I was just a girl, and I didn’t know what to do. The Sisters of Saint Vincent took me. I wanted to go as far away from Padua as I could. I wanted to forget what happened.”

  “I’m so sorry about your baby.”

  “I thought time would heal me, but it can’t. Nothing ever will.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I couldn’t. Especially after Mount Baker.”

  “And my pregnancy.” Loretta patted Alda’s hand. “Now I understand why you know so much about having babies. I thought it was your work experience at Saint Elizabeth’s that made you so knowledgeable, but the truth is, you lived it.”

  “You never stop living it.”

  “Does Luca know?”

  “He’s been very kind. You know, at first he wasn’t, but he’s grown up too. I guess we all have.”

  If Loretta had any lingering doubts about keeping her baby, they were gone by the time she and Alda left the chapel. Perhaps the timing was wrong for her baby, but now that she had seen what happens to a girl who loses a child, Loretta decided to embrace whatever joy she could. Of course, that was easy enough in Italy, where her life was her own. It would be a different story when she returned to California. No matter what, Loretta was determined to control the story. She would write her own happy ending.

  Lago Maria Lufrano was a pristine navy-blue lake, bordered by soft willows, in the forest near Padua. The road that led to the lake was hemmed on either side by tall reeds of green. Alda juggled the picnic basket as Loretta walked beside her.

  “Have you heard from Luca?”

  “Long nights of prep for Mutiny on the Bounty.”

  The mention of the movie stung Loretta. She knew Gable was the leading man, though he’d fought the studio not to do the part. They were filming in Monterey—Gable had gotten David Niven a job on the picture as an extra, and he’d sent her a long letter

  “Maybe Luca can steal away at the end of the picture.”

  “Maybe. Have you heard from Mr. Gable?”

  “He knows I’m here. Sally included a stack of letters he sent to me in an envelope that arrived a couple days ago.”

  “Have you read them?”

  “They make me sad. I stand in your window, with your view of the world, and I read. The view makes up for the news in the letters. Ria won’t give him a divorce, but we knew that would happen. This could go on for years.” Loretta pulled a branch off the tree and swung it as they walked, tickling the tops of the wild ferns that grew along the side of the road. “For as many women as Mr. Gable has known in his life, he has learned not one thing about what makes them tick.”

  “What will you do?”

  “What we always do. We figure it out alone. If I wasn’t an actress I could hide. But there’s something wrong about that. I’m ashamed of myself but proud of this baby—how can that be possible? But it is.”

  “I understand! It’s life. You never thought you could be so happy and so sad at the same time. When I found out I was expecting, my grandmother wanted me to stay in Padua. She said she could help me raise the baby. She’d make me fresh ricotta every morning. She made sure I ate eggs and greens and oranges—all the things that make you grow. And for about a month of my pregnancy, I actually thought, I’ll move in with Nonna, and we’ll do this. But I couldn’t do that to her. Nothing good comes from women who have babies out of wedlock—not in Italy. Not without money and connections. It was impossible.”

  “May I meet your Nonna?”

  “She passed away last year. A few months before I left Saint Elizabeth’s.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  Loretta and Alda sat on the banks of Lago Maria Lufrano, the lake hidden like a jewel in the deep green forest of the Veneto. Alda slipped into the lake and swam out, barely making a ripple in the water with her even strokes. Alda floated on her back. The blue sky overhead shimmered like lapis. Each morning as the sun rose, she walked over the hill to Michael’s grave. It soothed her.

  Loretta watched her, dangling her legs off the pier into the cool water. Alda swam over to her.

  “You know, Luca is keeping an eye on Mr. Gable. They’re on Catalina Island.”

  “One of my favorite things about Italy is that there are no fan magazines here, not ones I can read anyway.”

  “Luca says that Mr. Gable goes to bed early every night.”

  “Alone?”

  “Very much so.” Alda swam out into the blue.

  Alda had a way of making any news from America seem better than it was. The sun was low, like a ripe peach, throwing light on the blue ripples on the surface of the lake. Loretta closed her eyes. She was at peace, and held on to the serenity that was all around her. She liked the idea of Clark Gable longing for her, but she need not travel far to be near him. She placed her hand on her stomach, on their growing baby, and in an instant, he was with her.

  Franchot Tone, the elegant, well-bred actor with an eager smile and the confidence of an East Coast education, lay on the pier of Catalina Island, the sun turning his skin a golden brown. Gable was fishing off the end of the pier.

  “I love a day off,” Franchot said.

  “Nothing like it.”

  “What are we doing for dinner?”

  “Niven is making plans. And that’s a good thing, because I’m not going to catch anything off this pier. This bay might as well be filled with concrete.”

  David Niven jogged down the pier toward them. He was resplendent in white tennis shorts, a matching pristine polo, and tennis shoes.

  “Here he is,” Gable said, keeping his eyes on the water. “The white knight.”

  Niven joined them. “I just got another job on the picture.”

  “Get you.” Franchot Tone sat up and shielded his eyes.

  “Not only am I an extra in the torture scenes, thank you Mr. Gable, I am now delivering the mail, which is a torture all its own.”

  “In this light, you’re causing glare,” Gable said. “Tennis whites should only be worn on the court.”

  “I think he looks like an angel,” Franchot added.

  “You would.” Gable chuckled.

  Niven handed Gable a letter. “They call me ‘Director of Communications.’”

  “I bet they do.” Gable smiled. “The longer the title, the less you get paid.”

  “Is it a summons?” Franchot asked.

  “You’re a card,” Gable grumbled. “My luck, I’m getting sued.” Gable looked at the return address: Padua, Italia. He stuffed it into his pocket.

  “Aren’t you going to read it?” Niven asked.

  “Not in front of you.”

  “I don’t have x-ray vision,” Niven said.

  “You never know.” Gable yanked on the fishing line.

  “If I did, I wouldn’t use it to read your mail. I’d find a more pervy purpose for the skill.”

  “How’s Mr. Laughton treating you?” Franchot asked Niven. “Do
es he bite your hand when you deliver his mail?”

  “Well, he doesn’t kiss it, if that’s what you’re asking.” Niven shrugged.

  “I’d like him to look me in the eye when we’re acting in a scene,” Gable complained.

  “Tell him,” Franchot said.

  “You tell him,” Gable said.

  “Gentlemen, this is a dilemma with a very obvious solution. I beg you, let me be of service, because it seems that’s all I’m good for in Hollywood,” Niven began. “Mr. Laughton is jealous of you, Clark, green-pickle jealous. He looks at you across the deck of the Bounty with disdain, not because you’re an awful human being, or a great actor . . .”

  “Thanks a lot,” Gable joked.

  “. . . but because you’re a handsome man with a trim waist and a fat paycheck, all of which he covets, all of which he can’t get because he looks like a potato and can’t stop eating them.”

  “You’re a cold Englishman, Niven.” Franchot laughed. “Clark looks better in a ponytail. You left that out.”

  “I hate the ponytail,” Gable complained. “And I miss my mustache.”

  “I found your mustache on a lovely barmaid in Pismo Beach last night.”

  “I’ll bet you did.” Gable laughed.

  “It barely tickled. Felt like a tease, really.”

  “Niv has everything figured out, including how not to be lonely on location.” Tone was impressed.

  “You must become adept at psychology if you’re going to survive in pictures. I learned this bitter lesson from Mr. Gable.”

  “Gable has everybody figured out. Me? Not so much.” Franchot flipped his body toward the sun. “Show business is rough.”

  “Mr. Tone, you are correct. Show business is for swabs. Therefore, I have an announcement to make. I am going back to university to become a doctor, so in the event that I lose my mind in the pursuit of fame and fortune and attractive women, I will have something to fall back on—the ability to give myself my own lobotomy.”

  Loretta had to stoop to enter the cellar where Signore Ducci made his grappa. The space was so small, only two people could fit. She descended the makeshift ladder down into the dark.