Loretta knocked on the door. Myrna opened the door and whistled.
“Sister, you know how to work a pencil skirt.”
Loretta wore a black velvet skirt and a white silk blouse with billowing sleeves. Her hair was down and loose, as were the strings of pearls she had thrown casually around her neck.
“Follow me. Captain Gable is here.”
“Captain? How quickly he went up the ladder!”
Gable stood in his uniform by the bay window that overlooked Park Avenue. There was white hair at his temples, and the lines on his face, once lightly etched by the sun, were now deep. There was no other way to describe it; he was a man consumed by grief.
Loretta went to Gable and embraced him. His uniform was made of thick wool, the buttons polished, strictly utilitarian, the opposite of the fine silk suits that were custom made for him at the studio.
“I’m gonna leave you two kids alone—I got an interview to do.”
Loretta looked at Myrna, who winked at her and left.
“I’m so sorry about Carole.”
“Don’t know how to go on.” Gable looked out the window at nothing in particular.
“Hey. It’s me. You can talk to me.” Loretta led him to the sofa.
They sat down. She put her arms around him, and he rested his head on her shoulder.
“I was afraid you’d throw me out the window after the last argument we had.”
“That was on me, Gretchen. I handled everything wrong.”
“Let’s split the agony. It’s better for both of us that way. Now, tell me about Carole.”
“It’s my fault. I told I missed her and wanted her home. So she arranged the plane. When I heard about the weather, I told her to take the train, but she wanted to get home.”
“She wanted to get home to you. That’s love.”
“She lost her life over it.”
“She didn’t know that was going to happen, and neither did you. Besides, circumstances don’t matter. She loved you.”
“And I loved her. We had so many plans.”
“Why did you sign up?”
“I can’t go back to the life I had before. I hope they get me, Gretchen.”
“Don’t say that. You’re still a young man.”
“Older than you.”
“I’m an old married lady now.”
“Still my girl.”
“I will always be your girl. And you should see Judy. She’s a delight.”
“When I get back, I’ll come and see her.”
“I hope so.”
They sat in silence for a long while, until he began to weep.
Loretta held him tight. It was as if she was holding on to him for dear life, to save him. She laced her fingers through his, and he held on. They were forever intertwined, connected, wedded to one another in some deep way that was instantly familiar and somehow impossible.
In what seemed like a lifetime ago, she remembered a conversation she had with Spencer Tracy. When the worst happens, he’d said, there is nothing you can say, nothing you can do, except show up. Loretta caressed her old lover’s face with the tenderness of a mother. Even that wasn’t enough; all she could do was hold him and wait for the darkness to pass.
What she felt for Gable wasn’t youthful passion, or the longing within the lonely moments of a good marriage for something outside it, something a woman imagines to be better; what Loretta felt was something completely new to her. Loretta had a deep and abiding love for Gable that was deeper than romance, more lasting than physical passion. It was history. It was love over the expanse of many years. It had grace and meaning. It was spiritual, and it mattered to both of them. They shared equally in their mistakes and missteps, but underneath their shortcomings was always an understanding that the other had the capacity to forgive. Loretta felt gratitude that she could be there for him, and Gable, for that day, felt less alone.
Loretta never made it to the fund-raiser, and neither did Gable. Loretta found a blanket in the closet, draped it over Gable, and curled up next to him on the sofa. They went to sleep holding one another. And this is how they stayed until morning.
Gable was strapped into the B-17 fighter-bomber. The whirl of the engine was deafening. Gable adjusted his goggles, which had steamed up from the sweat on his brow. Looking out the tiny sliver of Plexiglas, his only portal to the sky and the ground below, he saw black clouds of smoke and streaks of orange where the shells had detonated on the fringe of Berlin. He held the jammer control on his gun and waited for his instructions to fire.
Gable hoped the war would put distance between him and his grief. He’d joined up because Lombard made him promise he would, but that was just to appease her. If he ever served, he figured he would wind up in a special unit, making movies for the cause. Instead, he requested active combat, and after training, he got his wish. He hoped to be hit in midair, explode into a million pieces, and join Carole on the other side, where he believed she was waiting for him. It was the only way he could make sense of losing her so young, before they had a chance to enjoy their marriage, their new home, and the wealth that came after Gone with the Wind. How profoundly his views on money had changed when he lost her! The jewels, cars, and homes meant nothing without her. He attached to her the meaning of his own life. While Gable thought about death and dying, he didn’t want to do anything that would prevent a reunion in the afterlife. That message of religion had gotten through to him loud and clear.
The commanding officer shouted out a code, and Gable gripped his machine gun as the gunner dived close to the rooftops of Berlin. Shells popping around them, the pilot navigated through black smoke, using only his instruments. For a split second Gable was sure they would crash. He thought of his wife and how she must have known before the plane hit the Nevada mountain, how those moments of pitch-black either lead you out into the blue or hurl you into the mountainside in an instant fireball.
Gable steadied the machine gun and peered through the slit. The gunner climbed heavenward. Gable looked down and saw Berlin burning. Turning in his jump seat, the officer gave the crew the thumbs-up, and Gable felt a wave of relief. Perhaps he was ready to live again. This was the first moment since Carole had died that he wanted to; in that sense, it was the start of something new.
Primula Niven, David’s wife, held their son in her arms in the garden of their English cottage on the outskirts of London. She was an English beauty, with a lovely complexion and clear blue eyes.
There was a one-day ceasefire for Christmas Day, which had everyone outdoors, without fear of grenades, bombs, and gunfire. Primmie reveled in the peace. Clark Gable, in full uniform, unlatched the garden gate.
“What’d you make for me, Primmie?”
“Your favorite chicken pot pie, Captain.”
Gable kissed her on the cheek. “Where’s your husband?”
“He went for flour.”
“Do you think he’ll find some?”
“He’s a charmer. I only worry what he’ll have to do to get it.”
“Let’s not imagine the worst.”
“Let’s not,” she said as she placed her son in the pram. “It’s his naptime—he’s out. Here, sit. Make yourself comfortable.”
Gable sat down under an old elm tree. He fished in his pocket for his cigarettes and lit one. He looked at the cottage, with its thatched roof, and thought about trying to re-create it on his ranch when he returned. Primmie had hung red velvet ribbons in the window for Christmas decorations. The simple adornment made him smile as Primmie returned with a tray of tea and biscuits for her guest.
“How are you?” Primmie asked.
“I’m beat.”
“You know, you’ll feel better as time goes on.”
“Will I?”
“Grief is never as bad as it is when you first feel it. The trick is to walk with it. Make it a part of who you are. Don’t rail against it.”
“Accept it.”
“When you can.”
Gable’s
eyes filled with tears. “I miss her.”
Primmie put down her tea, went to Gable, and put her arms around him.
“Take your hands off my wife, you horny Yankee!” Niv thundered from the gate. Niv too was in uniform, his officer’s cap pushed back on his head like a newsboy’s.
“You’ll wake the baby.”
“Better it be the father waking the baby than the lovemaking sounds of his wife’s affair.”
“David, you’re uncouth.”
Niv swept his wife into his arms. “Oh, Primula. I hope you like it.”
“I don’t.”
“Here’s your flour. I have returned from France, and all I have to show is a bag of flour.”
“You’ve been home for a week now, darling. Let’s stop talking about France. Keep an eye on the boy, will you?”
Primmie went inside to make dinner.
“Old boy, you look a fright.”
“I’m finally fit to be Marie Dressler’s love interest.”
“She wouldn’t have you.”
Gable laughed. “Probably not.”
“It’s almost over.”
“Yep.”
“What’s the matter?”
“The usual.” Gable offered Niv a cigarette.
“There’s a lovely lady in Bath who has a spectacular view of Cordel Lake . . .”
“I don’t need a diversion.”
“Seriously?”
“Nope.”
“But I thought . . .”
“Doesn’t help. Funny. It doesn’t help,” Gable said.
“Well, that’s going to put a dent in the old girls’ business. And during the holidays? You cheap Scrooge.”
Niven shook his head. Gable laughed. Soon, Niven joined him. They hadn’t laughed this hard since their days on the boat. Before the war, before Carole. Before Gretchen. Before Primmie and the boy.
Loretta’s dressing room for The Bishop’s Wife was crowded with hair and makeup artists, the costumer, and a shoemaker, Signore Stanziani from New York City, on his knees, who was outfitting her for ice skates.
“They feel tight,” Loretta told him.
“I make skates for the Olympics. You leave it to me.”
David Niven came in wearing his minister costume. He tugged at the white Roman collar.
“Niv, you look like you’re about to choke to death.”
“There’s good reason. I wanted to play the angel.”
“Cary got there first.”
“That’s the trouble. Cary always gets everywhere first.”
A playpen and a crib stood empty in the center of the room. “Where are the little brats?”
“Christopher and Peter went home with my mother.”
“About time. Louella Parsons was going to tell the world that you’re running a home for unwed mothers out of here.”
“Okay, everybody. Beat it,” Loretta said. “I look as good as I’m gonna get. “
The team that made Loretta sparkle dispersed like bubbles down a drain. “Done with the carwash for now.”
“You do realize that I have one makeup man, and only one, to prepare me for the cameras? You know the bloke, he buffs pancake into my face like car wax.”
“It takes an army for me. And every day past thirty, add in the Navy, the Air Force and the Marines.”
“You and Cary Grant. He has a team that plucks, massages, and brushes him down like he’s prepping for the Preakness. He’s outside getting a golden glow between scenes with some foil contraption they used to shoot down fighter planes over Berlin. Of course, all he’s getting out of it is a suntan. I told him that no one in New England has a tan this time of year. He said he was playing an angel, and angels live close to the sun, ergo the tan.”
“You’re just jealous.”
“Probably. He is so handsome, next to him I look like a wall-eyed pug.”
“My character wouldn’t be married to a pug.”
“Fair enough. We all know how picky you are.”
“Watch it, Niv.”
“Gretch, I need your help with something.”
“That was your windup to ask for a favor?”
“Pathetic, isn’t it?”
“What do you need?”
“We have to find something for Clark. A part in a movie. Mayer is putting him in real junk, so he’s sitting out a lot. Our old friend is not the same. He needs work. He got back from the service, and he’s out there on that ranch all by himself.”
“You’re going through your own terrible grief, and you’re worried about him.”
“I have the boys. Gable has nothing.”
“Clark needs a job.” Loretta knew what she was talking about. She had pushed for Niven to be cast in The Bishop’s Wife shortly after Primmie died in an accident. It was a silly accident, a fall down a flight of stairs during a party game, but Primmie never recovered. Niv had been inconsolable, but Loretta knew that work would help him heal. Any heartache or disappointment or grief Loretta had lived through was eased by having something to do. Work was not a balm or a distraction, but salvation to the broken-hearted.
“I’ll figure something out,” Loretta promised him.
“He needs his friends, but he doesn’t know how to ask for help,” Niven explained. “You know, I’m different. I want to burden my friends. For some reason, Clark can’t do it. He doesn’t want to be a bother.” Niven’s eyes filled with tears. “I believe in running from it, to a point. But the truth is, you don’t get over it.”
“Let me see what I can do.”
“You have a very big heart, Gretchen. I know he broke yours, so it’s an act of compassion to even think about helping him.”
“You only want someone to hurt because you want them to understand the pain you’re in. The nature of revenge is to prove you’re right. I didn’t have to be right about Clark, I just wanted him to be happy. Whatever that meant. Whatever that means.”
“How’s that husband, Tad?”
“Tom.”
“Right, right. Tom Thumb, except he’s tall.”
“You are evil!” Loretta laughed.
“Let’s get the old gang together. That might help. And if you get Gable cast and you come up with a tasty little part for me in the proceedings, I’ll be eternally yours.”
“We already made that picture, Niv.”
“Right, right. That’s the one that turned me into Limburger cheese at the box office.”
“Don’t blame me for your fickle public.”
Alda sat on the floor of Loretta’s bedroom, stitching the hem of the evening gown Loretta would wear to the Academy Awards. The emerald-green taffeta confection, designed by Loretta’s pal Jean Louis, had a series of dramatic ruffles on a full skirt, anchored by a matching satin medallion. The top featured a tight bodice and delicate straps. Jean Louis had designed a matching opera coat that was pure whimsy, with cascading ruffles that trailed behind her like waves.
“You could’ve been a professional seamstress, Alda.”
“Too late for that.”
“Why? Helen Rose, Edith Head, Irene—none of them are babies.”
“They’re designers. Big picture. I’m good at the details. Beadwork? Embroidery, I’m your girl.”
Alda helped Loretta as she slipped into her gown.
“You know I’m going to lose. This is Roz’s year.”
“It’s an honor to be nominated.”
“That’s what they say.”
Loretta was thirty-four years old and could feel the ground shifting beneath her. The starring roles were going to the younger girls, the movie business was changing, and she was determined not to settle for parts in movies she didn’t believe in. She was too young to use the word retirement, but she was too old not to see that her world was changing. She had just a few years left in pictures. She could not compete with her younger self, when she was nineteen, nubile, and fresh. Loretta was a different kind of beauty now; she had lived, borne three children, and married a second time. She had a bit
of wisdom, and that cannot be concealed from the camera.
Judy slipped in and watched her mother dress.
“What do you think, Jude?”
“I like it.”
Loretta sat down beside her twelve-year-old daughter, who had grown a foot in the last year. Her blue eyes sparkled; her heart-shaped face, in Loretta’s eyes, was a work of art.
“Do you like the green?”
“It’s nice.”
“It’s symbolic. See, when I was a girl, the first movie I ever made was called The Primrose Ring. I played a fairy.”
“Did you fly?”
“Like a bird. In a leather harness. Anyway, the costumer put me in this beige shirt and stockings, and then she took emerald-green satin and tied it as a skirt around my waist and sprinkled glitter all over me.”
“You sparkled.”
“Exactly! Aunt Carlene played a fairy too—but she hated it. But I knew that was the job for me.”
“Mama, what if you lose?”
“Losing is easy.”
“It is?”
“All I have to be is gracious.”
“What if you win?”
“That’s easy too.”
“Why?”
“All I have to be is gracious.”
“Judy, don’t let the boys stay up late,” Tom said from the doorway.
“Yes, sir.” Judy looked at her mother.
“No monkey business,” her stepfather said firmly.
“I’ll do my best,” Judy said glumly.
“Watch your tone, Judy,” Tom Lewis said as he left. “I’ll be outside, Loretta.”
“He’s not very gracious,” Judy said softly.
“No, he isn’t. I’ll talk to him.”
“It’s all right, Mom. Sister Karol says everybody’s got a cross. He’s my cross.”
“That’s a good way to look at it, but I won’t tell him.”
“Please don’t. He’ll have me washing his car in the morning.” Judy rolled her eyes.
“Remember what Grandma says. No cross, no crown.”
Loretta entered the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion on the arm of Tom Lewis. He was proud of his wife, but the scene, an industry hive, wasn’t for him. He was raised to believe that a man led the household; if there was spotlight on the family, it should shine on him.