The Blue Bottle Club (21 page)

Monday morning Addie did as she was told and drove one of Whit's cars to a clinic frequented by actors and their families. At noon she arrived on the set to meet the new director, only to find that filming had already begun.

She watched from the wings as a young blonde woman she had never seen before spoke her lines and acted out her scenes. When the director called "Cut!" Whit came out to the set and turned on the charm, praising the blonde and fawning over her, touching her arm, and giving her a lingering kiss on the cheek.

Then, out of the corner of his eye, Whit spotted her in the shadows.

"Darling!"

Addie drew back a bit. "What's going on here, Whit?"

"Everyone has been anxious about you, sweetheart. They all know you've been sick, and—"

"And so you replaced me? Just like that?"

"You haven't been replaced, darling," Whit soothed. "But Richard—he's the new director, and he's dying to meet you—discovered this young woman and thought she'd be perfect for the part."

"I thought I was perfect for the part."

"You are, sweetheart. Or at least you were. But you
have
put on a few pounds in the past couple of months, and—well, since you have been ill, we thought you might be better in a different role, something not quite so . . . so
central"

"If I've
put on a jew pounds,
it's thanks to your waffles and omelets," she shot back. "And I'm not sick. Not so sick, anyway, that I can't do the lead."

Whit took her arm and steered her away from the set. "So what did the doctor say?"

"Don't try to change the subject, Whit. He said he'd have the results of my tests by noon, and he'd call here. There's nothing wrong with me that a shot or two won't cure—but apparently we have a bigger problem than a little bout of influenza—"

Just then the backstage telephone rang, and Whit jerked the receiver up on the second ring. "Whitman Hughes," he snapped into the mouthpiece. He listened for a moment and then said, "I see. All right. Thank you very much."

For a minute after he hung up, he said nothing, then he turned toward Addie. A strange expression filled his handsome countenance, a mixture of anger and . . . what was it? Fear.

"You're right," he said at last, grating out every word. "You do have a bigger problem than the flu." He shook his head and narrowed his eyes at her. "That was the doctor's office."

"And?"

"Unfortunately, you don't have an illness that can be cured with a prescription."

Addie felt her heart sink, and a thousand worst-case scenarios came rushing into her mind. Cancer, maybe, or kidney disease. She didn't want to ask the question, but she had little choice. "Am I—am I going to die?"

Whit shook his head. "I doubt it—unless I strangle you with my bare hands, that is. You're pregnant."

Addie's mind raced. She had never been very careful about keeping track of her cycles. It was an inconvenience, nothing more—a fact of life she genuinely wished God had had the foresight to plan some other way. She hadn't been thrilled, as other girls were, when she had matured, had never felt the longing some girls had for bringing new life into the world.

Not once in her life had Addie seriously considered the possibility of having children. She had always been too focused on her dream—making it big as an actress, building a career. She had even mocked Tish, just a little, for limiting herself, wanting nothing more than to be a wife and mother.

Now, in a single moment, all that had changed. A little someone was growing inside of her, the product of her love for Whitman Hughes . . . and his for her. A baby. A miracle. Instinctively she laid her hand on her abdomen and closed her eyes. A surging joy welled up in her, and a single tear streaked down her cheek. She reached out a hand toward the man she loved and grabbed a fistful of air.

Addie's eyes flew open. Whit was standing there, his arms crossed over his chest, watching her. And it was obvious that he did not share her joy

"Whit—?"

He took a step back. "How could you let this happen?"

"Whit, I didn't intend—"

"Didn't you? Surely you're not so stupid or naive not to know where babies come from, or how to prevent them."

If he had slapped her full across the face, Addie could not have been more shocked. He had never used language like that toward her—calling her stupid and naive. He had always been the tenderest, most considerate of lovers. Had always treated her with gentleness and respect and solicitude. He had loved her, been devoted to her. . . .

Or had he?

Suddenly Addie saw the truth reflected in his eyes. An old saying returned to her, something she had heard back in North Carolina from one of the less genteel girls in school:
No fella buys the cow when he can get the
milk for free.
At the time it had seemed to her a crude vulgarism, even though it was a sentiment she knew her father would agree with. Nice girls didn't talk about sex.

But her mind resisted. It wasn't that way with Whit. He loved her, wanted to be with her. He was just surprised, that's all. Once he got used to the idea—

"So what are you going to do about it?"

"It?" Addie stared at him.

"The baby. What are you going to do?"

"I don't know what you mean, sweetheart. This is—" she began, but he cut her off.

"I mean," he said deliberately, as if talking to a very stupid child, "that you've gotten yourself into a real mess here. Do you think this town is full of parts for pregnant actresses? Do you really believe anyone is going to hire you?"

"But Whit, I thought that you and I would—" She burst into tears.

He looked down at her, and at last his arms went around her, soothing her, whispering in low tones. "It'll be all right. It's not the end of the world."

Addie sighed and nestled against this chest. "Thank you, Whit. I knew you wouldn't let me down."

"Of course not. I'll help you through this. Before you know it, it'll all be over. You have your career to think about, after all."

Addie leaned into his embrace and tightened her arms around his waist. It would be all right, he said. It wasn't the end of the world. Then her mind registered his next words:

"There are people who can take care of this sort of thing. It won't be cheap, but I'll pay for it. And then things can get back to normal. The way they used to be."

She stiffened in his arms and pulled back. "Are you suggesting that I—?"

"Of course." He tightened his hold on her. "People do it all the time. You don't want to lose everything you've worked for, do you?"

Addie jerked away, and the words that came out of her mouth shocked her as much as they did him. "I haven't
worked
for anything, Whitman Hughes. You've
given
me everything. The clothes, the image, even this movie role—"

"And more roles to come, if you do the right thing," he added.

"If I kill my baby, you mean, and go on living in sin with you?"

Whit's lip turned up in a sneer. "Listen to you:
'Living in sin
You're still the little preacher's daughter, aren't you, no matter how much you try not to be." He took her by the shoulders and held her, putting his face so close to hers that she could feel his breath. "Pay attention, Addie. Face reality. Was I using you? Maybe. But no more than you've been using me to get what
you
wanted."

The truth stung, and a wave of shame washed over her. She had been so proud of herself, of how she was just about to break out in Hollywood, become the big star. And so proud that a man like Whitman Hughes had chosen her, had fallen in love with her. But she hadn't been able to do it honestly, to rid herself of all the vestiges of morality her parents had instilled in her. Instead, she had lied to herself, justified her actions, told herself that his divorce was just around the corner, that before long they could be married and—

None of it had to do with talent or gift or skill or even hard work. He was right: The only acting she had done was the act she had put on to deceive herself. And no amount of rationalizing could minimize that truth.

"All right," she said at last. "If we're telling the truth, let's tell it all. Your wife—"

"What about my wife?"

"You're not filing for divorce, are you?"

Whit chuckled. "Do you really want to know?"

"Yes."

"Okay, here's the truth: No, I'm not filing for divorce." He looked at her. "I'm not married. Never have been."

"But you said—"

"I said what you wanted to hear, Addie, that my vindictive, unreasonable wife was holding out on me. That she didn't understand me."

"But why?"

"Would you ever have moved in with me if you knew that I wasn't married and never intended to be?"

"Of course not."

"My point exactly. Marriage complicates things. Once we're done with this—this little problem—we can go back to the way we were. No commitments, no complexities."

"And if I refuse?"

He shrugged, and his eyes drifted to the set, where the makeup people were dabbing powder on the new blonde's lovely face. "There are other fish in the sea."

"But what about our baby?"

"Your
baby, Addie," he corrected. "If you go through with this, you're on your own."

Addie fought for breath. She had asked for truth and had finally gotten it. But she wasn't sure, even now, whether she was better off with truth or with a beautiful deception. "One more question."

"Fire away."

The words wrenched up out of the depths of her soul. "Did you ever love me?"

"Addie, Addie." He brushed a hand over her cheek and leaned down to plant a kiss on her lips. "Of course I loved you"—he paused—"in my own way."

She watched through her tears as he walked back onto the set and began talking with the director and the blonde who had taken her place. Would she be the next one Whitman Hughes would serve brunch to on the deck of the Malibu beach house?

Probably. But Addie wouldn't be around to see it.

She had already seen enough. She had lost herself along the way, had gotten caught up in the pretense of a world that had no reality at its core. Everyone around her was putting on a show, even after the curtain came down. Adora Archer had bartered her heart for a chance at success, a shortcut to the fulfillment of her dreams.

But more than just her own life hung in the balance now. She had someone else to be responsible for—someone who was totally dependent upon her.

21

GODSEND

September 1931

A
ddie peered through the glass door of Grace Duncan's Hometown Cafe. The smell of fresh bread and a savory stew drifted out to her, and her stomach rumbled.

It had been six months since Whitman Hughes had turned his back on her and she had walked away. She had moved back to Miss Mcllwain's, but when her condition began to show, Mother Mac had sent her packing. For weeks she had searched in vain for a job, any job, only to return at night to a seedy hotel in West Hollywood where the manager leered at her and made crass remarks under his breath.

Three days ago the money Whit had given her ran out. She had taken to the streets, standing in bread lines and sleeping under bridges with other homeless, desperate, destitute people.

But she couldn't go on like this indefinitely, Adora knew—not without risking the health and safety of her unborn child. Every kick, every tiny movement within her womb reminded her that she was no longer alone, responsible solely for herself. And despite her present wretchedness, she was determined to do better for this child than she had done for herself. She would find a place for the two of them, no matter what the cost.

And so, this morning, for the first time in a long time, Addie had prayed. Really prayed. She had laid her hand on her swelling midsection and asked—no, begged—for God to intervene on their behalf.

She doubted whether her father's God would condescend to listen to a woman like her, a woman who had flaunted convention and now was paying the price for it. But she held out a slim hope—-just a glimmer—that perhaps another God, one more compassionate and forgiving, might listen to her plea and take mercy on her. Jesus did, after all, offer hope and forgiveness to the woman taken in adultery.

Dad had never preached on that one much, Addie mused, and the one time he did he had put most of the emphasis, as she might have expected, on the "Go and sin no more" part. But her father wasn't Jesus, and Jesus wasn't her father.

The truth rushed over her in a wave that left her breathless, and suddenly Addie realized that she had stumbled onto something important. All her life she had been judging God by the church—by the arrogant, uncompassionate attitudes of people like Alice Dorn and the spineless indifference of her own father. She had decided that if God was like that, she didn't want anything to do with him, ever.

But what if she had been looking at things from the wrong direction? What if God was less like her own father and more like the images of Jesus that she remembered from early childhood—the compassionate Savior who embraced children, touched lepers, and made the blind to see? What if God really was concerned about her, about her weakness and hunger, about the unborn child in her womb who was the innocent victim of her foolishness? Maybe she had been guilty of the worst kind of blindness, a self-inflicted darkness rooted in her own bitterness and rebellion.

"Look, God," she muttered as she leaned her hand against the glass door of the restaurant, "if you really do exist, and if you really do care, you're going to have to show me. And now would be a very good time . . . "

She waited, but no answer came. Then her head began to swim, and she crumpled into a heap on the sidewalk.