The Property of a Lady (59 page)

She looked at him, startled. “I didn’t know it still showed.”

“Oh, yes,” he replied quietly, “the scar is still there, in your expression and your quietness, and in your eyes.”

She told him everything, just the way she had before, holding nothing back, not even how she had felt about Eddie on their wedding night or about finding the Ivanoff brooch or about Azaylee, and her own love for O’Hara. She cried when she told him about O’Hara’s murder, but he made no attempt to comfort her, merely passing her a handkerchief, letting her cry it out.

“And what now?” he asked at last. “You have put Azaylee back together, but what about yourself? Maybe you should have talked to Dr. Jung too?”

She shook her head. “I’m the strong one,” she said with an attempt at a jaunty smile. “Besides, I had Rosa to talk to, I didn’t keep it all locked up inside the way Azaylee does. That’s why I hesitated about letting her become a movie actress. What if she is no good? I’ve seen the hatchet jobs critics can do, and I don’t know if she’s strong enough to take that sort of rejection.”

“And how will she ever know if you don’t let her try?
She may be a great success. You can’t go on protecting her from life, Missie. You have to let her live it.”

“I suppose you are right.” She sighed. Nevertheless, always wary of discovery, she insisted that Azaylee use a screen name, and after a lot of thought the studios decided on “Ava Adair.”

They wandered into the big drawing room with its view through the avenue of palms leading to a midnight-blue swimming pool, and Zev ran his fingers over the keys of the ebony grand.

“I used to play this piece every time I saw you,” he confessed as the soft crystal notes of a Chopin étude filled the room. “I would go home after those evenings in the Ukrainian café and dream about you. My whole life changed when I met you, Missie.” He stared down at the ivory keys. “I meant it when I said I did it all for you. I was in love with you in New York but I asked myself, What could I offer a girl of such refinement, a
baryshnya
, a lady? Two rooms behind a pawnshop and a husband who lent quarters on other men’s Sunday shirts? When I sold my business and came out here to Hollywood, I was determined to become a success, to be someone who counted, someone you could look up to. Then I would return and ask you to marry me. When I read about your marriage to Arnhaldt, I wanted to kill him.” He laughed mockingly. “Instead I took that anger out on a man who thought I was a sucker and tried to fleece me. Of course I beat him, and that was the beginning of Magic Studios.”

“And now you are C. Z. Abrams, one of Hollywood’s most important men,” she said, coming to stand beside him. “But it makes no difference to me. I always respected you, Zev. You were always my actual.”

She had stayed for a long time as afternoon drifted into evening and evening into dusk while they sipped champagne and poured out their hearts to each other like old, intimate friends, the way they used to over a bottle of rough red wine in the Ukrainian café.

That had been eight months ago and their courtship had progressed slowly, along with the making of
Marietta
. Now the movie was finished and tonight he was to give her a private showing. Not even Dick was to be there.

The house smelled divinely of beeswax and roses, not the stiff formal arrangements from before, but big silver bowls of garden roses spilling their petals onto polished surfaces in a last tender gasp of fading beauty. His borzoi, Juliet, sprawled on a sofa in the hall, and the doors and windows were flung open to catch the evening sunshine. The heavy brocade curtains were gone and simple cream silk ones hung in their place; the formal dark furniture had been banished and now comfortable sofas and chairs were grouped cozily. Books and magazines were scattered around and a dog-chewed leather slipper lay unnoticed under the table. Under Missie’s influence the house had changed its personality and so had Zev. He looked different: relaxed, smiling, and casual.

“It’s all set up,” he said excitedly, “and I think I can promise you a surprise.”

“Good or bad?” she asked, kissing him.

He grinned. “I’ll leave that for you to decide.” After taking her hand, he led her onto the terrace, where supper was set on a white table beneath a blue awning. There was nothing he did not know about her, nothing that she did not know about him, and now their lives had become intertwined. As they sat at the table talking of the wine, the strawberries, the movie, they had the intimate easiness of a couple who had been married for years. And yet they were not even lovers.

She thought Zev looked particularly handsome tonight. He caught her hand and said at last, “It’s the moment of truth. Are you ready for it?”

He set up the reel, turned out the lights, and came to sit beside her. The story of Marietta was a simple one of an orphaned girl who makes good. It had both pathos and humor and a great director in Dick Nevern. The images
flickered and the credits rolled and suddenly there was Azaylee staring at her from the screen, her eyes wide and frightened as she asked where her mother and father had gone. There was a low urgency in her voice that gripped the heart immediately, and for the rest of the movie it was impossible to take your eyes off her.

Missie was silent while he changed the reels, watching without comment until the end, and then she burst into tears. “I didn’t know she could be like that, Zev.” She sniffed. “I didn’t know she could break hearts.”

“But I did,” he said softly. “I knew it the minute I saw her.”

A month later
Marietta
premiered simultaneously in New York, Philadelphia, and San Francisco to rave reviews. The critics showered young Ava Adair with praise, hailing her as “a find,” “a star in bud,” and best of all, “an accomplished young actress.” She was just sixteen and it seemed silly to suggest she go to college with such a glittering career in front of her. So Missie took her and Rachel for a holiday.

“Take her down to Mexico, to Agua Caliente,” Zev suggested. “Magic will pick up the tab.”

Unlike nearby honky-tonk Tijuana, Agua Caliente was a high-class spa resort featuring hot springs and mud baths, a golf course, tennis courts, and a huge marble swimming pool, said to have cost $750, 000. The hotel boasted fifty luxurious bungalows with pink bathrooms and tortoise-shell fittings, and the dining room featured gold flatware with European food and the finest French wines. Zev wanted nothing but the best for his future star and his future wife, even though he had not yet asked her to marry him because he wanted to give her time to forget the tragedy of O’Hara.

Agua Caliente was also famous for its horse racing and dog track, and the hotel attracted a varied clientele of gamblers, celebrities, and socialites taking a rest in the sun. Rachel and Azaylee spent most of the day dipping in
and out of the immense pool, sipping iced lemonade from tall glasses, and giving the silent treatment to any boy who tried to flirt with them, collapsing in a heap of giggles when he retreated, baffled by the silent amusement of two pairs of beautiful, challenging eyes. There was one man they both rather fancied, a rakish-looking Mexican by the name of Carlos del Villaloso. He was older, at least thirty they guessed, and after a single lingering glance that had made their toes curl up, he never looked at them. To their chagrin, he seemed to pay attention to every other woman in the hotel except them—even Missie.

She was taking a stroll through the gardens in the cool of the evening when she was aware of a long stride matching her own and glanced up to see him walking beside her.

“Such a beautiful evening, señora,” he said with a dazzling smile. “I see that, like myself, you are a lover of nature. Beautiful gardens are one of the world’s great joys. France, Italy, England, of course they are perfection, their climates guarantee it. But today I believe my native Mexico does not fare too badly. It is most disturbing. I always believe my own estate is the most lovely until I see somewhere else.”

She paused under an arbor of bougainvillea. “It would be difficult to choose which is best,” she replied with a cool smile. “I have decided that the happiest policy is to love the garden you are standing in best.”

He clicked his heels together in a formal bow.
“Con su permisión, señora
. Carlos del Villaloso.”

He was tall, slender, and elegant in a white dinner jacket, and his olive skin was so smooth it looked polished. He had intense brown eyes, a thin mustache, and very white, even teeth. His black hair was oiled into sleekness, and he wore a large diamond on his left pinkie.

“Mrs. O’Hara,” she said, offering her hand.

“O’Hara?” he said, his brow furrowing, “I seem to know that name….”

She turned away hastily. “I’m afraid I must get back. My daughter will be anxious to go in to dinner by now.”

He laughed and said, “Ah, young girls are always hungry. We can only watch them in amazement and wonder where they put it ail.” He strode along the path beside her. “A pleasure to meet you, señora,” he said with another courtly little bow as she hurried back into the hotel.

Later, in the dining room, he bowed and smiled as he strolled past on his way to his table and the girls stared after him in amazement.

“You mean you’ve actually met him?” they chorused excitedly.

Missie nodded. “We discussed gardens.”

“Imagine discussing gardens with a man like that,” Rachel said, rolling her eyes. “Why, he’s the most
wicked-looking
man I’ve ever seen.”

They stared at him across the room, lowering their eyes, blushing as he caught their glance and smiled at them.

“He’s interesting,” Azaylee breathed, “not like these silly boys who’ve been pestering us all week long.”

“Interestingly wicked,” Rachel added, and Missie sighed as they collapsed into giggles again.

Nevertheless, she made a few discreet inquiries at the hotel about Señor del Villaloso and discovered that he was a regular customer, well known as a heavy bettor at the racetrack and also as a ladies’ man. He was rarely around during the day, but in future she merely nodded politely when she saw him and went out of her way to avoid being alone in the garden.

“You know what,” Azaylee said to Rachel one evening after dinner. “I’m bored.” She was sprawled across a sofa, her long slender legs flung over the back. “Unless you’re mad about racing or booze, there’s really not much to do around here. Not even
sex.”

“And what do you know about
sex?”
Rachel scoffed.

Azaylee swung her legs back over the sofa and sat up.
“Not much,” she admitted, “but I’m willing to learn. Tijuana’s just up the road, Rache. What do you say we pay it a little visit?”

Her eyes lighted up with excitement and Rachel stared at her doubtfully. “What do you mean?”

“Let’s just dress up older and go see what it’s like there. We can stroll around, peek through a few doors … just do
something.”
She giggled. “Come on, admit it, Rache, you’re just the teeniest bit curious?”

“Not as curious as you,” she admitted, grinning, “but I’m game if you are.”

Azaylee ran to the closet. “We’ll put on our slinkiest dresses. You’ll look okay because your hair is bobbed, but I’ll just have to pin mine up and put on a hat.”

Dressed in their raciest attire, which was pretty sedate, they sneaked out of the hotel and asked for a taxi. The driver stared at them in astonishment when they demanded to be taken to Tijuana and then he asked double the usual price.

“A dónde ahora?” he
asked as they cruised slowly down the narrow, crowded main street, lined with bars and honky-tonk joints.

“Right here will do.” Azaylee leapt out, thrusting half his fare into his outstretched hand. “Kindly wait. We shall be back in one hour.”

He shrugged indifferently, watching as they walked off, arms linked, clutching each other nervously as if they expected someone to leap from an alley and kidnap them to be sold into white slavery. Loud music spilled from a hundred bars and touts, pimps, whores, and drunks hung around the doorways.

Azaylee stopped to stare at the pictures outside the notorious Venus and the sign that said “Anything Goes.” She peered interestedly at the louvered door, drawing back with a gasp as it swung open to eject yet another drunk. Her eyes widened as she caught a glimpse of a naked woman onstage with two men.

With a gasp, she grabbed Rachel’s arm and hurried on. “Did you see that?” she muttered. “Did you see what they were doing, Rache?”

“No.” Azaylee’s startled eyes stared into hers, and she said,
“What
, Azaylee? Come on, tell me!”

Azaylee gulped and whispered, “Rache, there were three of them … naked and …”

She shivered and Rachel wailed nervously, “I knew we shouldn’t have come here!”

“Oh, but, Rache, I am sure we should!” Azaylee was gripped by a strange, nervous excitement. She could
never
tell anyone exactly what she had seen, not even Rachel. After crossing the road, she stopped outside the Commerciale.

“Maybe we should just go home,” Rachel said, hanging back reluctantly.

Carlos del Villaloso spotted them as he strolled down the street, having just lost five grand at the Foreigners’ Club. He had exactly three hundred dollars left in his pocket, not even enough to pay his hotel bill, let alone finance his gambling fever. The two young girls dithering on the sidewalk outside the Commerciale stood out from the crowd like virgins at the gates of hell, and he grinned as he watched them clutching each other’s arms and daring each other on. So, they had escaped from the beautiful dragon lady and come to find a bit of excitement. Then who better than he to show them the ropes? Straightening his tie, he strolled across the road to the Commerciale.

“Buenas noches, señoritas.”
He smiled disarmingly at them as they swung round, startled. “I recognized you from the hotel and wondered if you realized it is not exactly
comme il faut
for well brought up girls to wander around Tijuana?”

They blushed, lowering their eyes, embarrassed, and he added, “It would be better if you allowed me to escort
you. The Commerciale is a rough place for women alone.”