Wings in the Dark (3 page)

Laura moved closer to me, her hip bumping mine, suggesting another night of romance ahead.

As we reached a beachfront bar lit with flickering torches, Laura offered to buy me a drink.

I was still getting used to the availability of booze everywhere, including beaches. “Sure.”

“Let me order something tropical.”

“You mean fruity, without whiskey?”

Laura smiled. “When in Rome…”

A minute later, she handed me a red, sweet-smelling concoction in a coconut cup. I took a sip. Though the drink lacked any sense of booze, it was sweet and delightfully Hawaiian. As we made our way toward our cabana, a high-pitched shriek shattered the calm of the beach.

The shrill scream stopped everyone. As a reflex, I reached to my side for a gun I no longer carried and spilled some of my red drink on my trousers. A teenage girl on a beach towel beneath a bright yellow umbrella held both hands pressed to the side of her face and stared in our direction. What could have prompted the outburst?

The girl scrambled to her feet and raced toward us. She skidded to a stop, kicking up sand. Her face neared the color of my drink, and she appeared ready to collapse. “Oh, my gosh! Oh, my gosh! Laura Wilson!”

Since her first movie came out, plenty of fans had fawned over Laura, but this was ridiculous.

Laura smiled. “What's your name, darling?”

“It's…it's…”

For a moment, I didn't think she'd be able to recall her name in all the excitement.

She blurted out, “Eleanor, Eleanor Caldwell from Cincinnati.”

When the flush faded, even her dark bookworm glasses didn't hide her pretty, fresh-faced innocence. She was sixteen, maybe seventeen, with strawberry blond hair, green eyes, and a face sprinkled with freckles. She praised Laura's performances in the three films she'd made to date. Eleanor claimed to have seen every one at least twice.

Gracious as always with fans, Laura introduced me as her husband.

Eleanor looked my way for the first time. “You're married? I've read all about you in the magazines. When did that happen?”

“On the ship on the way here,” I explained. “It was like a fairy tale, wasn't it, dear?”

“Gosh! Well, it's aces meeting you, Mr. Wilson.” She held out her hand.

Laura covered a smile with one hand.

I shook the girl's hand. “The pleasure is all mine, Eleanor from Cincinnati.”

Laura smiled. “Would you like an autograph?”

“Would I?” Eleanor scrambled toward her blanket. She returned and handed a book to Laura. “It's supposed to be a diary, but I never have anything exciting to write about.”

“How about,” I suggested, “today I met Laura Wilson.”

Eleanor eyes brightened. “Of course!”

Laura opened the book and cocked her head. “Duke…”

Eleanor looked at the page. “Duke Kahanamoku. He's a famous Hawaiian athlete. And I heard Shirley Temple might be giving a concert on the beach in a couple of days.”

I chuckled. “Wouldn't want to miss that, would we, dear?”

“Now, darling, she's a wonderful and talented child.” As Laura signed the page, we learned Eleanor had come to Hawaii with her mother and her mother's new boyfriend, who rarely left the hotel room.

Laura handed the diary back. “Mine is your second autograph.” She nodded toward me. “Jake's a writer. A
famous
writer.”

A pity autograph? I thought not. “We should be going, dear.”

“No, really.” Eleanor thrust the book toward me. “Please.”

“Well, if you insist.” I wrote a kind paragraph about meeting her in Hawaii and added my signature.

Without glancing at my autograph, she clutched the book to her chest. “Thanks, Mr. Wilson.”

Laura chuckled as we walked away.

Mr. Wilson. I better get used to that. “I hope that doesn't happen too often.”

Laura jabbed me in the ribs. “You're just jealous. Most teenage girls find you rather fetching. I did…when I was a teenager.”

Perhaps I was a bit upset no one recognized me. I was ashamed of that piece of vanity.

Laura held my hand. Darkness had taken over by the time we reached the hedge surrounding our private cove. Flowering red hibiscus plants ringed the cove and provided security. I glanced toward our cabana. “I could use a shower. Care to join me, sweetheart?”

Laura smiled and winked. She pulled me through a gap in the hedge and looked around to make sure no one was nearby. She removed her top and trousers and dove into the calm water. She swam in the dim light, a vision that reminded me of Maureen O'Sullivan's nude swim with Johnny Weissmuller in
Tarzan and His Mate
. More than a little excited, I dismissed thoughts of Tarzan, took off my clothes, and joined her.

I swam toward Laura, swept my arms around her waist, and kissed the lips I knew so well. Shivers shot through me every place she touched. We stood chest deep in the water as my hands roamed her familiar and exciting curves.

“Aloha, Mr. Donovan.” At the hedge was one of the hotel desk clerks, Freddy, a friendly, attentive worker. His yellow trousers, matching hat, white shirt, and flowered vest perfectly conveyed the hotel's tropical flair. He clutched a three-ring binder. “I brought the screenplay I mentioned when you checked in.”

If I had a nickel for everyone who'd penned a screenplay, I could get this country's economy back on track. “Leave the script in the cabana.”

“Sure thing. Where's your wife? I'd love to meet her. The staff told me what a knockout she is.”

“She's hiding behind me.”

Plastered to my back, Laura's arm came to the side and she waved, without revealing anything more than one hand. “Nice to meet you, Freddy.”

The young man's eyes widened. “Oh, I get it. Sorry…Everything okay with the cabana? They're pretty old.”

Just leave already. “It's small but meets our needs.”

Laura's hand wandered below my waist in the water, and she whispered, “It does meet our needs, darling, but it's hardly small.”

He tipped his cap. “Enjoy your…your swim.” Freddy dashed toward the cabana, tossed the screenplay on the deck table, and disappeared up the path to the hotel.

Laura slipped her arms around my neck. “Well, darling, where were we?”

Several yards from our hedge, a couple faced us. The woman pointed in our direction and argued with the man. “It certainly is Laura Wilson.”

Apparently, the private, secluded cove the brochure mentioned wasn't private or secluded.

As they walked away, Laura chuckled. “I guess we weren't meant for a night of romance.”

“What do you say we get dressed up and go out for the evening?”

“Out? What did you have in mind?”

“I'm thinking of breaking out the tux. You could wear that silver gown you insisted on bringing. Dinner, dancing, and champagne at a place down the road called the Mambo Club. I even rented a car.”

Laura threw her arms around my neck and kissed me. “You might be a scoundrel from time to time, but you're the best husband a girl could ask for. Now, let's go inside and skinny-dip in the shower.”

Two hours later, I tried to tie a bow tie in a mirror beside the front door. Laura emerged from the bedroom fastening a gold earring. A stylish beret and a snug-fitting, silver-sequined gown had transformed her into the movie star she'd become in the past eighteen months. Sometimes, like now, her beauty took my breath away.

She straightened my tie and kissed me. Hand in hand, we made our way up the path to the hotel, a short hike, no longer than the right field foul line in the Polo Grounds.

Like most hotel lobbies in early January, this one still contained an eye-catching Christmas tree. Only this one was some kind of fern, the lights all white, and the ornaments were made out of seashells. I'd never seen anything like it in Queens.

Two men were working behind the counter, Freddy and the night manager. The night manager, a heavyset man in his fifties who looked like he hadn't smiled in weeks, was talking on the phone.

Freddy gave Laura the once-over and let out a low whistle. “I didn't get a good look at you earlier.” He cleared his throat. “Not that I was looking. I mean, I was looking, but I didn't see anything.”

The young man gave me a
help me out
look, but I decided to let him squirm. He cleared his throat again. “Some of the staff mentioned you were a knockout, but they understated how beautiful you are. I'm Freddy, Freddy Olsen.”

“Thank you, Freddy.”

The manager hung up the phone and greeted us with an insincere smile. He tapped on Freddy's chest. “What did I say about not buttoning your shirt?”

Freddy buttoned up. “That you didn't like it.”

I stepped forward as the manager grabbed a stack of mail from the counter and sorted the letters into room slots. “I believe Mikayla Sato might've left a key.”

“Sure, Mr. Donovan. Right here.” Freddy slid an envelope toward me. “The Olds is parked outside.”

“Thanks.” I took Laura's arm.

Freddy glanced toward the manager and lowered his voice. “I don't suppose you had a chance to read my screenplay. No, I guess you were busy…swimming.”

Reading his screenplay was the last thing I wanted to do in the time we had left in Hawaii. “I'll take a peek first thing I can.”

“It's a mystery about a husband and wife detective team.”

The description seemed familiar. “Sounds like
The Thin Man
.”

Freddy shrugged. “This is different. It's filled with action, adventure, and suspense.”

Still sounded like
The Thin Man
.

“There's a part you'd be perfect for, Miss Wilson.”

Laura patted my hand. “I'll make sure Jake gives your screenplay his undivided attention.”

Freddy pumped his fist. “You two are the cat's meow. You going dancing?”

“That's right.”

He glanced at the manager and lowered his voice as if he was about to recommend a speakeasy in the old days. “I think you'd enjoy the Mambo Club. It's less than a mile up the road.”

“We'll give it a try.”

Freddy puffed up with pride. “Don't take any wooden nickels.”

I smiled and led Laura through the lobby.

The Oldsmobile was right out front. Like the bicycles, the car was clean, polished, and appeared to be well maintained. I twisted the key, however, and the starter wouldn't turn over. I pumped the gas pedal and tried again.

The engine coughed like someone with tuberculosis before starting. A puff of white smoke billowed from the tailpipe and the car backfired. I tapped the pedal again to keep the engine from stalling. We inched forward and eased away from the hotel.

Laura chuckled. “Her bikes are better than her cars.”

I patted the dash. “Don't listen to her, girl. You're just fine.”

Away from hotels and nightclubs, Honolulu was like a thousand other cities these days, filled with struggling businesses and dejected people grown weary of the Depression. Like Queens and Los Angeles, and anyplace else, good people lost their jobs and men used their last two bucks to drown their sorrows before going home and breaking the news to the wife who'd just about had enough. It was the way of the world nowadays, and I couldn't do a damn thing about it.

Laura scooted closer. “You okay?”

I kissed the top of her head and turned into the parking lot of the Mambo Club. A valet greeted us with as much warmth as a middle-aged librarian with an apartment full of cats. I handed him the keys. “Be careful. She's a classic.”

Music with an up-tempo big band sound blasted through closed double doors flanked by large torches. Inside, the island theme was traditional and whimsical. Laura hooked her arm in mine as we approached the maître d' in a white dinner jacket stationed behind a teak wood podium.

“Reservations?” he barked.

Reservations? Mikayla hadn't said anything about reservations. “I didn't realize…”

His eyes locked on Laura. “Laura Wilson! I've seen all your pictures. You were fabulous in all of them, but my favorite was
Midnight Wedding
.”

As always, Laura took the compliment in stride. “Thank you so much.”

He gave her the once-over. “You look marvelous.”

“Thanks.”

He led us toward the main room, where the band was playing. “Right this way, Mr. and Mrs. Wilson.”

One could have fried an egg on the back of my neck. “Donovan.”

The man's brows furrowed. “Excuse me?”

“Never mind.”

The maître d' showed us to a table close to the band and promised a bottle of their best champagne, on the house. He pulled the chair out for Laura, who sat and failed to suppress a grin. He lit a candle in the center of the table and hurried to the bar.

“I'm sorry, darling.” Laura squeezed my hand. “A night out dancing is such a wonderful surprise. I know dancing's not your favorite thing to do.”

“But you do know what my favorite thing is.”

Laura blushed. “Everything's been perfect ever since we stepped onto the boat in Los Angeles. Thanks for a delightful honeymoon.”

“My pleasure.” I definitely meant that.

With the exception of the morning's interview, everything had turned out swell. Life was perfect with the woman I'd loved for most of my life. I smiled.

The band began to play Glenn Miller's “Annie's Cousin Fannie.” I took Laura's hand and led her to the dance floor.

Laura moved with her usual grace while her dark curls, red lips, and shapely figure caught the attention of most of the men and women. Their expensive dinner jackets and gowns reminded me how few people could afford the luxury of the Mambo Club. Was I writing Blackie Doyle novels to earn enough dough to live a lifestyle that would make me forget what it was like to struggle, really struggle? Maybe I was just beating myself up too much for being a success.

As we danced, Laura's eyes glistened.

Except for in stage roles and movies, Laura didn't often cry. “What's wrong?”

She shook her head and a tear slid down her cheek.

I tilted her chin upward and wiped away the tear. “Laura…”

She blinked away more tears that threatened to fall. “Everything's turned out the way I always hoped, but sometimes I worry our good times won't last.”

At least we'd have plenty of company. “Sweetheart, now we're married, things will only get better. You've become a star and I'm…” What was I becoming? “I'm doing what I enjoy, writing.”