Page 25 of Jane Deyre
“Happy Meals make happy kids.” Though that formula never worked for me. Happiness is not something that’s promised to foster kids.
I play with my straw and can’t help noticing women staring at my companion. All ages, all colors. It started the second he walked through the door. I swear I thought the order-taker behind the counter would jump over when he said he liked his coffee black. The funny thing is he’s oblivious to all the stares. Oblivious to his allure.
Shifting in my seat, I attempt to extend our conversation. “So, the two of you have been at Thornhill since Monday?”
“Actually, I’ve been living at Thornhill for close to a year.”
Surprised, I ask him why he’s been residing at Thornhill that long. A guy with his kind of money could surely have his own million-dollar pad.
“I’m a writer,” he says.
A writer could write anywhere. And who in their right mind, no pun intended, would want to live under the same roof as that Fairfax witch? I’m not satisfied with his answer.
“What do you write?”
“Biographies.”
“Like of famous people?”
“Yeah. Mostly celebrities.”
“Like who?”
“People you’re too young to know about.”
“Test me,” I challenge. Does he think I’m a six-year-old? Make that a stupid six-year-old. Despite my horrible living situations, I was an excellent student. I studied hard and always had my nose in a book. I remember Mrs. Temple, my first-grade teacher, reading Dr. Seuss out loud. “The more you read; the more things you will know. The more that you learn, the more places you’ll go.” Those words always stuck with me. The world of fiction allowed me to escape from my miserable existence. Allowed me to believe in happily-ever-afters. And I loved to go to the library and bookstores... and curl up in a corner with travel books filled with photos of beautiful houses and exotic places.
Mr. Rochester’s eyes take on a devilish glint. “Okay, do you know who Cecil DeMille is?”
Seriously? I roll my eyes at him. “For your information, Cecil DeMille is considered the founding father of American cinema and the most successful producer-director in film history. He won the Academy Award for both Best Director and Best Picture for TheGreatest Show on Earthin 1952. The Los Feliz house he used to live in is not far from your godmother’s.”
He looks taken aback. “How did you know all that?”
“Duh. I went to school. I studied. I read a lot.”And I’m a film buff,I add silently.
“Impressive. I hope you’ll read to Adele. I want her to love books.” He pauses. “I’m not sure if her mother instilled her with a passion for reading and books. It’s unlikely.”
His words raise a lot of questions. He doesn’t know if his wife read to his daughter? Did they live apart? Where is she now? Feeling brave, I’m going to find out once and for all.
“Where is your wife?”
His eyes darken. “I don’t have a wife.”
Okay. Where do I go from here? “Oh, you’re not married to Adele’s mother?”
His cobalt eyes grow so dark they’re almost black. “She’s dead to me. I don’t want to talk about her.”
He’s rendered me speechless. Almost at a dead end. No pun intended. I quickly change the subject.
“What are you working on now?”
He takes a sip of his coffee. The anger that fell upon him disappears as quickly as it came. “I’m helping my godmother with her memoir. About her golden days in Hollywood.”
Now it makes more sense why he’s been living at Thornhill. To have access to Edwina Rochester. “What’s it called?”
“The Queen of Thornhill.”
The perfect title for one of the legendary queens of Hollywood.