Page 95 of Jane Deyre
Rumor Has It: Hollywood’s notorious leading lady, Edwina Rochester, has been spotted at the Cannes Film Festival sans her husband, author Bertrand Mason. Seen in the arms of her former Academy Award–winning co-star Malcolm Carr. Is their marriage over?
Edwina reveals that there was nothing between her and Malcolm. Covertly gay, he was the perfect escort. She still loved Bertrand, but she was no longerinlove with him. They had grown apart. Most significantly, he had failed to give her the one thing she wanted most in the world. Not fame and fortune. Not another Oscar. She had all those riches. What she craved was something else. What might be categorized as riches of the heart.
A child.
Enter into the narrative, Ward’s mother, Georgia Winters. Edwina’s new on-set hairstylist and makeup artist. Ten years younger than Edwina (now thirty-five), a golden-haired beauty whose looks rivaled the raven-haired vixen’s. They were instantly smitten with each other. Edwina’s words, as captured by Ward, send a fizzing sensation across my skin.
Glitter flowed through her veins lighting her from the inside out.
And electricity flew through mine. The sparks flying.
The chemistry between us was palpable. Ineffable.
Edwina invited Georgia out to dinner at her favorite restaurant, Musso & Frank Grill. Over martinis, Edwina’s with vodka, Georgia’s with gin, both with extra olives, and porterhouse steaks, the two women bonded. They shared their life stories. Georgia’s impoverished upbringing in the deep South, the only daughter of an alcoholic seamstress, born with a wad of cotton in her mouth; Edwina, the only daughter of Hollywood royalty, born with a silver spoon in her mouth. Georgia’s rocky journey to Tinseltown, where she hoped to become an actress; Edwina’s easy road to fame and fortune. Edwina had what Georgia craved—her “baby,” a golden Oscar—and Georgia had what Edwina craved—her baby, an adorable dark-haired little boy named Warden.
The two women learned about each other’s dreams and disappointments. They shared secrets. Georgia’s promiscuity—Ward was born out of wedlock and she didn’t know who the father was; Edwina’s inability to conceive and her virtually non-existent sexual relationship with Bertrand. The conversation between them flowed like alcohol, and after another round of martinis and a bottle of Dom Perignon, they were more than newfound friends. Edwina spent the night at Georgia’s small Los Feliz apartment, and when they awoke the next morning in each other’s arms, their limbs entwined, they were lovers...
As inseparable as the sun from the sky. That morning I knew I’d found the love of my life.
I’m entranced. I’m engrossed. Yet, the words become a blur. I’m halfway done with the memoir and want to read more, but I can’t keep my eyes open. The words are swimming before me. Almost two o’clock in the morning, I place the memoir on my night table, not needing a bookmark because I know exactly where I’ve left off.
I can’t wait to read more, but it’ll have to wait until tomorrow.
Humbled and honored that Ward let me read this early edition, I can’t wait to tell him what I think about it. In one word, reader, it’s a masterpiece.
I turn off my light and slide under the covers.
My eyelids lowering, I silently pray not to be awakened by nightmares or chilling noises from the room next door.
Without interruption, dawn comes.
CHAPTER 49
Jane
Seven a.m. The early morning sky is overcast, but I have high hopes the sun will break through later in the day. With Adele sleeping late, I drink my morning coffee outside on the veranda, reading more ofThe Queen of Thornhill.I don’t get very far. A familiar voice distracts me. I look up.
Mr. Rochester. At the sight of him, my heart flutters and I can’t help but smile. I can’t wait to tell him what I think of his memoir so far.
“Ward, it’s a masterp—”
He abruptly cuts me off. As lit up as his face was when he surprised me with the book yesterday, it’s now dark as a storm cloud. That scowl between his brows is back. He looks agitated.
“Jane, I have to leave you.” The words rush out in monotone syllables.
He’s leaving me?All my insecurities come at me like a landslide.
“I’ll be away for a few days.”
Relief floods me. It’s just a short, temporary leave.
“For business?”
“It’s personal.” His voice is cold as dry ice.
“What’s it about?”Blanche?
“Please, Jane. I don’t want to talk about it. Thinking about it is hard enough.” He glances down at his watch. “I’ve got to go. A car is waiting for me.” He pulls out his credit card and slaps it on the table. “Use it for anything you or Adele need.” He pivots and strides off.