Page 37 of His Girl Hollywood

“What do you mean?”

“It didn’t seem like you ever cared that much about anyone you left behind. Hell, you even changed your name.”

That one stung. Because he had changed it on purpose so no one could trace him back to his father and their working-class roots. But he still tried to defend himself. “I had to change it. Don Lazzarini doesn’t exactly look great on a marquee.”

She rolled her eyes. “We both know why you changed it, Don, and it’s got nothing to do with the marquee.”

“Fine, I changed it because of my old man. Is that what you want me to say? That the idea of him even getting an ounce of credit for my success, for my hard work, makes my blood boil.”

He tugged at the collar of his shirt and gesticulated wildly with his other hand. He didn’t like discussing this. She eyed his hand nervously, and he sheepishly put it back on the table. He’d spent too much time around gangsters and tough guys. She gave him a look of understanding. “I’m not accusing you of anything, Don. I get it. I grew up next door to him, you know. I saw how he treated you. The walls in our house were thin.”

“Then, what do you mean, my work seemed only about me?” He was being defensive and he knew it. But he wanted—no,needed—to understand why she’d been so cold since he’d come back. Maybe this was the key.

She continued. “Watching you rise to the top, I don’t know, it seemed like Don Lamont was the only thing that mattered to you. Your life was the Don Lamont show, to hell with everyone and everything else.”

Her pronouncement hit him like a sock in the jaw. He knew he’d neglected her. At first, because he was embarrassed about how poorly he was doing. The many nights he went hungry. The holes in his shoes as he tried to hoof his way to fame and fortune. She’d written many letters those first few months. He hadn’t answered a single one, promising himself he’d write when he made good. Partly because he didn’t want any of his struggles getting back to his father, verifying his grumbles that Don would never amount to anything.

Then, success came. But it came with Frankie. And he’d learned quite quickly that getting close to anyone was a dangerous game. But he didn’t realize that Arlene cared so much. She’d stopped writing, except for the wire when her father died. He figured that she’d moved on with her life. He never thought for a moment that he had the power to hurt her. So long as he kept her away from Frankie. “I was eighteen years old when I left, Arlene. I was an idiot.” He tried to play off his neglect as teenage obliviousness, but he immediately regretted it.

She chuckled, but there was still something sad in her voice. “You can say that again.” He wanted to take hold of that thread and tug it until he unraveled the truth behind her words. But he wasn’t willing to break this fragile détente. Besides, she was right. He had been selfish and shortsighted.

Hearing her talk about the past made him want to know everything about the decade of her life he’d missed. How she’d met Joan. What had inspired her Oscar-winning script. If she had a beau. But their shared past seemed the easiest place to start. “How’s your family?”

The question transformed her cheery face. She looked sad, like someone had placed a heavy weight upon her shoulders. She gave him a half smile, clearly trying to pretend she was okay. He wanted to hug her, to squeeze her hand and tell her it was going to be all right. But he knew that she wouldn’t welcome that. “They’re good. Mom wanted to sell the boat after Dad died.” Her voice broke a little at that, but she reached for her cocktail, took a sip, and continued. “But Bill decided to take it over, keep the family business going. He got married four years ago, to Nancy Fabrici, who lived down the street. You remember her?”

“The broad that every guy in the neighborhood had a thing for?”

“That’s the one. Somehow my dunderheaded brother was the one to catch her eye.” Don felt a surge of warmth. Arlene had always said her brother, Bill, was a couple of pancakes short of a full stack, but she adored him anyway. “They’ve got two kids. Two boys. Little terrors. And Mom is…Mom. She’s so proud of you. Still cuts out every article about you that she can find and tacks it to the fridge until she can replace it with the next one.”

His heart swelled. He sort of assumed that when he’d forgotten about everyone back home, they’d forgotten him too. It was onlyfair. But God, Mrs. Morgan had clipped stories about him from the papers? He should’ve known. That was the kind of people they were. Once you knew them, you were family. Whether you liked it or not. And he had liked that once. Hell, he’d loved it. When his own home had felt stifling and unbearable, the Morgans’ house had always been a safe haven.

At that moment their food arrived. Don’s eyes almost popped out of his head at the huge slab of meat on his plate and the steaming baked potato. It smelled like heaven. He resisted sticking his finger in the side of horseradish and licking it off. He hadn’t eaten this well since he’d left New York. Hell, he didn’t know if he’d eaten this well since the first time that he left California. He cut a tiny sliver of the prime rib, dipped it in the horseradish, and popped it in his mouth. It melted on his tongue. “Good God!”

Arlene giggled. “Good, right?”

“Heavenly.” He wasn’t even exaggerating.

They sat in a comfortable silence for a while, enjoying the quiet that descended upon a table when the food was hot and delicious and demanded all of their attention. He was happy that Arlene was warming up to him, that they were finding their way back to each other. And this meal was maybe the best thing he’d ever eaten.

Dotting her mouth with her napkin, Arlene looked at him as if she were weighing whether she should ask him something. Then she inquired, “Why didn’t you come home for Dad’s funeral?”

The question pierced his heart. “I…couldn’t.” He didn’t want to admit the real reason. That Frankie had kept her telegram from him. That he’d found out too late because Frankie didn’t want anything to interrupt the European tour. Particularly not a funeral that would’ve required traveling halfway around the world. Because any hiccup in the touring schedule would’ve meant trouble with the gangsters Frankie answered to. And that would’ve meant troublefor Arlene and her family in the end. He’d even had to pretend he didn’t care about the telegram. For all their sakes.

“You couldn’t? Or you wouldn’t because you didn’t want to face your own parents?”

He cringed. Of course, she’d think that. “I promise you, Arlene, if I had been able to, nothing, not even the hounds of hell, would’ve prevented me from being at your old man’s service. I owe everything to him.”

She looked down at her plate then, suddenly very interested in her baked potato. He knew she was trying to hide the fact that she was crying, but he fished his handkerchief out of his pocket and handed it to her all the same. She took it without saying a word. After a few moments, she gave him a watery smile. “He loved you so much, you know.”

“I know. There hasn’t been a day of my life that I haven’t wished I was born a Morgan instead of a Lazzarini. I loved him too. I’m sorry. I didn’t know. I got your wire weeks after the funeral had already passed. It crushed me to find out I’d missed it.”

“Why didn’t you write back?”

“I thought it would be too little too late.”

She nodded, still clearly shaken, but trying to play it off as if it didn’t matter what he did. He could see right through her though, and his bite of potato turned to ash in his mouth as something dawned on him. Was this why Arlene hadn’t been herself around him? Because he hadn’t bothered to write when the most important man in his life had died? Suddenly, he wanted her to lash out at him, scream, throw a napkin, something. Anything was better than her silent acceptance of his neglect.

He was a heel. He could’ve done more. He should’ve written. How hard would it have been to send a wire expressing his condolences? He could’ve told Frankie the telegram was for acousin or something. He’d spent so long living in fear of his manager and what Frankie might do to anyone Don cared about that he’d closed himself off entirely. For what? A dancing career with Eleanor Lester?