Page 8 of His Girl Hollywood
“I just really want to prove myself.” He kicked at the floor,looking as if his mother had caught him with his hand in the cookie jar. In that instant, he was no longer Don Lamont, toast of Broadway, but Don Lazzarini, the boy next door, the boy who got away.
“I do too,” she replied, allowing a softness into her voice as she willed him to understand what was at stake here. Not just for her, but for any woman who’d ever dreamed of being something more than a pretty face or a script girl nudged away to fetch coffee.
A voice from the darkness interrupted them both. “Hellooooo in there.”
“We’ll be right out,” she called back. It was probably one of the electricians come to lock down the set for the night and do final checks on the wiring and equipment. She hated to admit she was grateful for the interruption, for a reprieve from this awkward reunion. Tomorrow, they could start fresh as simply Miss Morgan and Mr. Lamont.
“Would you want to grab a bite to eat?” Don asked, that beguiling grin back on his face. It was never far from the surface. Once she’d found it charming. Now, it was infuriating.
“Thanks, but I’ve still got a lot to do before tomorrow.” She turned on her heel and headed for the large open door on the soundstage, keeping her eyes on the tendrils of dusky purple evening light that were beckoning her outside.
As soon as she stepped out into the night, she inhaled deeply, the late-blooming jacarandas giving her a breath of fresh air—a dainty, floral scent. She leaned against the stucco of the soundstage, still warm from the summer sun, and closed her eyes, counting to ten until her heart returned to a semblance of its normal pace.
She couldn’t look back. She’d wasted far too much time looking back, wondering what might have been. No more. Not with so much at stake.
Chapter 4
The bell rang as Don pushed the door open and stepped into the frenzy that was Schwab’s Pharmacy during the Sunday dinner rush. He peered over the crowded shelves packed chockablock with anything you could think of—from cigarettes and antiseptic to Jergens Lotion and Vicks VapoRub—and tried to spot Eddie.
A hand shot up from the back end of the soda counter and waved in his direction. “Don, over here!”
Don pushed his way past a housewife comparing the prices of two bottles of shampoo, squeezed behind two teenagers in sweaters loitering by the tobacco counter, and held back a laugh at the sight of a balding man staring perplexedly at a list of items that was clearly scrawled in a woman’s handwriting. Squeezing in between the counter stools and a display touting Monty Smyth’s favorite brand of cigarettes, Don grabbed the empty seat next to Eddie and murmured his thanks as Eddie slid a cup of coffee and a doughnut his way.
He dunked the doughnut and gulped down some coffee before taking a breath and finally looking at his friend. Eddie was Don’s opposite in every way. He had a thinning thatch of hair the color of dishwater and he was short and squat, built like a bulldog. But Eddie could move like no one else Don had ever met. He made the ballerinas in New York look like amateurs. He’d elevated Don’swork to a new level. If Don wanted to make a splash in Hollywood and secure his freedom for good, he needed Eddie by his side. But he’d already mucked things up.
He took another gulp of his coffee and drained the cup, placing it firmly on the counter. “They got anything stronger?”
Eddie quirked an eyebrow. “Not unless you consider a strawberry milkshake stronger.”
Don sighed and buried his face in his hands.
“Okay, what happened?”
“I messed up.” Don groaned. He lifted his head and looked at Eddie. “Lena, she was… She wasn’t what I was expecting. She’s changed.”
“Changed how?” Eddie winked, a twinkle of mischief in his eye.
“C’mon, Eddie, she’s like my kid sister.”
“Yeah, well, honorary kid sisters have been known to grow up into beautiful dames.”
Don sighed in frustration. “She isn’t,” he protested. “Shit, that’s not what I mean. Sheisbeautiful.”
“Mm-hmm.” Eddie nodded.
Was that the trouble? Don had barely recognized her when he’d walked into the soundstage. When he’d last seen her, she’d had a pageboy haircut and her favorite piece of clothing had been her father’s hand-me-down work pants. Now her naturally wavy titian hair was shoulder-length, styled in a practical, unfussy cut that cottoned to contemporary tastes without being unduly influenced by fashion. Sensible yet attractive.
She still wore trousers, but they were stylish, the mark of a woman who knew her stuff and wanted to be sure you knew it too. He’d only known it was her by the clumsy ballet moves she was attempting. Her grace had always been reserved for other walksof life far from the dance floor. But it wasn’t so much her sudden maturity that had thrown him for a loop. He’d known plenty of beautiful women in his day.
No, it was something more intangible. “She’s lovely,” he admitted to Eddie. “The loveliest I’ve ever seen her. But it’s not that, she’s…harder somehow. More reserved. All business. I’ve never known her to be cold. But it was like my presence turned her to ice. She was almost cruel, even.”
Eddie took a deep sip from his coffee and looked thoughtful. “Well, the kid has to have the weight of the world on her shoulders.”
“She’s not a kid.” Don’s response was reflexive, out of his mouth before he had a chance to think better of it. Eddie raised his eyebrows meaningfully. “I just mean, she’s grown up.”
Eddie smirked.
“For one thing, she won’t even let me call her Lena anymore. It’s Arlene now.”