All the Stars in the Heavens (60 page)

Loretta couldn't get enough of him, and she hadn't.

If Gretchen Young had one regret in her life, it was that she never married Clark Gable.

OCTOBER 2000

R
oxanne Chetta waited for her family at the entrance of Moreau Hall at Saint Mary's under a banner that announced “The Mary Ethel Meeks deWolfe Art Show.” She wore a tuxedo jacket she had bogarted from the theater costume shop over a Ziggy Stardust T-shirt and a floor-length skirt made of tulle, in layers of blue, that rolled wide and fierce like ocean waves. Her hair was piled on her head in a mass of dark curls, and she wore the brightest red lipstick Urban Decay offered at the CVS.

The world would see Roxanne's painting for the first time that evening, and the thought of it made her feel nervous and vulnerable. If there was a form of stage fright for painters, Roxanne was sure she had it. She was shivering as she looked out into the blue darkness, broken open by wide beams of yellow light from the streetlamps in the parking lot, when she heard her mother call her name.

Roxanne waved to her mother, who moved toward her in the midst of a clump of relatives. Joe, Roxanne's father, her two brothers, and her three sisters had made the trip from Brooklyn, along with a face Roxanne could not make out in the dark.

The Chetta family traveled in a pack, a small army of Italian Americans who never missed any event involving one of its members. It didn't matter if it was an art opening, a school play, or a neighborhood basketball game, if you were a Chetta and you were in the spotlight, you could count on a cheering section.

Roxanne's mother embraced her daughter and sniffed her neck. “Are you still smoking?”

“Nah, that's old smoke. I quit this morning.”

“We have a surprise for you!”

There was always a surprise on a Chetta family road trip. Usually it was food—fresh mozzarella, salami, and prosciutto transported in coolers or boxes of pastries from D'Italia's Bakery, which her mother would hold on her lap for hours on the interstate so the
sfogliatella
wouldn't arrive smashed or the shells on the cannolis shattered before reaching their destination.

Her brothers parted to reveal their great-aunt.

“Aunt Alda!” Roxanne put her arms around her.

“l didn't want to miss your art show,” Alda said. Her white hair was pulled back in a simple chignon. She wore a black dress coat made of silk wool, gloves, and black leather flats. Her square pocketbook was vintage, but so well cared for that the patent leather looked new.

“Best surprise ever!” Roxanne kissed her on the cheek. Alda's skin was cool, like a seashell. Roxanne's eyes filled with tears.

“Oh, don't cry.”

“I can't help it. I wish Uncle Luca were here. But I'm so happy you are.”

The Moreau art gallery was filled with student artists and their families and friends. A group of nuns from Augusta Hall milled about with art patrons from the city of South Bend. There was a table of college-style hors d'oeuvres, silver trays filled with blocks of cheddar cheese that had been picked over until they looked like Roman ruins. Members of the senior class served empty-bodied white wine in plastic cups as the guests took in the art show. Roxanne led her family to her painting.

“Oh, Roxanne, it's magnificent,” her mother said.

“It's huge,” her father said approvingly. Whether it was art, houses, or cars, for Joe Chetta, bigger was always better.

Aunt Alda took a step back to take it in. The expanse of white, the dots of silver, and the strokes of blue brought her back to Mount Baker in 1935. She opened her purse, found her handkerchief, and dried a tear from her cheek.

“What do you think, Auntie?” Roxanne put her arm around Alda.

“My husband would be so proud. You're a fine painter. When you wrote me and told me the inspiration behind the painting, I couldn't believe it. Mount Baker had meaning for us for many reasons, but you've made it come alive here. I have something for you.” Alda gave Roxanne a wooden box with a handle. “L. Chetta” was engraved on a small brass name plaque. “Your uncle would want you to have this.”

Roxanne opened the box. It was Luca's paint kit, his brushes, palette, and knives, stored neatly in flannel sleeves as though they had been used that day. A black-and-white photograph was tucked in an elastic band under the lid.

“Oh, Auntie.” Roxanne studied the photograph of Clark Gable and Loretta Young and the film crew, between takes on the snow-covered mountain as they made
The Call of the Wild.
“I don't know what to say. With this kit, it's like I'm a real painter now. And the photograph, it's a treasure.”

Sister Agnes pushed through the crowd to get to Roxanne. “I just endured the fibers exhibit. Don't get the dangling threads at all.”

“Sister Agnes Eugenia, this my great-aunt Alda. Her husband was the scene painter in Hollywood I told you about.”

Sister Agnes shook Alda's hand. “I was a big Loretta Young fan.”

“Did you ever write her a letter?”

“I might have. I loved her in
The Call of the Wild
.”

“Then I probably read it. I read all her mail.”

“What a career—such an exciting life,” Sister said with a tinge of envy. “For her and for you.”

“I was lucky. It started as a job, and then, as things go, it became a calling. I worked for Loretta until the end. We lost her on August twelfth.”

“Heart attack?”

“Loretta had cancer.”

“Terrible.”

“She had a very happy last few years. Did you know she had married again? Jean Louis, her good friend, the costume designer, was widowed, and they married after Mr. Lewis died. She divorced him but waited until he passed away to remarry.”

“A dyed-in-the-wool Catholic, as we say.” Sister chuckled.

“Oh yes.” Alda smiled. “Loretta was staying with her sister Georgie
at the end. She adored her sons with Mr. Lewis, and she and Judy—her daughter by Mr. Gable—had worked through their problems.”

“Oh, good. I heard that her daughter had written a book about their relationship.”

“Loretta loved Judy dearly. Judy needed to write that book. Loretta eventually accepted it, and they reconciled and had some good years at the end of Loretta's life.”

“That's wonderful.”

“They were lucky. You know, Sister, we think we have the luxury of time. We figure that there will always be a moment to have the conversation that we meant to have, and then the moment passes and it's too late. I learned so much working in Hollywood, working for Loretta—but the most important thing I learned was to say what you mean when you have the moment to say it. It works in life, it works in the movies. Don't wait, because the time may not come again.”

Sister Agnes took Alda's hand. “She had a good, long life. Did she have her faith at the end?”

“She did.”

“That's a blessing,” Sister Agnes said.

“I knew you two would hit off.” Roxanne put her arm around her aunt. “Sister Agnes is a big fan of the movies of the 1930s and '40s,” Roxanne said.

“I love the old ones the best. I marked important events in my life with movies,” Sister admitted. “The last movie I saw before I entered the novitiate was
Top Hat
, with Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers. I went into the convent on a toe-tapping high.”

“The old movies take me right back,” Alda admitted. “Not everyone has a movie to mark the moment their lives changed or they fell in love.”

“We were married in Brooklyn the summer of
Saturday Night Fever
. Our wedding song was ‘How Deep Is Your Love,'” Roxanne's mother said wistfully.

“Every once in a while, my parents disco dance for us. It makes us throw up.” Roxanne laughed.

“Yeah, well, be grateful. You exist because of the Bee Gees,” her father commented.

“Are you going back to California after the show?” Sister Agnes asked.

“No, no, it's time for a change. It's time to be with family again.” Alda smiled.

“Auntie just turned ninety,” Roxanne's father said proudly. With his thick gray hair brushed back off his face, Joe Chetta resembled his uncle Luca. “We finally convinced her to give up the bright lights of Hollywood for the police sirens of Brooklyn.”

“That's marvelous! I was going to offer you a room in Augusta Hall with the retired nuns.”

“Thank you, Sister. But I think I'll try Brooklyn.” Alda chuckled to herself. How funny that she might end up back in the convent, where she began. Alda wanted to be buried next to Luca when her time came. She would have no assurance of that unless she left California and returned to Brooklyn for good.

“Look!” Roxanne said, pointing outside through the glass doors of Moreau Hall.

The Chetta family and Sister Agnes moved to the doors and peered out. Beyond the glass, the first snow of the season fell in pinwheels of silver through the blue night.

After a moment, Alda pushed through the glass door and walked outside. Joe called out to her, but she didn't hear him.

“She'll catch her death out there,” Roxanne's mother said, following her out.

Roxanne stopped her. “She needs a moment, Ma.”

“Don't worry. Auntie is a tough cookie,” Joe assured them. “Northern Italians. They're part goat.”

Outside, Alda took a deep breath as the snowflakes touched her face in small, icy bursts.

The cold, dark night brought back the warmest of memories.

Alda remembered her first dive into the pool at Sunset House, and how the water felt like satin against her skin. She remembered her feet and how they felt the first time she slipped them into proper leather after having worn work boots all of her life. She remembered her infant son Michael in Padua, baby Patricia in her swaddling, and holding Judy on the train. She remembered Luca's promise that he would never leave her after he found out she couldn't have his children. She pictured her garden in the valley where she grew lush red
tomatoes in the California sun. But of all her memories, of all the flickers of the past that popped like camera flashes in the dark, most of all she remembered snow.

Alda recalled the majestic beauty of Washington State, the train station in Bellingham, the peaks of Mount Baker, and the broken-down old inn on the mountain. She saw Loretta laughing there in the barn as she made spaghetti, and Clark Gable in the drifts, wearing his ridiculous fur coat. She smiled when she recalled the dyspeptic look on Gable's face when she and Luca made their wedding vows.

Soon the Indiana sky opened up, and white glitter blew through the night and dusted the fields. Each dizzy snowflake found its way to the ground, where it rested and waited for the others. The world in Alda's sightline was pristine, wrapped in white velvet as if to hold it all together, to make it whole, maybe even perfect.

For the first time since he'd died, Alda felt her husband beside her. She missed Luca's kisses and the security she felt whenever he took her hand. She felt the anguish she'd experienced when they first fell in love, and the healing that would come later, when they were ready for it. She remembered the relief he felt when she forgave him, and the peace she knew when he forgave her. She recalled the scent of the fire pit on Mount Baker and how sweet the waffles and snow cream tasted when they were hungry. She would have paid attention to the sounds, the colors, and the light, if she had known that what once was so vivid would fade with time. If only she had known that those moments might last her whole life long, that they would live in her as surely as her own breath, she might have savored them, she might have tried to stop time.

Alda was certain that Luca had sent the snow and painted the world just for her.

She was grateful.

The flurry was a reminder of the love Luca and she had shared, the friendships they had made, and the work that had given their lives purpose and meaning. And when Alda was sad and she longed for Luca, she would remember the joy that filled their days, the serenity that filled their nights, in a place that belonged to them, and only to them, on a mountaintop covered in snow, in a time known as the golden age of Hollywood.

T
his novel is dedicated to Mary J. Farino an Italian-American girl, (1905–1985), my great aunt, a wonderful single mother of two sons, a machine operator in a blouse mill, an exceptional Italian cook, and a fan of movies made during the golden age of Hollywood. I wish I could take you back to her home on Garibaldi Avenue in Roseto, Pennsylvania. It was a work of art. She lived in the family homestead all of her life, a two-family red-brick house with a striped awning over a long front porch. When you entered, there was a hallway back to a bright kitchen where you would find Aunt Mary at the stove. The house was always pristine, every surface gleamed, and no matter how busy she might be, she found time to sit down for a cup of coffee and a chat on her sunporch.

Mary Farino was a small-town girl, but she liked to travel and she often took trips with my grandmother, Viola. She had a wicked sense of humor and an unflinching view of people and the world. Her manner of speaking came straight out of an Anita Loos script. She'd call a particular kind of a lady a
jezebel
, another a
dame
, a certain kind of gentleman a
duke
or a different type a
chiseler
and when I'd ask what those words meant, I'd get a lesson in the movies directed by Frank Capra or George Stevens or Preston Sturges. When I was a girl in the 1970s, we'd watch black-and-white movies on television that she had seen in the theater when they first ran in the 1930s and '40s. From her living room, Aunt Mary introduced me to the work of the players in this novel and set me on a path to aspire to write their style of snappy dialogue. Her passion for movies made during the golden age became mine. I thank her with great love.

Many minds, hearts, and hard work go into the publication of a novel.

I am deeply grateful to the brilliant team at HarperCollins, led by
Brian Murray and Michael Morrison, who support our efforts with gusto.

Jonathan Burnham, my editor and publisher, is the best in the business. He edits as he publishes, with wisdom, restraint, and humor. I adore him. Maya Ziv, Jonathan's excellent right arm, is magnificent. Thank you Jennifer Civiletto and Gina Forsythe for making all the necessary connections and quickly.

Our marketing and publicity teams are inventive, energetic, and tireless. Thank you Kathy Schneider, Tina Andreadis, Kate D'Esmond, Leah Wasielewski, Renata Marchione, Katie O'Callaghan, Jennifer Murphy, Mary Ann Petyak, and Tom Hopke Jr. Virginia Stanley is a treasure; she brings authors and libraries together like matches and firecrackers and has for over twenty years. Viva Virginia! Her superb team includes: Annie Mazes, Amanda Rountree, Louisa Hager.

The glorious artists who create the cover and interior art are Robin Bilardello, Joanne O'Neill, and Gregg Kulick. I am crazy for the gold stars on the cover art that look like the pastina my mother made for us when we were kids.

Our hardworking and delightful sales force includes Doug Jones, Mary Beth Thomas, Andrea Rosen, Kathryn Walker, Michael Morris, Kristin Bowers, Austin Tripp, Christy Johnson, Brian Grogan, Tobly McSmith, Lillie Walsh, Rachel Levenberg, Frank Albanese, David Wolfson, and Samantha Hagerbaumer. The great ladies of paperbacks are Amy Baker, Mary Sasso, and Kathryn Ratcliffe-Lee. We are grateful to our bookstores, online vendors, and libraries everywhere.

Our superb production team is Cindy Achar, John Jusino, Miranda Ottewell, Leah Carlson-Stanisic, and William Ruoto. In the audio department, Katie Ostrowka and Blair Brown delivered the stars in these particular heavens with audible dazzle.

At William Morris Endeavor, I am grateful to a team that works on two coasts with the precision of the gears of a Swiss watch—though I think not one is of Swiss descent, but many have visited—my thanks and love to the dynamic beauty Suzanne Gluck, Clio Seraphim, Kitty Dulin, Eve Attermann, Alicia Gordon, Sasha Elkin, Joey Brown, Tracy Fisher, Alli Dyer, Cathryn Summerhayes, and Siobhan O'Neill. In film and television, I am represented by my lifelong beautiful sister Nancy Josephson, her trusty Ellen Sushko, and the great minds of the film department led by Graham Taylor and including Michelle Bohan, Joanna Korshak,
Chris Slager, Liesl Copland, Alli Mcardle; when it comes to putting it all to music, Amos Newman and Lauren Danielak do the job. Thank you all.

At The Glory of Everything Company, my love and evermore thanks to the brilliant, beautiful, and forward-thinking Sarah Choi. Donielle Muransky stepped in between her own writing projects and jobs, saving the day and my sanity. Our interns and researchers were smart, funny, and hardworking, and are all on their way to superstardom: thank you Claire Zajdel, Hannah Drinkall, Annella Kaine, Maggie Kane, Sarabeth Bukowski, Lauren Weiger, Erin Cassidy, Olivia Olson, Arden Bastia, Elizabeth Kenney, Claire Bleecker, Monica Murphy, Michelle March, Jamise Stidham, Adeline Wilson, Jennifer Vosters, Daniela Cardinale, Samantha Rowe, and Jillian Fata.

Nancy Bolmeier Fisher is the executive director of The Origin Project, our in-school writing program in southwest Virginia that brings authors into the classroom to work with and inspire students to write their stories. In two years, Nancy has taken our program and grown it, serving hundreds of students with her energy, drive, and open heart. She's a miracle and I'm proud to be her sidekick.

In Movieland, my thanks and love to Donna Gigliotti, Richard Thompson, Bryna Melnick, Helen Rosenberg, Jean Morrissey, Wade Bradley, and the team at Altar Identity Studios who brought you
Big Stone Gap
; Matthew T. Weiner, Darren Bartlett, Antony Platt, Reynaldo Villalobos, Don Bixby, Christopher Passig, Ben Bolling, Andrew J.D. Hauser, and Joe Rudge.

I have engaged the infinite resources of the brilliant mind of Larry Sanitsky of the Sanitsky Company too many times to count; consider me grateful and greedy.

At Picturehouse, my gratitude to Jeanne and Bob Berney, Marlee Chizari and their excellent team, and to Brian McNelis and Lakeshore Entertainment.

John Leventhal is a dream to work with and a brother in all other ways. Thank you Laura Bermudez, Joseph Craig, Rita McClenny, Andy Edmunds, Reuben Rios, and Michael Pitt. The
Big Stone Gap
team at Random House includes the hardworking and fabulous Libby McGuire, Kim Hovey, Anne Speyer, Paolo Pepe, and Beth Pearson.

At Simon & Schuster UK, I am proud to be published by Ian Chapman and edited by Suzanne Baboneau.

Gina Casella of AT Escapes at Adriana Trigiani Tours is a force
of nature who continues to bring the novels to life around the world with magnificent tours in Italy, the UK and beyond, and here in New York City. Thank you Frank Dabell, Maria Perla, Emilia Grassi, Leonardo Marra, Ottavio Amendola, and Gabriele Massa; the memory of Costanzo Ruocco burns bright at Da Costanzo on Capri, now in Antonio's and Alvina's excellent care. Antonia Trigiani does a fabulous job with our merchandise, and Mary Trigiani of Spada Inc. is our brilliant media advisor.

My evermore gratitude and love to Chris and Ed Muransky, Hoda Kotb, Jennifer Miller, Kathie Lee Gifford, Christine Gardner, Kathy Ryan, Tony Krantz and Kristen Dornig, Jan Allison, Brian Balthazar, Julie Durk, Nigel Stoneman, Charles Fotheringham, Christine Onorati, Dona DeSanctis, Monique Gibson, Bunny Grossinger, Kathy McElyea, Mary Murphy and Bob Minzenmeizer, Liza Persky, Lou and Berta Pitt, Doris Gluck, Mary Pipino, Tom Dyja, Liz Travis, Eamonn McChrystal, Diane and Dr. Armand Rigaux, Dagmara Domincyzk and Patrick Wilson, Dan and Robin Napoli, Louise and Len Riggio, Sharon Ewing, Robin Kall, Eugenie Furniss, Jane Krakowski, Philip Grenz, Christina Geist, Joyce Sharkey, Jack Hodgins, Jake Morrissey, Gail Berman, Debra McGuire, Cate Magennis Wyatt, Ian and Ryan Fisher, Carol and Dominic Vechiarelli, Jim and Mary Deese Hampton, Jackie and Paul Wilson, Greg D'Alessandro, Mark Amato, Meryl Poster, Sister Robbie Pentecost.

Heather and Peter Rooney, Aaron Hill and Susan Fales-Hill, Mary K. and John Wilson, Jim and Kate Benton Doughan, Ruth Pomerance, Joanna Patton and Bill Persky, Angelina Fiordellisi and Matt Williams, Michael La Hart and F. Todd Johnson, Richard and Dana Kirshenbaum, Marisa Acocella Marchetto, Violetta Acocella, and Emma and Tony Cowell.

Hugh and Jody Friedman O 'Neill, Nelle Fortenberry, Cara Stein, Whoopi Goldberg, Tom Leonardis, Laura Monardo and Mario Natarelli, Rosalie Ciardullo, Dolores and Dr. Emil Pascarelli, Eleanor “Fitz” King and daughters Eileen, Ellen, and Patti, Sharon Hall and Todd Kessler, Aimee Bell, Rosanne Cash, Liz Welch Tirrell, Charles Randolph Wright, Constance Marks, Jasmine Guy, Mario Cantone and Jerry Dixon, Lee Boudreaux, Judy Rutledge, Greg and Tracy Kress, Father John Rausch, Judith Ivey, John Benjamin Hickey, Mary Ellen Keating.

Nancy Ringham Smith, Sharon Watroba Burns, Dee Emmerson, Elaine Martinelli, Kitty Martinelli (Vi and the girls), Sally Davies, Sister Karol Jackowski, Jane Cline Higgins, Betty Cline, Beth Vechiarelli
Cooper (my Youngstown boss), Max and Robyn Westler, Gina Vechiarelli (my Brooklyn boss), Barbara and Tom Sullivan, Brownie and Connie Polly, Silas House and Jason Howard.

Catherine Brennan, Karen Fink, Beáta and Steven (the Warrior) Baker, Todd Doughty and Randy Losapio, Craig Fissé, Anemone and Steve Kaplan, Christina Avis Krauss and her Sonny, Veronica Kilcullen, Lisa Rykoski, Tara Fogarty, Eleanor Jones, Mary Ellinger, and Iva Lou Johnson.

Thank you Michael Patrick King. I hope everyone has a friend like you whom they can call any hour of the day or night and read aloud any lousy paragraph, relay any wild scheme, pitch any insane idea, and have it received with the support, grace, and love you have shown to me over these many years. When the call goes to voicemail, I will know the jig is up.

Cynthia Rutledge Olson, Mary Testa, Wendy Luck, Elena Nachmanoff, and Dianne Festa, there aren't enough purses, jewels, or fancy shoes to fill your closets to express quite what you mean to me, but knowing you girls, you wouldn't want the stuff anyway, so thank you.

We remember Ray Oleson (Kathy's beloved) and J.T. Caruso (Barbara's beloved), and Edward Feeley (my sister-in-law Tina's father) fine fathers, good men, terribly missed.

Thank you Ann Godoff for opening the door to my literary career and a life in the world of books.

I remember my aunt and godmother Geraldine Beaumont Bonicelli. She was a gorgeous and elegant lady who will live in my heart always, as will my aunt Irma Bonicelli Godfrey, who was beautiful and kind, and my mother's most excellent sister.

Thank you Tim and Lucia, and our families, for everything.

There is no way to ever properly thank my mother Ida Bonicelli Trigiani for everything she is, for everything she has done, and for what she means to me. I am lucky to be her daughter.

If I may, one last story before you go. When I was a student at Saint Mary's College in South Bend, Indiana in 1981, Sister Agnes Eugenia, a nun in full habit paid me a visit. She handed me an envelope; inside was an eight by ten photograph of a boy in a straw hat. The inscription read:
Dear Sister Agnes Eugenia, Here I am, 4 years old. Mother said to please continue praying for us and our “Pa.” Big hugs.
It was signed by his mother for him,
John Clark
, and dated
1965
.

Sister Agnes had read a poem I had written about Clark Gable
published in the school literary magazine and had sent it to Kay Gable, Mr. Gable's widow and the mother of his son, John. Sister told me that Mrs. Gable had chuckled at the poem and was pleased that someone so young remembered her husband (not every girl had an Aunt Mary Farino!). Sister Agnes was getting on in years and wanted me to have the photograph. (No, I never asked Sister Agnes how she knew Mrs. Gable—the ignorance of youth!) I intended to meet Mrs. Gable someday, and promised Sister Agnes I would, but Mrs. Gable passed away in 1983 before we could meet. The photograph set me on the path to find out about the boy in the hat, his mother, and his father, which led me to the story you read herein, the stars I saw in these heavens, in my own particular way, out my own little window. This is the photograph that lit the spark that became this novel. Thank you, Sister Agnes Eugenia.