The Blue Bottle Club (19 page)

"Whitman," he corrected. "My friends call me Whit." One hand reached out and captured hers. "And I would be deeply honored if you would consider me a friend."

"Why are you here?" Adora blurted out. She was intensely conscious of his fingers stroking hers, but she couldn't have drawn her hand back if her life had depended upon it.

"I'm here," he rumbled, "because I saw that the most beautiful woman at the party was sitting unescorted at the bar."

"No, I mean, what are you doing at the party?" Suddenly his words registered, and she faltered. "Beautiful? You think I'm beautiful?"

"I think you are the most exquisite creature I have ever seen. Hollywood is a town filled with beauties, but you, my dear, outshine them all." He smiled into her eyes. "As to why I'm here, at this party? Why, I think I was destined for it—just to meet you." He gave a low chuckle. "Besides, I really had no choice. This is my home. My party. It would have been rude of me not to be here."

Panic swept over Adora, and her heart sank. His house. His party. If she had been an invited guest, she would have recognized him. For all his flattering words, he had found her out. She was sure to be ejected on the spot. She just hoped he'd do it quietly, with a minimum of uproar. Maybe she could still salvage a little of her pride, avoid being seen—

"Clearly, you don't know who I am," he was saying, still with that infuriating smile playing about his lips. Why didn't he just throw her out and be done with it? But no, he seemed determined to toy with her like a cat with a baby bird.

"Forgive me, Mr. Hughes. My friends brought me; I don't know why I came. Maybe it was just for the food—a girl has to eat, after all. I'll leave right now, before—"

"Hold on!" He fastened a hand on her arm. "Who said anything about leaving?"

"But-but—" she stammered. "It's clear I don't belong here, and I'm sorry for crashing your party, and—"

"I don't care about that!" he snapped. "I've never seen half these people, and the other half are only here because they think they might get on my good side." He peered at her. "Are you really hungry?"

"I was," Adora murmured. Despite herself, she liked him. Maybe he wasn't going to throw her out after all. "But your buffet was very good." She opened her handbag and peeled back the edges of a linen napkin to reveal several croissants and a selection of canapes. "I—I took a few for later."

Whitman Hughes nearly fell off the bar stool laughing. He laughed until his handsome face turned red and his breathing came in short, shallow gasps. At last he righted himself, swiped the tears from his eyes, and took her hand. "Let's go inside, my dear," he said. "I think we need to have ourselves a private little talk."

For all Adora's experience with the social elite in western North Carolina, nothing she had ever seen, except perhaps the Biltmore, came close to Whitman Hughes's house. It was a low-slung, white stucco ranch home that seemed to go on forever. The kitchen rivaled anything she could have imagined in the finest restaurant, and on the back side of the house, far away from the outdoor swimming pool and the tennis courts and the incessant chatter of party guests, was a second indoor pool, flanked by bubbling fountains and palm trees. There they sat, at a small table adjacent to a statue of Neptune, and sipped orange juice from champagne flutes.

Whitman Hughes, Adora discovered, was a producer of some reputation in Hollywood. He had gotten in on the ground floor of the talkies and made a fortune when most of his colleagues were still debating about whether or not the idea of talking pictures was feasible. Now he was exploring another radical idea—a concept called Technicolor, which would bring the movies to life in a way that no one had ever seen before. George Eastman had first introduced color film a couple of years ago in New York, he said. It would take years to perfect it, but this process would bring lifelike color to the silver screen and would have an even greater impact on the industry than the death of silent films.

"I'm backing a new project right now that's about to go into production," he said. "It'll be bigger than
Broadway Melody."
He leaned forward and gave her a wink. "Even bigger than Mickey Mouse."

Adora sipped her juice and nodded. How on earth had she gotten here, sitting poolside with a great Hollywood producer—and a handsome one, at that?

"I only have one question for you, Adora Archer," he went on. "How much do you really want to be a star?"

Adora inhaled suddenly and sucked orange juice into her lungs. She began to cough uncontrollably until he got up and pounded on her back. At last she caught her breath. "What did you say?"

"I asked how committed you were to being an actress. And not just an actress, mind you—a
star.
A constellation in Hollywood's firmament."

"Of course I want it. That's why I came here."

"Are you willing to work hard—and do exactly what I tell you to do?"

"What are you saying, Mr.—ah, Whit?"

"I'm saying that if you want it, it's yours. The brass ring, the dream. The whole thing. Provided, of course, that you are as talented as you are beautiful."

"You're offering me a job?"

"Not a job." He shook his head. "The chance of a lifetime."

"What do I have to do?"

Whit laughed. "You have to be an actress, of course. You have to learn lines, follow directions. You have to put yourself aside and become the role. Can you do that?"

"I—I think so."

"No, don't think. Be positive, confident. Say, 'Yes, I can do it.'"

"Yes, I can do it," Adora repeated.

Whit got up and began to pace around the pool. "You'll be magnificent!

With that face, that voice—ah, the world will be at your feet. You will be my greatest discovery, my—" He leaned down and gave her a kiss on the cheek. "My creation!"

He looked at his watch. "It's nearly six. Are you hungry?" Without waiting for an answer, he snapped his fingers and a white-gloved waiter appeared. "Put some dinner together for the two of us, Yates. A little pate, some of that cold chicken—" He paused and looked at Adora. "Do you like caviar?" She shrugged. "All right, it's time you learned to like it. Caviar, Yates. And champagne on ice."

"Oh, no," Adora protested, "I don't drink."

He cut a glance at her. "Please tell me I'm not going to get a speech about Prohibition."

"No, of—of course not," she stammered. "I just—"

"You'll love it. Guaranteed." He waved Yates away. "Now, let's get to work."

"Work? Now? Here?"

"No time like the present." Whit took her hand and led her back inside, to the den, where a large leather sofa faced the fireplace. He settled her in one corner of the couch and started pacing again. "The first thing we have to do is decide on your name."

"What's wrong with my name?"

"Not your first name. I love that—Adora. Sounds very sensual, very romantic. But we need a last name to complement it. Something equally romantic. Adora Love. No, that's too obvious. Adora Loveless. Nope. Sounds like a jilted bride. Adora . . . Adora . . .
Lovell
Perfect!" He slid to the sofa next to her and brought his face up close to hers. "Adora Lovell. What do you think?"

To be honest, Adora thought Archer was a perfectly good name, but she didn't say so. Besides, given her fathers disapproval of what she was doing, it might be better if she kept the Archer name out of it. It wasn't hiding, really. It wasn't deceptive. It was just. . . well, just the way things were in Hollywood.

"All right," she said.

"I knew you'd go for it."

Dinner arrived—an enormous spread of cold roasted chicken, pate, caviar, and fruit. Adora didn't like the caviar at all, but ate it anyway just to please her new benefactor. The rest of it, including the pate, was delicious. Whit mixed champagne into her orange juice to make what he called a mimosa, and she didn't even notice the champagne. By the time dinner was finished and the evening was over, she was growing accustomed to the taste of the champagne all by itself. The bubbles tickled her nose and created a wonderful fizzy warmth going down. She had to admit to a bit of lightheadedness, but surely that was from the excitement of the day, not the alcohol.

"Let's go out to the pool," he said when the last of the champagne was gone. "I have a surprise for you."

She followed him through the house and out to the patio, where guests were still milling around the bar and stuffing themselves at the buffet table. No one even seemed to notice that their host had been gone for hours.

"Attention, everyone!" Whit called out. He picked up a spoon and rapped it on the edge of a glass, and the crowd settled down. "I'd like to introduce all of you to my newest discovery, the young woman who, when my next picture is released, will be hailed as a genuine sensation. Ladies and gentlemen"—he pushed her forward—"may I present Hollywood's newest star, the most astonishing new actress ever to burst upon the scene. Miss Adora Lovell!"

Applause rippled through the crowd, and then, as if on command, a rocket launched from somewhere behind the trees, and a dazzling display of fireworks began. Whit ushered her to one of the deck chairs and drew his own chair up beside her. As the crowd oohed and aahed over the fireworks, he placed an arm around her and drew her close.

"When the fireworks are over, I'll send a car around to take you home," he whispered. "Then my driver will pick you up at seven in the morning." He nuzzled her neck and planted a fervent kiss on her ear. "You won't disappoint me, will you, Adora? I've got a lot riding on this. And so do you."

Somewhere in the depths of her champagne-fuzzed brain, a faint warning bell went off. The words sounded almost like a threat. But of course she must be wrong. Whit believed in her talent, enough to make her a star. This was her dream come true, the miracle she had hoped for, the big break most young actors never got.

It didn't matter that he had never seen her act. She would prove herself to him, prove that he hadn't made a mistake.

No matter what the cost.

19

TRUE LOVE

August 1, 1930

L
isten, Addie," Whitman Hughes said for the fifth time that evening, "just consider it. Promise me that you'll think about it."

Adora looked into his eyes, illuminated to a rich glow by the candle that sat between them on the table. He seemed so sincere, so completely open and honest with her. He genuinely did want her—and it was a feeling that was almost irresistible.

But you've known the man for barely a month,
her mind protested. Her heart, however, sang a different refrain:
He is so gentle, so sweet. He only wants
what's best for you . . .

"I really want you to move in with me," Whit was saying. "It just makes sense. I hate to bring this up, Addie, but your money is almost gone—you told me so yourself. And your income from the movie part won't start coming in for several months yet."

"I just don't know, Whit. It seems so—so sudden."

"Things happen fast in Tinsel Town, sweetheart." He winked at her and reached for her hand. "I fell in love with you the first night we met. You were so green that you didn't even know who I was."

"I know," she hedged. She had fallen in love with him too, but she had resisted admitting it to herself, much less to him. Now that she had finally said the words, her relationship with Whit was gathering speed like a runaway train.

"This house is plenty big enough for both of us," he went on. "Big enough for a whole family of squatters, in fact, with room to spare. And you're here most of the time anyway."

It was true. Adora already spent nearly every day and most of her evenings here, working with Whit on the part and socializing with him after the workday was over. Her friends at Miss Mcllwain's were green with envy over her big break and begged her to put in a good word for them with the famous producer.

"I—" Adora paused. How could she communicate to this sophisticated, worldly man her unsophisticated, unworldly hesitations? She thought she had left all that behind when she got on the bus bound for California. But apparently a lot of it had stuck in the crevices of her mind like spring pollen—her father's frowning disapproval not only of his daughter's dreams but of her very self, the haughty aristocratic air her mother wore like a protective shield, the unspoken
thou shalt nots
that formed the core of her life before her liberation.

Whitman had carefully skirted any discussion of physical intimacy between the two of them, had avoided talking about sleeping arrangements once she moved into the house, but Adora wasn't naive enough to believe the subject would stay buried. Their relationship had become increasingly physical over the past couple of weeks, and Adora had to admit that she hadn't done much to resist his advances. The fact was, she loved it when he touched her. She welcomed his kisses and caresses as a desert dweller welcomes the rain. His expressions of love fell on a dry and thirsty soul, and she absorbed his affection with joy and abandon. She knew well enough what would happen if she moved into the house with him.