The Memoir of Johnny Devine (20 page)

Eliza had burned that poster the day Ralph
shipped out.

“
Disillusionment can
destroy our soul, if we let it,” Eliza said.

John nodded thoughtfully. “That’s good. I
wish I’d said it.”

“
Use it. I was only
rephrasing what you said.”

John smiled. “No, that was all you.”

His smile and the deep tone of his voice
sent her heart knocking. She tore her gaze away.

He rose and strolled across the room. “And
you’re absolutely right. I gave my disillusionment over to every
kind of destructive vice. I was cursed to follow the path of the
disenchanted, or so I believed. Sliding down a greased slope,
unable to stop until I hit bottom. Or oblivion, because I’d been
aiming for bottom so long I feared there was no end to it.”

“
Did you ever wonder about
God?”
And did He ever speak to you in a
strangely familiar voice when you were alone?

John nodded. “I did. Do
you remember that one of my first bit parts was in a silent picture
called
The Godless Girl
? The story was a romance between an atheist girl and a
Christian boy.” John huffed out a laugh. “Ironic, isn’t it? My
first introduction to God was during production of a fictional
screenplay. It got me wondering if there was a God, and if there
was, why He’d allowed things to turn out as they had. Why He took
good men from the world, like my dad and Will, and left a lug like
me to tramp around making a mess of things. I wasn’t interested in
a God whose logic made no sense.”

“
Which I suppose you later
discovered isn’t true.”

John shook his head. “No, His logic still
doesn’t always make sense. But I know without a doubt that His
logic is good and right, no matter how it feels to me. The Bible
says His ways are higher than my ways, His thoughts higher than
mine. And do you know what? I find great peace in that.”

Eliza studied him, confused by the many
God-ironies she kept discovering. Was God fickle? Was He
compassionate, as Christ had demonstrated, or was He a tyrant?
Because if there was one thing Eliza knew, submitting to a bully of
any kind was something she would never do again.

I
still don’t know if holding on to one’s last shred of pride
is admirable or just plain pathetic.

~
The Devine Truth: A Memoir

The lunch
meeting with Fred Wharton was set for Friday at
the Claremont Hotel, by far the ritziest place in town. As the
weekend drew near, Eliza found it harder to remain calm. Why did he
want to meet her? What sort of a man was Mr. Wharton? What would he
have to say to her?

And what would it be like to dine with John
in public?

Friday morning, she
again
read the story of
the adulterous woman. She still didn’t understand John’s blind
surrender to God. But a woman in need of redemption, hope, and
freedom—this, she understood.

She took out her navy suit
and dressed with more attention than usual
,
adding a splash of perfume and a
touch of lipstick. Perhaps red wasn’t too bold for a business
meeting. Of course, Betty wore red lipstick seven days a week and
insisted a woman’s lips were meant to be seen. Eliza wasn’t sure
she agreed.

She studied her reflection in the mirror,
then removed her glasses. Without them, she looked so much like her
mama. But though Mama was a kind, lovely woman, there had always
been a hint of sadness to her, constant but faint, like the steady
sound of a distant stream. Neither Eliza nor Betty had inherited
Mama’s subdued manner, but rather their papa’s lively one.

On second thought, she dug through her
wardrobe for her red scarf. She knotted it at her neck, added red
gloves and her red sweetheart handbag, then took another look at
herself. She smiled at the touches of color.

Eliza arrived at John’s house at the regular
time, even though the meeting wasn’t until noon. John was eager to
get as much writing done as possible. Thinking about the
approaching deadline tightened the knot in her stomach, but she
ignored it and headed for her desk.

John was seated by the fireplace, reading a
book. When she came in, he looked up and fell back against his
chair as if a gust of wind had pushed him.

“
Good morning,” Eliza
said.

His dark eyes studied her.

“
I wasn’t sure what I
should wear to the meeting.” But then, she could have asked Betty.
“Is this all right?”

His gaze roamed her outfit, then lingered on
her face. He quickly shifted his focus to the framed art on the
wall opposite the fireplace. “Yes. Millie isn’t feeling well and
took the day off, so I’ve asked Duncan to work inside today. I hope
that’s agreeable to you?”

Duncan? Oh. John still thought Eliza didn’t
trust him. How she longed to tell him not to worry, that she knew
what an honorable man he was. “It’s perfectly fine with me either
way.”

John nodded, still
studying the wall. Memorizing each picture, apparently. “Shall we
get started? We only have about an hour and a half before the cab
arrives. Or
cabs
,
that is. I’ve called for two.”

Eliza stared at him. Was he worried about
the propriety of traveling together? Or how it would look if they
went in and out of a hotel in the same cab?

That was it.

Her face warmed. “You want to safeguard your
new reputation. I understand.”

John returned to his book.
“It’s not
my
reputation that needs safeguarding,” he said, almost beneath
his breath.

The
Claremont Hotel stood long, tall, and bold against the wooded
hills overlooking the East Bay. A dazzling sight with its
multifaceted architecture and miles of decorative white trim, it
looked more like a sprawling, white castle than a hotel.

As her cab made the final ascent to the main
entrance, Eliza marveled at the grand structure, soaking it all in.
Cinderella couldn’t have been more enthralled upon seeing the
prince’s palace. This certainly wasn’t Eliza’s low-rent
neighborhood, favorite haunt of spinster writers and stray
tomcats.

She entered the lobby, struck instantly by
the polished, dark wood floors and thick, round pillars that
spanned from floor to lofty ceiling, gleaming white trunks in
contrast to the rich moss-green-and-merlot-colored wallpaper.

John met her at the base
of a broad staircase. As he escorted her up, she could just imagine
what Betty would say if she knew Eliza was dining here. One lunch
at a place like this would probably cost more than an entire month
of lunches at Lucky’s.
With
tips.

In the red-velvet dining
room, a host wearing crisp white tails and a bow tie escorted John
and Eliza to a round table where a stout bald man was
seated
.

He stood as they approached, then shook
John’s hand.

“
Fred,” John said, “I’d
like you to meet Mrs. Saunderson, author, and collaborator of my
book. Mrs. Saunderson, this is Fred Wharton, Senior Editor and
soon-to-be Publisher of Covenant Press Publishing.”

Fred took her hand. “Good heavens, Johnny
makes me sound like some kind of potentate.” His jowly face
stretched into a beaming smile. “How do you do?”

“
Very well, Mr. Wharton,
thank you.”

“
Please, call me Fred.
Thank you for joining our meeting. Although I must say you
certainly don’t fit in
here
.” He pulled out a chair for
her.

Eliza slid onto the seat,
stung by his comment. Surely he was teasing. Even if someone
thought
she didn’t
belong at the Claremont with celebrities and publishing executives,
who would actually say it aloud?

Fred gave her chair a polite push and then
took his seat.

Eliza fanned her cheeks and glanced across
the table at John.

He opened his mouth but hesitated, then
turned to his editor. “I wonder, Fred, if you could explain. I’m
afraid Mrs. Saunderson may have missed the meaning of your …
compliment.”

“
What? Oh, so sorry. I
only meant you’ve just brightened up this stuffy room like a fresh
bouquet, and then you choose to sit with a couple of drab, old
duffers like us.”

John looked down to unfold his napkin, a
faint smile emerging.

“
Oh. Thank you.” Eliza
willed her nerves to relax. “But if you two are drab, old duffers,
then I’m the Queen of Sheba.”

Fred laughed and winked at
John. “Smart
and
diplomatic.”

After placing their orders, the three of
them made polite, easy small talk over the sparkling strains of
jazz playing nearby and the hum of dining conversation. A lively
trombone solo stood out above the chatter.

John cocked his head as if listening
carefully. “Is that who I think it is?” he asked.

Fred closed his eyes. “I believe that is
none other than Tommy Dorsey, the Sentimental Gentleman of
Swing.”

Eliza used to listen to the Dorsey Brothers
on the radio whenever she could. She smiled, tapping her toes to
the rhythm. “Too bad Tommy and his brother don’t perform together
anymore. I always hoped they’d work it out and play together
again.”

Fred shook his head. “It’s really a shame.
If brothers can’t get along, then who can?”

John nodded slowly, but by the way the glint
in his eyes faded, his thoughts were far away. Perhaps on a
different pair of brothers, many years ago.

She didn’t realize how hungry she was until
the waiter placed a golden chicken à la king in front of her. As
the guest at this meeting, she waited for her host’s cue.

Fred thanked the waiter and inhaled the
ribbons of steam rising from a dish of beef bourguignon, then bowed
his bald head, eyes closed, and began to pray.

John closed his eyes.

Eliza did the same,
offering God the only thing she had—her ever-increasing
questions.
God, did that woman in the
Bible ‘go and sin no more’? How is it that Christ showed her such
love, and yet You want people to submit to You? I’ve known tyranny,
and there was nothing loving about it. Can You really change
people, like You did John Vincent? If You changed him, can You
remove the anger from my heart? And remove feelings I have no
business feeling for a man who sees me as a bookish nobody, who
probably still cares for someone from his own world who is so much
more—

An odd silence enveloped her.

Eliza opened her eyes.

Fred and John seemed to be patiently waiting
for her.

“
Oh. I’m sorry,” she said,
cheeks burning. “I’m … new at this.”

John tilted his head and studied her.

“
No need to apologize, my
dear.” Fred’s voice boomed across the dining room. He looked at his
plate with a happy sigh and started shoveling meat and noodles into
his mouth with more enthusiasm than she’d seen in a long time.
Apparently New York publishing houses never fed their
editors.

Loud whispers and giggling in the far corner
of the dining room drew Eliza’s attention.

When John turned to see where the sound was
coming from, the giggles turned to muffled squeals. He turned away
quickly, but it was too late. He shot a pained glance at Fred.

“
Sorry, Johnny,” Fred
said. He wiped his mouth. “I hoped that, by choosing the Claremont,
we’d avoid this sort of thing.”

Eliza watched from the corner of her eye as
two middle-aged women approached the table.

They jostled one another, nearly knocking
each other down to reach the table first, and then stopped beside
John.

He acknowledged them with a polite nod. “How
do you do?”

At the sound of his voice, the taller one
went rigid, her eyes instantly round, while the red-faced one
fanned herself with a gloved hand and let out another giggle. “Oh,
Helen,” she said, never taking her eyes from John. “He’s even more
handsome in person!”

Helen only nodded, still wide-eyed.

Fred rested his arms across his ample belly
and watched John, making little attempt to hide his amusement.

Still fanning herself, the giggly one leaned
closer. “Would you be so kind—?”

“
It would be my pleasure,”
John said. “Do you have something I could write on?”

“
Oh!” The women gasped at
each other and fumbled in their handbags.