The Memoir of Johnny Devine (4 page)

She stiffened. Of course,
this was a man whose good looks, breathtaking smile, and smooth
charm had gotten him anything and anyone he wanted. However,
she
wouldn’t be duped by
a sweet-talking liar, no matter how handsome. She’d learned that
lesson all too well, thanks to Ralph. “I have extensive editing
experience and am confident I can do the work.”

“
Tell me about your
qualifications,” Johnny said, his deep voice
businesslike.

“
I have a bachelor’s
degree in English.” Eliza resisted the urge to lift her chin.
Though she’d worked hard to earn it, the degree had done her little
good. “With a minor in Journalism.”

Wincing, Johnny Devine shifted slightly in
his seat. “Impressive. And your experience?”

“
During the war, I worked
in the steno pool at McClellan Air Force Base. Since then, I’ve
worked as a freelance editor, writer, typist, and stenographer.”
Not steadily enough to make a decent living, but that wasn’t any of
his business. Those good-paying base jobs had been given to men
returning after the war, leaving Eliza, and many women like her,
jobless.

“
Excellent,” Johnny said.
“Do you have any questions for me?”

“
Yes.” Why hadn’t she
inherited Papa’s forthright-sounding voice like Betty had instead
of Mama’s soft tone? She sat up straighter to bolster her nerve.
“Do you intend for us to work alone?”

He frowned. “Alone?” But just as quickly as
it appeared, his frown dissolved. He turned and stared out the
window, his lips pressed tight. “No. I should have mentioned that
at the start. Millie is here every day of the week. And my
handyman, Duncan McBride, lives on the property, so he’s always
around.”

Millie chuckled. “Well, where else he gonna
go? That ol’ leprechaun older than me.”

Swell. Two ancient domestic workers were
Eliza’s only guarantee against unwanted attentions. But at least
their presence meant she and Mr. Devilishly Devine wouldn’t be
completely alone. And she’d be nuts to pass up the money. Betty
would sermonize about the man’s reputation, but Eliza was a grown
woman. She could manage the consequences of her own decisions just
fine.

Johnny’s gaze was on the hooked rug at his
feet and would not meet hers.

She had better not regret this. “Very well,
I would like to be considered for the job. But if you intend to
hire me, I need to make one thing clear.”

“
And that is?” Johnny
asked.

Eliza forced her voice steady, because what
she was about to say stretched every one of her nerves taut. “Any
funny business and I quit. On the spot.”

Millie’s face bunched up
in confusion. “
Funny
business? What in the world kinda—”

“
It’s all right, Millie,”
Johnny said quietly.

Eliza lifted her chin and waited, heart
racing.

“
You will not be insulted
in this house,” he said. “You have my word.”

She studied him, heart hammering. “Your
word?”

“
Yes.” Slowly, Johnny
Devine looked up and met her eyes. “Though it may be of little
worth to you, I am a man of my word.”

For now, she had
no choice but to take him at that
word.

For whatever it was worth.

1940 was a record-breaking
year in
many ways. That year, I put more
film in the can and received more awards and nominations than ever
before. The line of starlets at my door was longer than Gable’s.
And the number of times I got so blind drunk I couldn’t tell you my
name also reached a record high.

~
The Devine Truth: A Memoir

After rising earlier than
usual but
later than planned, Eliza
dressed quickly, gulped down two cups of the blackest coffee, and
made it to the corner bus stop just as the bus was pulling in,
stirring leaves like yellow confetti in its wake. She thanked her
lucky stars as she boarded. Being late the first day of her new job
would have been disastrous.

Her window seat offered a distant view of
the Golden Gate, the flurry of city traffic, and students milling
around the Berkeley campus, things Eliza could normally watch for
hours. But today, the city and all its buzz was just a passing
blur. Her thoughts were on yesterday’s interview, her mind reliving
every word of it to be sure she hadn’t dreamt it. After being in
such an enchanting home, who wouldn’t suspect it had only been a
dream?

But she
had
gotten the job, and
though such an amazing opportunity was too good not to be shared,
she couldn’t tell Betty—not yet, anyway. Eliza wasn’t ready for her
sister’s well-meant meddling, at least not until she had socked
some money away. And even if it hadn’t been a condition of
employment, she wasn’t about to tell the girls from the steno pool
or her old classmates that she was working for Johnny Devine, the
movie star. She didn’t dare risk losing the job by drawing a
squealing mob of swooning fans.

When Millie opened the door, Eliza greeted
her with a calm smile. “Hello, Millie. Lovely day, isn’t it?”

The old woman gave Eliza’s shin-length navy
skirt, white blouse, and coral scarf a once-over. “Yes, ma’am,” she
said, peering at Eliza with the same scrutinizing look she’d given
her the day before. With a nod of approval, Millie motioned her
inside.

Eliza reminded herself to breathe. No matter
what sort of man Johnny was, she couldn’t help but feel awed by the
celebrity. She surveyed the front room but saw no sign of him.

Millie took Eliza’s pillbox hat and handbag,
then shuffled toward the library. “Mr. John say to tell you he
workin’ in the dinin’ room. If you was to have need of him.”

Eliza exhaled her relief and followed
Millie.

In the library, a small Queen Anne desk and
shiny new Smith-Corona typewriter faced the front window, offering
her a charming view of the grounds, as well as the city and bay
beyond. Perhaps seeing the view as she worked would help keep her
imagination from wandering.

The opening chapters of the memoir were
stacked neatly to the left of the typewriter, a ream of clean,
white paper to the right.

Eliza sat down and picked up the first page
of the original draft. Blue marks from an editor’s pencil covered
so much of the sheet that there was little white space left.

Someone had already begun retyping the
manuscript. Apparently Eliza’s red-faced predecessor had typed the
first page before losing her wits. But did her breakdown have
something to do with his story, or was it from being in too close
proximity to the movie star?

Ignoring the twisty feeling in her belly,
Eliza read the typed preface.

To you, my friend: My sole aim in writing
this book is to take you to a place that I pray will, in spite of
much ugliness along the way, give you a sense of great hope. This
is not an autobiography, though I will share a great deal of my
life. If you are expecting Hollywood gossip, you will be
disappointed. This book is not an insider’s scoop, but a
confessional. With a purpose. To be honest, I don’t relish the idea
of traveling back through my life and reliving it. But if doing so
will help one person discover what I have found, I will gladly make
the journey. I hope you’ll stay with me to the end.

And to You, Gracious Father: I thank You for
Your endless patience with me. For Your forgiveness, Your help, and
Your mercy—Your unbelievable mercy. The only story worth telling is
how You changed my life. Without You, I have no story. For Your
sake, and for the sake of those without hope, please help me tell
it well.

Baffled, Eliza reread the page, trying to
make sense of it. This was not the book anyone would expect from a
man like Johnny Devine. But then, her job wasn’t to speculate about
the book or its author—it was simply to type it.

Determined to make herself indispensable,
she went straight to work. To her surprise, the book began abruptly
with a dark, sobering look at his life at the height of his career
around 1940—an odd place to begin if he was planning to cover most
of his life. Surely his childhood was the logical place to
start.

She read over the editor’s marks in the main
manuscript, then began the task of retyping the text, noting
editorial suggestions and making grammatical changes as she went.
But she found phrases that should have been included earlier,
requiring her to start over. She slowed her pace and read ahead,
making revision notes before she typed. Pencil between her teeth,
she read on, typed a little more, then stopped again.

The text needed a transition.

Sunlight poured over the typewriter, warming
the gleaming metal. She pressed on.

Pulling out a finished page, Eliza checked
the mantel clock. A full hour had passed, and all she had to show
for her work was two measly pages. The rising tingle in her spine
reminded her that what she accomplished her first day was critical,
especially after what had happened to the other woman. Two pages an
hour was simply unacceptable. There were plenty of girls ready to
snap up this job in a heartbeat.

Eliza willed her nerves to stay calm. Even
ten years after Ralph’s death, she still expected to be blamed when
anything went wrong. Words could be like nails driven so deeply
into the soul that, even when removed, they left a lasting
hole.

She looked over the manuscript again with a
critical eye. No. It wasn’t her fault, but that of the writing. It
alternated between eloquent and incoherent. Sometimes, in spite of
the awkward grammar, his writing had a naturally rhythmic,
conversational flow, as if he were telling a story directly to
Eliza. But other times, the writing was flat or redundant, the
thoughts rambling and incomplete.

The tick of the clock marked the passing
seconds. She pressed on, determined to fix each line, one by one,
if that was what it took. Yet halfway through the third page, Eliza
stopped, baffled. She read and reread the page. What was Johnny
trying to say? Even his editor had left a giant, blue question mark
in the margin, so Eliza wasn’t the only one unable to make sense of
it.

She had no choice but to ask him to
clarify.

She took the page and went
out of the library, then stopped. Where exactly
was
the dining room?

The front sitting room opened into another
room at the other end of the lower level, and to her right was a
spiral staircase. Beyond that, a long hallway led toward the rear
of the house.

She chose the hallway. The click of her
heels echoed like a roomful of clocks, probably alerting every
neighbor and stray cat of her movements. A good thing, since she
could probably get lost in this house.

The hall led to a white kitchen with a long
row of windows that drew in sunlight through small square panes,
casting a patchwork of light on the wall. Millie was drying a
mixing bowl, her attention trained on a television set perched on a
rolling cart.

“
Luuuuuuu-cy!
” Ricky Ricardo’s voice
thundered. Laughter roared from the TV.

“
Lord, have mercy,” Millie
said, shaking her head. “She gone and done it again, fool woman.”
Millie turned around, saw Eliza, and shook her head again. “The
more lies you tell, the more lies you gots to tell to keep it all
afloat.” She hung the dishtowel on a bar. “I tell my grandchildren
the same thing my granddaddy tell me. A lie come back on you like a
whip. Maybe not today, maybe not till Judgment Day, but sooner or
later, a lie come back and sting you, every time.”

The idea of Millie’s grandfather making
reference to a whip sent a shudder through Eliza. No doubt he’d
experienced such ghastly treatment firsthand.

Millie removed a pan of something golden and
bubbling from the oven. The rich, sweet scent of apples, sugar, and
spices filled the kitchen, rousing Eliza’s hunger. Whatever it was,
it smelled heavenly. A deep growl rumbled from her insides.

Millie turned around and gave her a squinty
look, head cocked to one side as if she was searching for the
source of the ominous sound.

“
Can you tell me where I
can find Mr. Devine?” Eliza held up the sheet of manuscript as
proof of her mission and resisted the urge to fan her burning
cheeks with it.

“
Mr. John? Yes, ma’am.
Follow me.” Millie set the pan down on the stove and led Eliza back
along the hallway. They turned and went into the sitting room, then
through a doorway and to their left into a dining room.

Dozens of handwritten pages covered one end
of the table like leaves scattered by the wind. Tall-backed
mahogany chairs surrounded the table. A large window offered a
lovely view of the weeping willows that obscured the lower part of
the driveway and front gate, the tree branches rippling like long
hair in a gentle breeze.

Johnny Devine stood at the window with his
back to her.

Eliza cleared her throat. “Mr. Devine?”

Johnny turned with a jolt. “Sorry, I didn’t
hear you come in. And please, call me John.”

A prickle of unease gave her pause. First
names made things decidedly personal. Most employers would not
suggest it.

“
If you don’t mind, that
is.”

“
Of course not,” she lied.
She wasn’t about to call him by his first name. “I saw the name
‘Vincent’ on the front gate. Was that a previous owner, or perhaps
an alias? Or—I’m sorry, I’m being nosy.”

“
Not at all. This was my
grandparents’ home. My given name is John David Vincent. I prefer
not to use the stage name unless I have to.”