“Are you married?”
Nathan laughed aloud. “No, but she’s going to be a big star. No one will think I deserve her.”
“Because you’re her boss?”
“So, you do know who I am.” Nathan turned to Kitty. “Smart kid.” He produced his wallet. “I’ll pay you for that film.”
“Those were the last shots on the roll.”
Nathan lowered his chin to meet the boy’s eyes, judging his sincerity. “Come by the studio next week.” Nathan handed him some cash. “I’ll give you more when you bring the photos. Get yourself something to eat and get home. Don’t you have school tomorrow?”
The boy didn’t answer; he was busy counting the bills. It was about fifty dollars.
“Come by next week,” Nathan said. “Remember, I’ll give you more—and an assignment.”
Grinning, the boy went to shake his hand. “Thank you, sir.”
Nathan handed him a business card. “Early next week. And not a word of this to anyone—do you understand? Or the deal is off.”
The boy waved and trotted off into the night.
“That was nice of you,” Kitty said, taking Nathan’s arm to his limo.
“People just want a chance. I’m willing to help anyone bold enough to go after what they want. He’s out on a school night, snapping photos with an old camera from the pawnshop—he’s obviously interested in photography. We’ll see if he’s any good.”
“I love you.”
He pulled her to him by the waist. “Baby, I’ve loved you since the moment I saw you.”
Kitty awoke the next morning in Nathan’s bed to reviews that would solidify her star status. Critics praised her rare balance of comedic and dramatic talent, and for months after the premiere, fans lined the sidewalk of the studio for the chance at a sighting of Kitty Karr. Her image was plastered all over town and in papers all over the country; she imagined her mother had clipped out a picture. Photographers stalked her every time she left the lot. As solace for the loss of her privacy, now she got the best of everything for free: food, clothes, purses, art, and beauty treatments.
Her movie posters lingered into her second LA holiday season. After a few days of enjoying her face being bigger than Santa’s, she was painted over. The city was ready for the next thing.
CHAPTER 28
Kitty
Winter 1956
Emma’s maid called a week before Christmas to invite Kitty over for the weekend. Kitty accepted without hesitation, though the two hadn’t spoken since the spring. Kitty sent an invitation to the premiere, but when Emma never called to say she couldn’t make it, or sent flowers in regret or even a note of congratulations, Kitty suspected that her silence, along with quitting her job, was an attempt to sever ties. Or she’d grown envious, like others at the studio—except Lucy—who never spoke to her anymore.
The invitation felt like an olive branch. Perhaps Emma had been adjusting to marriage. Kitty had been busy, too, and decided to forgive Emma, rationalizing that she hadn’t reached out either.
* * *
Emma’s Pasadena home had a large yard and a redbrick pathway that led to the front door, where a large brass lion’s head was mounted. An older Negro maid opened the door. “Good day, Miss Karr.”
Kitty picked up her bag before the woman could. “Good day. I’ll take this to my room, if you’ll show me.”
The house was old but palatial. The hardwood floors creaked with every step but gleamed, as did every wooden surface, including the backs of the dining-room chairs. Floral wallpaper, even on the ceilings, made the rooms feel small but pretty, with bouquets of fresh flowers decorating the tops of most surfaces.
The maid had to put both feet on a step before ascending to the next. Kitty wondered how she managed the household chores. “Is it just you?”
“Mostly.”
“Where’s Mr. Denman this weekend?”
“Out of town.” She was tight-lipped and kept checking the doorknobs in the hallway. The fifth one opened, revealing a montage to yellow tulips.
The maid transported a vase of yellow roses from the dresser to the nightstand in front of the window. “Brought these in from the garden.”
“Very pretty; thank you.”
“You hungry?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Kitty said.
“Abigail, Miss Kitty.”
Kitty felt uncomfortable telling the older woman not to call her “Miss.”
“I’ll let Mrs. Denman know you’re here,” Abigail said. Out of the window, Kitty saw Emma reading in a lounge chair by the expansive but shallow pool.
“That won’t be necessary,” Kitty said, watching Emma reach for the glass by her chair and take a long sip. “I’ll join her shortly.”
* * *
Hearing the kitchen door creak to open and slam shut, Emma yelled over her shoulder for another drink.
“It’s me,” Kitty said.
Emma’s face was flushed and slick. “What are you doing here?”
“You invited me for the weekend.”
She looked puzzled for a second and then said, “I guess Rick thought I could use some company. He’s gone until Monday.”
Kitty gestured to the Jet magazine in her hands.
“These are Abigail’s,” Emma protested. “She leaves them all over the house. Even Rick picks them up sometimes.” Emma reached for the silver cigarette case on the grass, revealing an alarming view of her bony back. Emma’s appetite had never been robust but her body now looked as though she had eliminated solids.
“How have you been?” Kitty asked.
Emma fumbled to light the cigarette dangling from her lips. “Bored.” She seemed irritated she had to say it, as if Kitty should have known.
She changed the conversation, holding it captive to the perils of making the house a home. She wanted the remodel to move faster, complaining about how much she had to do to make Rick’s Pasadena mansion feel as if it was half hers. “That nasty floral wallpaper, the old furniture—everything was decorated by his late wife. I hate living inside her fantasy.”
“The wallpaper is overwhelming,” Kitty said, with little patience for her mood. Emma had everything she wanted, including a nonjudgmental live-in maid who kept her drinks coming. She seemed committed to her own doom.
Emma might have been truly bothered by his ex-wife’s presence but her tone, laced in pretension, made Kitty roll her eyes with both irritation and amusement. Anyone who even remotely knew Emma knew that her only goal in life was to be a wife. To keep peace, though, Kitty extended the sympathy she was after: “You poor thing.”
“They were only married for five years. She’s dead, and still, her presence is like a stain.” Emma threw the ice from her cup onto the cement and yelled toward the house again. “Abigail! Another drink, please!”
“How about eating?”
“Abigail!” Emma yelled louder this time.
Hearing the kitchen door creak open, Kitty watched Abigail struggle over. She tried to hurry, but her shoes kept slipping off her heels.
“Sorry, ma’am; the radio was on. What can I get you?”
Emma glared over her shades. “Did you invite Kitty here?”
“By request of Mr. Denman; yes, ma’am.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I thought he did, ma’am.”
Emma rolled her eyes to say she thought she was lying. “Can we get ham sandwiches, deviled eggs, and two drinks—the vodka with lemonade? Do we have any made?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Would you bring two waters, too, please, Abigail?” Kitty asked.
As soon as Abigail was out of earshot, Kitty scolded Emma. “She’s too old to be running back and forth serving you.”
Emma sighed in justification. “Abigail’s been taking care of Rick since he was a little boy. She lives here, and he pays her very well. He paid for both of her children to go to college.”
“Your doing?”
“No, that was all before he met me. Her children are grown. He’s a good person, Kitty, and he loves her.”
“I never said Rick was bad.”
“Considering the crowd you’ve cozied to, I didn’t think he was good enough.” Emma blew smoke into her face as she handed her the cigarette case. “Lucy and Cora had a lot to do with you acting now, I’m sure.”