“You’re right, I’m not in the habit of loaning out my collection,” Danforth says. “But you both were particularly persistent.”
“Guilty as charged,” I grin. “And I’m sorry for all the calls. But I have to have your pieces for the exhibit. Your script library, the prop collection . . . From what I’ve read, you’re sitting on the collection of classic Hollywood memorabilia. I couldn’t exactly put on a show without them, it would be a pale imitation of the past!”
OK, so I’m laying it on thick, but flattery will get you everywhere.
Sure enough, Danforth looks pleased. “I suppose you’re right, I’ve often thought it the most comprehensive collection in the country.”
“Absolutely!” I agree. “Is it true you won a grand piano playing poker with Sinatra?”
Danforth laughs and then wheezes so hard I worry I’ve killed him. “Urban legend, my dear,” he says when he’s finally recovered. “It was a baby grand.”
I sigh loudly. “I would love to see the collection,” I say, and I’m not even acting.
Danforth pauses. “Well, I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to look. After all, you’ve come all this way . . .” He rings for the butler again.
“Thank you!” I take hold of Jake’s arm. “Did you hear that? He’s going to let us look!”
“I heard.” Jake looks amused. “And I’m going to need my arm back.”
“Sorry.” I drop it. “I just can’t believe it.” I drop my voice to a whisper. “We have to get his pieces, I don’t care what it takes. Use your powers of charm for good, not evil this time.”
Jake grins. “So I’m charming, huh?”
“You know what I mean.”
Danforth turns back to us, and I quickly shut up. “Shall we?” he asks, and I practically leap after him, following down a long hallway and into an elevator. We head down to the basement level, and just like that, I’m standing in the room of my dreams, surrounded by Hollywood memorabilia.
“Are you kidding me?”
I can’t even take it all in. Against the far wall are rows of glass cases—Marilyn Monroe’s famous pink gloves from Gentlemen Prefer Blondes nestled inside one, along with the rhinestone necklace she wore in the “Diamonds are a Girl’s Best Friend” number.
In another is— “Oh my god,” I squeal. “Is that . . . ?”
“Rita Hayworth’s dress from the nightclub scene in Gilda,” Jake answers for me, sounding impressed.
Swoon. There’s Grace Kelly’s white evening gown from Hitchcock’s To Catch a Thief, and speaking of Hitchcock, mechanical birds line another glass case, their beady eyes taking me in. “Do you really have the actual crows from Hitchcock’s The Birds?” I demand, scooting closer. “And is that the infamous oil painting from Laura over on the far wall?”
“You have a good eye, dear.” Danforth chuckles.
I may fall over and die right here.
In the far corner of the room, film canisters are stacked neatly on metal shelves and I walk over and take in the titles, my eyes widening as I read. It’s all here—I’m staring at original prints of nearly every significant Hollywood film from the twenties to the fifties. There’s so much crammed into the gigantic space that I don’t know where to even begin. I turn to Jake, feeling as excited as a kid in a candy store.
“There’s so much we need,” I whisper to him as I watch Max walk carefully around the enormous room. “Some of these pieces would absolutely make the show.”
He nods, and I can tell by the wonder in his eyes that he’s blown away, too.
I walk over to the painting of Gene Tierney in Laura, and stare up at her perfect face, lost in the mystery in her smile.
‘That was my wife’s favorite film,” Danforth says, and when I turn, he’s standing beside me. “She adored Tierney, who was underused as an actress in Hollywood—if you want my opinion. Lovely woman.”
“Your wife or Gene Tierney?” I joke.
“Well, I was referring to Tierney,” Danforth says with a smile, “but my wife was equally as lovey, if not more so.”
“You knew her?” I ask, incredulous. “Gene Tierney, I mean.”
“Oh, yes.” He smiles, gazing at the portrait fondly. “Quite well, in fact. She’d come over for dinner quite often in those days. So when this piece came up for auction a few years ago at Sotheby’s, I simply had to have it.”
“It’s beautiful,” I breathe, taking it in. “Laura was one of the first films that gave me an appreciation for classic Hollywood,” I say. “It was like my gateway drug.”
“We share that in common. The mystery, the glamor . . .” His voice trails off wistfully. “You know I met my late wife on the old Paramount lot? She was working in one of the sandwich bars. I used to go in every day just to see her smile. She couldn’t make a tuna melt to save her life, but it didn’t matter to me. The day she agreed to go out with me . . . I’ve never been so happy—or terrified,” he adds with a laugh.
I can see it on his face, he’s right back there.
“Of course, in those days, I was still just an errand boy,” he adds. “Running messages for the big shots in the main office. I didn’t have two dimes to rub together, so we would sneak into matinees on the weekend and go make a coffee last all night at the diner across the street. All the stars would go after work,” he adds. “We were rubbing shoulders right there with them. A little taste of stardust, Moira would say.”
I listen, fascinated. “It must have been incredible,” I say. “History being made, all around you.”
“We didn’t realize it at the time,” he chuckles. “But yes, there was magic there, for sure. We loved the movies, it’s what brought us together. After she passed in ’73, I decided to start building this collection. So I could keep all the memories we shared, as fresh as the day she was here.”
“Oh.” I pause. From the way he’d talked, I assumed his wife died more recently, but that was almost fifty years ago! “That’s . . . lovely.”
“Now you must see this,” he says, brightening. He pulls me across the room with surprising strength. “It’s a rare copy of the original script for Casablanca, with Humphrey Bogart’s notes throughout!”
Three hours later, my head is spinning. I’ve found at least ten pieces I’d love to include in the show, but I’d settle for just about anything, really. But even though Max spent the better part of the morning gleefully showing us his treasure trove, he’s been decidedly noncommittal about whether or not we can include any of them in the exhibition.
“It was a real pleasure meeting you,” I say warmly as I shake his hand at the door. “If there’s any way we can reassure you, just ask. I’d be happy to run through the transportation protocols, or arrange a call with our team back in New York about storage and display—”
“Another time, my dear,” Danforth says. “I’m afraid I’ve over-exerted myself. It’s time for my nap.”
Jake tugs me back. “Thanks so much for allowing us to view your collection,” he says respectfully. “It was a once-in-a-lifetime experience.”