It was an emerald-green sheath, sleeveless and cut on the bias. Pearl beads weighted the cowl neckline and set off my ivory skin—and plenty of it. The slim cut skimmed over my hips and clung to my legs, all the way down to my matching satin heels. An armband of gold wire and pearls—cultured, of course—wrapped above my elbow, and a matching spray gleamed behind my ear. I turned slightly and looked over my shoulder. The back plunged indecently low. Penny would be shocked. In fact, all of Odessa would be shocked.
Max gave me a look that said exactly what he thought of the dress. He knew how much a frock like this cost, and he knew my situation as well as I did. But it wasn’t an extravagance. It was an investment. Max was sore because I’d got to this party—the one that would make me a star—without his help. Not only that, but I’d been invited by Louella Parsons herself. The Queen of Gossip, they called her. If she gave a girl the nod in one of herExaminercolumns or on her radio show, that girl was on her way up. But if Louella took a dislike to a new actress—didn’t matter why—she might as well go back to Kansas.
You could have knocked me over with a horsefeather thismorning at the Brown Derby, where I made about enough to keep my cockroaches alive. I brought Louella her breakfast of oatmeal and cream, and she gave me her usual scowl. I won’t go into that whole story right now; let’s just say Louella and I had got off on the wrong foot.
I poured coffee all around and tried not to look like I was listening to Louella and William Randolph Hearst talking about a party at Roy Lester’s that night. I pretended not to notice Louella’s husband, Docky Martin, slip a flask from his pocket and dose his coffee. Suddenly, Louella turned on me like she was seeing me for the first time. “Minerva! My dear. Aren’t you just the cat’s pajamas?” She looked me up and down. “And that hair. Such a pretty shade.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Parsons,” I managed, clutching the coffeepot.
“Dearest Minerva, how long have you been working here?” she asked, almost like she cared.
I told her four months and waited for her other size-ten T-strap to drop.
“You poor thing,” she cooed. “What you need is someone to take you under her wing, like a mother hen.” She smoothed a hand over her tan tweed suit. With her matching cloche hat and a spray of crimson feathers, she did resemble a hen I’d known back at the farm—one who’d kept the other hens in line with her sharp beak. “Tell me now, do you know Roy Lester?”
Every red-blooded citizen in America knew Roy Lester. America’s Hero, they called him. And everyone in Hollywood knew he was the highest-paid actor in history. “I can’t say I’ve met him, Mrs. Parsons.”
“Call me Lolly, darling. And that’s going to change tonight. Isn’t that right, Docky?” She went on without an answer from her husband. “A soirée at Roy’s estate, and you, my dearest, are goingto be. My. Guest.” She tapped the table with each of the last three words like it was a headline on one of her columns.
I stammered something; I don’t even know what. I scooted around the table before Docky could pinch my bottom, while Louella put cream and two sugars in her coffee. Me, Louella Parsons’s guest?
She shifted to a stage whisper. “Roy himself told me he’s looking for a fresh face for his next leading lady.” Her gaze slipped to Docky, who had tipped slightly to eye my backside. He grunted as her foot connected with his ankle. “He’ll love you. Leave it to me.”
I was speechless. This was what I’d been waiting for. Across the room, Norb, the owner of the joint, was staring at me. He didn’t like the help hanging around the guests, especially the big names. I took a cloth out of my apron and wiped an invisible spill.
“Terrific, Lolly,” I managed as if I were invited to a millionaire actor’s house every day of the week. “I’ll be there with bells on.” Now Norb was weaving through the tables, his eyes on me, his brow furrowed.
Louella smiled, her bright eyes narrowing to slits. She scribbled the address on a scrap of paper and tucked it into my apron with a plump, jeweled hand. “Trust me, dearest, you won’t regret it.”
The minute my shift ended, I’d hightailed it back to the boardinghouse I called home. My roommate, Lana, was putting in an early shift at the dance hall so I had the place to myself. Rent was due, and my cupboard held nothing but mouse droppings and a can of sardines, but it didn’t matter, not this time.
I changed into my best street dress, a cardinal-red wool number that hugged my figure and fell exactly between my knees and ankles. With a dove-gray roll brim dipped over one eye and suede shoes trimmed in lizard, I looked the part. I pulled my rent moneyout of the tea tin markedDo Not Spend!, tugged on my gloves, and hopped the streetcar for Bullock’s on Seventh and Broadway.
Two hours later, I left Bullock’s with the emerald dress, boxed and wrapped in tissue. Smaller packages held the matching kitten heels, the pearl armband, and the hair comb. It’s an investment, I said to Max as if he were there. I talked a lot to Max in my head. Those days, they were the only civil conversations we had.
I’d made a final stop in Bullock’s discreetly placed lingerie department. If Penny could see the rose silk panties with the ruffled petal hem and the new-fashioned brassiere, she’d pitch a fit, but white cotton bloomers and a modest camisole wouldn’t do under this gown. And besides, pretty underthings give you confidence—that’s what all the magazines said—and I needed all I could get.
I had about enough change for a sandwich and a cup of coffee if I walked home instead of taking the tram, and by the time I got to Broadway and First, my feet were killing me. I didn’t give a hoot. I tip-tapped down the street, humming one of those sappy songs I’d heard on the radio.
At the corner, a handful of the down-on-their-luck men stepped to the side, lifting their hats to me. Hand-lettered signs around their necks or propped beside them on the curb told their sad stories.
Will Work for Food.
My Family Is Starving.
My gown and shoes suddenly felt heavier in my arms. Since the crash and what came after, men got off the bus in LA every day to find the same hard truth I’d learned ten months ago: jobs were as hard to come by in the Golden State as they were in the rest of the country. From what the headlines said, it was only gettingworse. The lucky men sold apples for two cents each. The unlucky men—and their families—slowly starved to death.
I should have moved on, but I didn’t. I couldn’t. An old man, his face creased like a well-read newspaper and his pale eyes desperate, stood in the hard sun, a barrel of apples at his feet. He looked like a farmer. Like Papa.
He picked through his bin of apples and chose one, polishing it on his sleeve before offering it to me. “Please, miss.”
I looked at the packages in my arms. This man had nothing and would probably have nothing again tomorrow. One more day with an empty stomach wouldn’t kill me. Not anymore.
I dumped the entire contents of my purse in his cup. Two bits and a couple of dimes would get him a square meal. I took the apple and turned away as quick as I could, but not fast enough. Eyes bright with tears and a whispered “bless you” gave me a stab of homesickness. Was Papa hungry tonight? Was Penny making ends meet?
When I got home, I wrote to Penny.
Maybe my luck is changing, Penny. Maybe this story will have a happy ending after all. Even if I don’t deserve it.
